#its meant to be a dream but i only vaguely remember that dream

[cleaningbones]

THIS IS INSANE WHEN DID I WRITE THIS IN MY JOURNAL????????

[lady-of-blossoms]

THE TALE OF LOVE

From this poll

Synopsis: Nanami and Y/N haven been married for 16 years now, over the last few months Nanami had been going out drinking with his co-workers and one night…it goes to hell.

WC: 1k

Content warning: abuse, alchol addiction, marriage failure and a very mean Nanami.

A/N: sorry if this was very late posted, I’m sorry!, and I’m sorry if it seemed weird or a little short

In the inviting warmth of a quiet suburban neighborhood, where children played in front yards and couples strolled hand in hand, lived Nanami and Y/N. Their union, forged over 16 years, was often seen as enviable by those around them. Nanami, a dedicated husband, wore the mantle of responsibility with grace and commitment. Y/N, equally devoted, made a home filled with laughter and kindness. But beneath the perfect surface of this fairytale marriage lay the cracks of a more insidious truth.

Nanami had been the perfect husband for 16 years: steadfast, career-oriented, and attentive to his relationship with Y/N. He was the kind of man who brought flowers home for no reason, who remembered their anniversary without reminding. Their life together had been filled with delicious dinners, soft whispers, and shared dreams. But as the years wore on, the daily grind started to take its toll. The stresses of work, the urge to provide, overshadowed the foundational love that once defined their relationship.

One evening, after an exhaustive week, Nanami got tempted by his coworkers' drinks. It was just a casual evening in a local bar, but what was only supposed to be a greeting toast soon led to overblown drinking. Innumerable rounds were given in, and he completely lost track of time. That night, Y/N-very anxious and concerned-couldn't resist calling Nanami over and over. Each unanswered call stoked the flame of her anxiety—a flame that had slowly turned into a consuming fire.

That was the breaking point.

By the time Nanami finally stumbled through the door, the air was thick with tension. Y/N, whose heart had quickened in her chest, could tell immediately that something was amiss. Dread coiled in her stomach as she approached him with concern. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, instantly regretting her choice of words. Instead of the soft acknowledgement he would usually give, Nanami's façade cracked. Anger and confusion danced in his eyes, and in a burst of bewildering rage, he lashed out.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he snapped, venom dripping from his words. Y/N was taken aback by his anger as shock and disbelief washed over her. The night grew darker as Nanami's intoxication and the silent pressure of years of built-up frustrations escalated his tantrum. His rage was made manifest on Y/N, leaving her bruised and bloody. The love that had once bound them now lay shattered amidst the debris of violence.

The bitter taste of betrayal weighed heavy in the air. Y/N didn't just suffer from physical pain; deeper were the emotional scars. Just hours ago, her heart had been filled with concern for the man she loved, and now she wondered if the man she had stood beside all these years existed anymore.

When Nanami awoke the next morning, the dawn painted the world with hues of regret, but he felt none. His head throbbed from the previous night’s excess, but the shadow of his actions had yet to settle in his mind. As he stumbled out of bed, the memories of the night were shrouded in fog, leaving behind only a vague sense of unease.

Y/N, still reeling from the night before, sought to confront him. Bruising on her arms where he had grabbed her, her lip swollen and crimson, yet even as she revealed the marks of his anger to him, Nanami remained unyielding. "I don't need forgiveness when I haven't done anything wrong," he retorted, a cold shield wrapped tightly around his heart.

Her statement of forgiveness, offered in hopes of healing, hung limply between them, devoid of the warmth it was meant to carry. Instead of recognizing the gravity of his actions, Nanami buried himself deeper in denial, refusing to acknowledge the pain he had inflicted on the woman who had sacrificed so much for their TALE OF LOVE.

🏷️: @euphoricluvr @iwoulddieforkakashi @parasite-b

@ana-cst @maiumaiu83 @OstarxiaO

@anonnieghost @labelt-san

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

*

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”

[ode-to-fury]

One Small Freckle

Pairing: Gale/Tav

Words: no clue

Summary: Whoo boy I woke up this morning and this lil drabble basically wrote itself and I like it so much I thought I’d post it. Self indulgent to the max which is my favourite type of fic to write. Gale has some morning after thoughts. This is based on my Tav but idk I think it’s fairly vague.

Gale lay awake, surrounded by Shadow Weave which terrfied and tempted him in equal measure, thinking.

Gods.

Gods.

He’d meant it as a farewell. He’d meant it as- as a last night, a last wonderful night with the woman he had come to love. He’d meant to show her one more facet of his beloved Weave before the inevitable happened, perhaps to give her something to explore in future. In truth, it had been a selfish, shameful thing, and he’d known it would hurt her more than anything else.

I’m in love with you, too.

He’d made his peace with the fact that his life would pay for his follies. It had all made perfect sense to him. Too much sense. He’d endangered the Weave with his ambition, and Mystra had spurned him, and now, to protect that thing which he loved the most and earn his godess’ forgiveness he simply had to destroy himself.

It had made perfect sense, in his heart, in his mind. No doubt Mystra had known it would, clever, clever thing that she was.

And what would it hurt for the world to have one less grasping wizard in it to sully its wonders? Who would miss him?

His mother, perhaps. And Tara. But the two of them would be safe from the destruction he would cause, far away in Waterdeep. And even more safe, when the threat of the Absolute was gone. They would mourn, but heal. In time.

I’m in love with you, too.

Her hands had callouses on them that scraped against his skin when her fingers danced across it. Those callouses scraped against his own, from the years working with his staff, from writing. Such mundane tasks that he yearned for now. She had one small freckle on the palm of her right hand, just below her thumb, that he could have spent hours admiring. Had she always had it? Or was it from days spent in sunlight adventuring through Faerûn, seeing all those places in the flesh he had only ever seen on paper?

Had he ever loved anything so much as he loved her hands? He remembers the first time they’d touched, trapped in that rock. Warmth eminating from her fingers, even then. If he’d known how the touch would damn him, would he have taken that hand?

Yes. In a thousand different realities. In every lifetime he could concieve of, the answer was yes.

I’m in love with you, too.

He’d attempted to match the colours of his nighttime illusion to her eyes, though he thought he’d come up woefully short. In some light, they seemed grey, like thunderclouds, or green, or blue. Then she would grin, or laugh, and starlight would burst forth from them. Days upon days he could have sat finding the perfect words for that light, for the brown specks that floated in it like leaves on the surface of a pool of starlight. He’d tried to count them, but he hadn’t had the time.

Time. Once he’d thought he’d had enough. He’d thought he would have lifetimes, like Elminster. Thousands of years to unravel the universe, it’s secrets, it’s functions. Now… now when all he wanted was to watch as the corner of her mouth quirked upward, and a dimple appeared on her cheek, now he would run out of that which he had taken for granted for so long.

I’m in love with you, too.

And then. Then he’d made the largest error of them all, and forgotten that she was not a goddess, despite his feelings on the matter, and she would not know to guard her thoughts in the astral plane, when they connected.

Pleasure had ripped through him, as Mystra had shown him, in the way he loved, but knowledge also.

He’d seen her thoughts, the hurt he was causing her, but the love also. A love large enough to match his own, at the least. He’d seen her fears, and her dreams, and her loves. Forests she’d walked through and rivers she’d crossed. Her yearning for greatness and reknown and acceptance. Glimpses of firelight and laughter, of tears and loneliness. Such loneliness it had made him gasp with the pain of it.

They’d mingled and loved like the gods do, but the clumsy fumbling of their mortality had interfered, and Gale had lost himself in the essence of her and had had no desire to find his way back to himself. Not ever.

I’m in love with you, too.

He lay awake in the darkness of his tent. She had fallen asleep after, which he understood. The darkness, the fear of the past days, the battles at Moonrise to rescue their allies, and now this. Now he had added to those burdens.

He’d been walking toward a precipice. Toward the abyss of nothing. Away from the pain of his heartbreak. Away from the physical pain of the orb and his arcane hunger. He’d stared into that darkness that had been beckoning since the day the orb had stolen his powers, his goddess, his life. Mystra had given him a chance to find solace in that darkness. To redeem himself in it, and save the Weave as he did. It was right. It had to be right, or she would not have commanded it, no matter her anger toward him.

I’m in love with you, too.

Away from the darkness there was pain. Strife, death, and pain. But there was life. There was Karlach, with her easy smiles and childlike hope and vulgar humour. There was Astarion, with his snide remarks and his hunger for power that matched Gale’s in a way he did not quite like, but who was by his side when he needed it. There was Shadowheart, who was closed off and sullen but who healed his scrapes and bruises with a wink and always shared her wine. There was Wyll, with his bravery and goodness and who would help Gale think of a word to rhyme with “pool” if he asked. Lae’zel, who could barely hide her smile when he asked her about her home amongst the stars and who was stronger than the rest of them combined. Weave save him, it gave him strength too.

And there was Tav.

I’m in love with you, too.

Before Elminster’s appearance he hadn’t thought about Mystra in days. The realisation had terrified and elated him in equal measure. If she had asked this of him two months ago, before the tadpole, he would not have hesitated, not for a moment.

Tav’s lips had brushed over the mark of the orb on his chest, kissing that which he had been cast out and condemned for. Her lips were soft, despite their time exposed to the elements. He wanted to ask her how she managed it. He wanted to ask her so many things that he did not have time for now.

I’m in love with you, too.

And in the darkness of his tent, surrounded by the Shadow Weave which tempted and terrified him in equal measure he finally realised that something in his heart and mind had changed.

He did not want to die.

The thought terrified him worse than anything else he’d experienced in the past weeks, and there had been some truly bloodcurdling sights.

Somewhere along their journey, perhaps next to the fire when Wyll was telling stories, or fighting with Tav at his back, knowing what she would do even before she did it, or walking along sharing thoughts with Astarion and Lae’zel, somewhere along their journey he had started living again.

Despite the orb, despite the tadpole, despite their dire, almost inevitable odds of catastrophic failure, he had started living again.

And gods, was he enjoying it.

I’m in love with you, too.

The night before he had bonded with her in a way he had not bonded with anyone in his life, not even Mystra, for she had always kept herself apart from him. Tav had had no such boundaries, and he had kept none from her.

Perhaps they would all die before this was over even without him detonating the orb. Perhaps they would transform into illithids and lose their souls. Perhaps this Absolute would crush them without so much as a second thought.

Or perhaps they would triumph, slim as their chances might be.

I’m in love with you, too.

But he would face it at her side. If they found this Heart of the Absolute and they decided it was best he go forth with his plan, then gladly he would. But until then, if she asked him to live he would live. If she asked him to defy Mystra, he would. If there was even the smallest chance that he would one day have the time to write poetry about that small freckle beneath her thumb, he would defy Ao himself to have it. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to live with her, with their friends beside them.

And in the darkness of his tent, surrounded by the Shadow Weave which tempted and terrified him in equal measure, he grinned, and decided he would attempt to get some sleep before what would surely be a grueling day. Perhaps his last. Perhaps.

But certainty was ever an elusive creature when it came to adventures such as theirs. Hadn’t he been telling Tav so ever since Elminster had appeared?

He closed his eyes.

I’m in love with you, too.

[rindragon-from-twewy]

Forte swap au character intros part 2!!!

I love these so much genuinely I'm just so happy with where my art style's been at recently!

Ok I have a lot to say so it's under the cut. Remember; Spoilers for the og story!

I'll go from right to left since that's the order I designed them in (buckle in, this is a long one-)

Fubuki now has Spectral Projection. I liked the idea of giving it to her as she and Vivia are basically polar opposites so giving her his forte would really shake things up. Instead of calling her "Princess" and stuff, I think people would rather call her "Sleeping Beauty" and the themes of that fairy tale would end up seeping in to chapter 4, as well as its mystery labyrinth. Her hair flower is now a rose as a further reference to that. I used nightwear as references for her clothes, imagining them mostly being made out of more silky fabrics for that "rich girl" aura. I kept her hair down and messy and really just focused on making her look comfy. After all, if she's sleeping all the time, she should be in the appropriate attire for doing so, no? But thankfully The Chief gave her some wellie boots so she's not running around the city in soggy slippers. Her tattoos are now a string of stars on her collar bones to further emphasise the idea of dreams/sleep and also the "Z" in her name stands for "Zzz" because I thought they'd be funny. The last name "Bramble" is not only another reference to roses and sleeping beauty but also to Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula because yes, the vampire themes have been ripped away from Vivia and given to Fubuki instead!

Moving on to Halara- I knew right away that by giving them Time Leap, I should make them look more like a time traveller. Initially I wanted to try to make them look like they'd fit in well with the line up for the various Doctors in Doctor Who but unfortunately I couldn't figure out a way to do that without just... putting them in one of the outfits. So I instead decided to use steampunk as a main reference. I like to think that they stare at their pocket watch just to ignore people or as a passive aggressive way of telling them that they're wasting time. Their shoulder tattoo is meant to vaguely resemble an hour glass since that seemed appropriate. I had no idea what I wanted to do for their shirt under their coat so I settled on that black turtleneck tank top that makes the fangirls go crazy and made sure to give them Fubuki's necklace so that they can use their forte! The hardest part was deciding to give Halara goggles instead of glasses. They just seemed wrong without their glasses but it was just as wrong to have glasses and goggles? And so I settled on no glasses. (Mostly cuz I forgot to add them in and by then, I was used to looking at their empty face lol-) When they first arrived in Kanai Ward, Chief gave them the frilliest umbrella at the store because it had the same colours as their coat. Lastly, for their name chance, I changed it to "Clocksmith". It's the name of the profession for a watch mender, similar to Clockford and also "Smith" is the last name The Doctor uses when he needs to use a fake human name.

I'll be deadass, I did Vivia's design at like 3am and was running purely on vibes. So there isn't much perpousful intention behind him like the others. His hair now covers his left eye to make using Post Cognition much easier (sometimes it just activates on its own thanks to his eye already being obscured) but just underneath it you can see his tattoo; a big purple tear streak. I think I was watching a fnaf video at the time so. Marionette reference. Now you may be asking: Why is his hoodie so cropped? Why are his trousers so low cut? Idk- because I think it looks cool? I probably should've (and will in future) give him more bandages around his torso cuz looking at it now, that's not really that many. His big sleeves cover his hands and yes, I know that combining those sleeves with that stances just screams "Hatsune miku", that was completely accidental but I'm kinda here for it??? Gave him like 9 belts cuz I like drawing belts and I feel like his suicial ass would've been put in a real straight jacket at least once. People probably aren't sure if he's a real human entity anymore so Shinigami would probably call him a zombie. But nevertheless, The Chief makes sure he eats something at least once a day cuz his rib cage is definitely visible. For his last name, I changed Twilight to Midnight because it's got the "night" from Halara's "Nightmare" while still being a time of day.

And that's about it. Wow that's... a lot. Honestly if I didn't aspire to be a show runner, I'd probably settle for being a character designer. I'm super excited to show off what I've got in store of this AU's storyline but I've still gotta introduce a couple other characters first! ^vO

[fazedlight]

Sunrise (character study)

Kara loved sunrises…

Almost as much as she hated them.

When she had landed on Earth, her pod was opened by a strange man wearing her family crest, as brilliant yellow light cascaded down on them both. She vaguely remembered her mother’s words from the day before… three days before… this planet had a yellow sun.

He spoke her language with a strange accent. She didn’t believe he was Uncle Jor-El’s son.

She arrived at the Danvers’ place, still numb with devastation as the woman with the kind eyes murmured words that Kara knew were probably meant to comfort. They showed her to a hastily-converted bedroom, gave her water, and gestured curiously if she wanted a hug, which she had refused at first. They had been in the middle of eating strange Earth food when they had gotten Kal-El’s call. Potstickers, they said to her, as they offered her a container.

Her senses overwhelmed her - noises from things called jet engines and crickets making an attempt to sleep its own living hell. But somehow, hours into the night, she fell into slumber.

She awoke slowly at first, the red light creeping past her eyelids, and a wave of relief rolled through her body as she let out an exhausted sob. It had all been a dream, a bad dream, the worst nightmare she had ever had. But morning had come and Rao had risen and she was home-

She opened her eyes in confusion, seeing the strange room in the strange house again and releasing a powerful wail that shook through the walls and caused Eliza and Jeremiah to rush in. She was inconsolable and ranting until Kal-El eventually arrived, explaining to the young girl that the Sun’s angle through more atmosphere in the mornings on Earth would cause the higher-frequency light to scatter, leaving sunrise with the lowest frequencies… red sunrises.

As she became more used to her powers, she began to chase the sunrise - for comfort or torment, she couldn’t really be sure. But the sun was always rising somewhere on Earth, and when her agony was at its peak, she would chase it. It was the only way she could process her entire planet being dead for longer than she had even been (consciously) alive.

Over time, she needed it less and less, content to see hints of Rao each morning in Midvale, rather than chase his echo around the world. And then her best friend had died, and she had decided to hide all her powers, and she stopped chasing the sun entirely.

Sunrise eventually moved from mixed torment to something softer. She had to hide so much of herself - but each morning came the small reminder of who she used to be. It was almost like this planet’s star was reaching out to say I see who you are, you are not lost.

Then the day came when Alex’s plane almost crashed, she revealed herself to the world. Suddenly she looked like the strange man who opened her pod that day, years ago. She wore her family crest proudly on her chest, and vowed to keep their legacy alive. She was kryptonian, and she would no longer bury it.

And she started to chase the sunrise again.

[dragonflylady77]

i got you a whole flower shop

A Harringrove Valentine's Day fic I wrote this afternoon

present for @shieldofiron and also @lovebillyhargrove

oh and it's on ao3

Steve walks into a florist shop on Valentine's Day but his plans change after he gets a text not meant for him and he finds himself faced with Billy freaking Hargrove looking like every wet dream Steve has ever had in the past fifteen years since he finished high school.

“Sorry, I’ll be right with you.”

Steve made a vague noise of acknowledgement, too busy staring at the message he’d opened as he’d stepped into the first flower shop he’d spotted.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight baby. I’ll tell Steve I have to work late. Love you x”

He blinked a few times but the words didn’t change. The text was clearly not meant for him. Or maybe it was, he rationalised. That was one way to break up with your boyfriend without having to have the conversation.

He ran a tired hand over his face and put his phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t need flowers after all. He tried to remember how much stuff he’d left at Jamie’s place during the few months they’d been dating and wondered if there was anything he’d miss if he didn’t get it back.

“I am sorry but it turns out I don’t actually need flowers after all,” he said, his eyes floating over the various buckets of colourful blooms in front of him.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?” The voice sounded surprised and familiar and Steve turned around to face its owner.

“Hargrove?” Steve said in shock, stepping closer to the counter. He hadn’t seen Billy Hargrove since graduation fifteen years ago. “What are you doing in Chicago? I always thought you went back to Cali…”

Billy shrugged and Steve took a moment to really look at him. He still had those light brown, almost golden, curls that Steve had always wanted to run his fingers through, piled high in a bun, his face fuzzy with scruff, blue eyes trained on Steve. That part at least was familiar. Steve let his eyes move down, taking in the white tee, tight across the front under the black apron with the shop’s logo on it, Billy’s biceps bulging when he crossed his arms over his chest. Steve’s mouth felt very dry all of a sudden and hoo, was it always this hot in this store?

Billy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He did, however, run that tongue of his along his bottom lip, another familiar sight, one that resonated inside Steve’s chest, in a place he’d been ignoring for years.

“Um, sorry, didn’t mean to…” Steve fumbled, fidgeting with his fingers. Fuck. He was being so awkward for no reason. He was usually a little bit better at human interactions.

“It’s okay, pretty boy, I know my good looks can be distracting,” Billy replied with a chuckle and Steve felt his face heat up. “To answer your question, my car broke down outside of St Louis and I realised I’d been kidding myself. There was nothing in Cali for me anymore. And I couldn’t leave Max alone with Neil.”

“Ah. I-I heard about him but Max never said—”

“I told her to keep a secret. Couldn’t risk Neil finding out. I made it back to Indianapolis on the Greyhound. Met a nice lady on the bus who offered me a place to stay for a while. Worked my ass off in a bunch of different jobs. Mona and her partner kinda adopted me, so when they moved to Chicago, I followed.”

“That’s why Max went to college in Chicago, isn’t it? Because you were there too?” Steve asked, a few things making more sense now that he knew about Billy.

“Yep. Got her out of the dorms too. She loved it at Mona’s as much as I did.”

Steve smiled. He was glad that Billy and Max had gotten away from his asshole father. He had only managed it himself recently, after more than a decade of working for his dad, being belittled every time Richard Harrington was in the office, no matter how good Steve actually was at doing his job. He’d jumped at the chance when he’d seen that job listing in Chicago and he’d cherished forever the memory on his father’s face when he’d handed in his resignation.

“That’s great, Billy,” he finally replied, and meant it.

“What about you, princess? What brings you to the Windy City?” 

“Oh, I live here too. Been here about three years, I think. I don’t have to tell you how good it felt to be able to tell my dad I was leaving and he could shove it.”

“Ooooh, go Stevie! Always knew you had it in you.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “Took me twelve years but I got there in the end…”

“That’s what matters.” Billy grinned. “So, what are you after? Roses for your girl, on account of the day? Or something more original?”

“Oh, um, I, um…” Steve sighed. “I was gonna get flowers for my boyfriend, but after the text I got before, I don’t think I will.”

“Boyfriend?” Billy was staring and Steve realised he probably needed to elaborate a little.

“Yeah… My best friend Robin helped me realise some important things about myself after high school. She made being queer in Hawkins a lot easier. We were flatmates for ages then she moved to Chicago to be with her girlfriend. You know her, actually, Heather? Holloway?”

“Oh. Wow. Yeah, I remember Heather. So you’re…”

“Bi. Yeah.”

“And you have a boyfriend.” The way Billy said it, it wasn’t a question.

It left a bad taste in Steve’s mouth. He got his phone out of his pocket again and sent Jamie a text saying they were over.

“I had a boyfriend.” Steve snorted. “Whoever he meant to text when he texted me can have his cheating ass.”

“You don’t seem too cut up about it,” Billy said, his eyes roaming over Steve and Steve found that he liked it. All at once, memories of basketball training and all the posturing and looks Billy would send him in the showers and hallways of Hawkins High took on a different flavour. All the pet names Billy used to call him when they were teenagers… the same ones he’d used a couple of times in the past ten minutes they’d been chatting.

“I’d only been seeing him for a couple of months, wasn’t anything serious.” Steve decided to take a chance. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the counter. “It does mean I am now free tonight…”

Billy mirrored his actions, the smile on his face genuine and warm. “Is that so, pretty boy?”

“Uh huh… yanno, in case anyone was wondering.”

“That’s certainly pertinent information.”

“I thought so.” Steve leaned a little closer, smiling when Billy did too. “What time does this fine establishment close?”

“Right now,” Billy replied, without a glance at his watch as he removed his apron and set it on the counter next to them.

“Really? Won’t you get in trouble with your boss for closing early on Valentine’s Day?”

“I’m the boss and I have a hot date,” Billy said with that smirk that had always made Steve’s blood boil. Only now he could name that emotion for what it was: lust. There was something else in Billy’s eyes, something more magical and durable.

“Anyone I know?” Steve asked, his heart beating double time in his chest.

Billy didn’t reply, instead he rounded the counter and came to a stop in front of Steve with a grin. He cupped Steve’s face with both hands and breached the last inches separating them, bringing their mouths together. Steve moaned, his hands on Billy’s wrists to hold him there. He opened his lips to Billy’s questing tongue the second he felt it, pouring all that he was feeling into the kiss, and getting it back ten fold.

Steve let go of Billy’s wrists to grab his waist and dragged him closer. He couldn’t get enough of Billy, hands roaming up his back and down to cup that ass Steve had been dreaming about for months after high school, sparking his bi awakening.

“Fuck, Billy, I’m sorry it took me so long to find you again,” Steve said, breaking the kiss to catch his breath, resting his forehead against Billy’s.

“S’okay, Stevie, you’re here now,” Billy said, dipping his head for a quick kiss. He buried his fingers into Steve’s hair and locked eyes with him. “Never letting you go now I’ve got you, though, I hope you know that.”

“Fine with me,” Steve said as he wrapped his arms around Billy’s middle, delighted to feel Billy’s hard body against his. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Steve. I don't know what flowers you like yet, so I got you a whole flower shop.”

Steve laughed as Billy locked up for the night then they went up to the apartment Billy was renting above the shop where Billy cooked them dinner. Then they spent all night in bed, worshipping each other, and it was the best Valentine’s Day Steve had ever had.

[seireiteihellbutterfly]

I’m never too tired for that…

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Sex, fingering Pairing : Nanami Kento x female reader Summary: An itch that can only be scratched by him

Nanami masterlist

Nanami works hard. You love him so much, appreciate how much he works and somehow, always still thinks of you.

But now it’s getting close to 2 weeks and he’s always been working overtime, coming home well past midnight, his clothes dirty and looking exhausted.

He deserved all the time in the world to sleep and rest. And you made sure to give him that. Even if it meant your own needs were neglected a little bit.

You tell yourself it’s not that bad, that if he really had the energy, he would. You blush slightly as you remember some of the friskiest times you’ve had sex, remember the night he was so into it that he fucked you in his car, unable to contain his desire for the short drive back to the apartment.

You look at him over your shoulder, see his peaceful sleeping face in bed next to you, a stray hair falling over his forehead. How could you possibly wake him when he was this exhausted?

There’s slick between your folds. The mere thought of sex with him made you needy. With a sigh, you pull your panties down, running your fingers down your slit, getting ready to satisfy yourself as you had for a while now. So far, he hasn’t woken up whenever you did this to yourself and honestly, you were too lazy to get out of bed this early.

You turn your face and bite down on the pillow as you insert a finger into your wet entrance, maneuvering your hand to curl the finger inside until you find that sweet spot. As you try to keep up the motion, you attempt to rub your clit with your thumb, and let out a muffled huff of frustration as you realize your hand isn’t quite big enough to do both at the same time. Your thumb just reaches the base of your swollen clit and if you try to reach it, your finger loses its spot inside you.

Giving up on your clit, you insert a second finger inside yourself since you enjoy G-spot orgasms more anyway, only to realize it’s lacking. Your fingers aren’t thick enough to give you that sensual feeling of being filled and stretched out. You piston your fingers, trying to get into a good mood but all you feel is frustration. You have to strain, pushing your fingers in till the knuckles to get the sensation even vaguely close to what his cock would do...

“Y/n?” You hear Nanami’s sleepy, raspy voice call out to you. You freeze and quickly pull your fingers out of your pussy.

“Yeah?" You roll over, keeping your wet fingers tucked between your thighs to prevent the juices from smearing the bedsheets. Your arousal is very much present, hot and irritating, your folds puffy from your ministrations.

His face is groggy, his eyes straining against the light as he looks at you. "I thought I heard you whimpering. Did you have a bad dream?"

He moves closer to cuddle you and your breath catches at the closeness, the feeling of his skin not helping your sensitized condition. His hand rests on your waist and you realize you weren't going to be able to pull your panties back up without him noticing. You quickly grasp his hand hoping it'll come off as affection and try to move it away from you.

Nanami looks very confused. You loved it when he puts his hand on your waist to pull you closer. "Is something wrong?"

Moving his hand proves to be more difficult than expected but you're too occupied at not letting him catch you with your panties down. "Nope! I just wanted to hold your hand."

You lace your fingers through his, hoping they won't travel further down but then his body moves closer to yours and his thigh brushes against your bare lower body...

"Oh." Nanami sounds surprised, the sleepiness vanishing from his face. You know you're caught and feel heat rush into your face.

"Y/n... Were you doing something before I woke up?"

Realizing there's no point hiding it, you mumble out, "I was trying to."

"Trying?"

You sigh, feeling your eyes prickle from frustrated tears.

"Hey, hey Y/n. No. Tell me what's wrong." He instantly moves closer to cuddle and comfort you.

You take a shuddering breath, feeling pathetic that you're crying like this then talk into his chest. "It's been two weeks."

You feel him freeze, and his voice is soft. "Two weeks since we've...?"

"Fucked, yes." you don't bother keeping your words pretty. "And I know you have had some really long, crappy days lately and I didn't want to stress you out at home by asking. So I've been doing a lot of... Self care."

He seems a little stunned as you speak. "I see."

You ramble on. "And it's fine, most days the rabbit takes care of it but.. I wanted something more natural feeling but whenever I use my fingers it just doesn't feel good. I can't reach all the spots at once, my hand is at a weird angle and I can't keep pace. I... I'm tired of this."

Your face is still buried in his chest. "I just didn't want to bother you when you had such awful, tiring days at work."

"Two weeks huh..." Nanami is still stunned. "That's shameful."

He puts his hand on your chin and forces you to look at him. "I'm sorry to have neglected you. I'm... Wow I'm embarrassed."

He runs his free hand over his face. "I didn't realize. Yes I've been tired but... That's no excuse."

You look at his handsome face, feeling better as he comforts you. "You could've just told me." His words said out loud sound so sensible now and you blush.

"I just don't want to be a bother."

"A bother? You could never be a bother. Especially not for this."

Before you could speak his hands wander down your naked hips, his mouth capturing yours. You kiss him wantonly, tongues mixing, your hands gripping his tee to pull him closer.

He rolls you on your back, warm hands massaging your breasts, teasing your hardened nipples as you gasp in delight at the attention. His mouth places wet kisses on your neck, sensitizing your hot skin as your hands curl in his hair.

"Kento... Oh I've missed you."

"Me too."

Before you could react, his fingers spread your swollen lips, pad of his thumb picking up where you left off, rubbing circles on your wet clit.

A very loud sound leaves your mouth, a mix of pleasure and relief at feeling his hand rather than yours. Your legs spread apart willingly, heat gathering in your belly.

Two fingers probe your entrance and push in, and you feel tears in your eyes from the joy, contracting pleasurably around the thick digits as they curl up into your G-spot.

"Fuck..." You whimper as his lips come back to kiss you, swallowing your moans.

"It feels so good Kento... Hmm..."

His thumb continues playing with your clit as his other fingers keep hitting that sweet spot inside you. The sound of wet squelching keeps getting louder as he moves his hand.

"Is that how you've been imagining it? Wishing it was me?" he asks in a husky voice.

"Hmm... Yeah..."

Your pleasure peaks, feel his eyes on you, waiting for you to fall apart around his fingers. Your hands fist the bedsheets, toes curling as you feel him pushing you over the edge.

Your orgasm hits you hard and satisfyingly, your moans getting louder, your body twitching, as you ride the wave of pleasure. His fingers keep up with you, seeing you till the end.

You collapse onto the pillow, sweating, heart racing from the feeling. "That... Was so good..."

Nanami props his head on his hand and gently caresses your stomach, watching you come back down from your high.

"You could have just asked you know."

You laugh as he moves on top of you, then let out a gasp of pleasure as he slides into you in one swift motion. Your vision grows hazy as he thrusts, lazily, taking his time.

"Kento..."

"It's Saturday. And I'm not stopping till I've fucked you into next week."

[invis-o-william]

Day 7: Mind Control

With a start, Tucker woke up, the memory of sand and pyramids fresh in his mind. After looking around his darkened room for a moment, he sighed and settled back into his pillow.

Ever since his encounter with the staff of Duul Aman, he kept having odd dreams. Of Egypt, ancient temples, and strange foreign words he could almost decipher but kept escaping his grasp.

Turning, Tucker looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:35 A.M. and there was no way he would be able to fall asleep again after his dream. He knew from experience that if he did the dreams would only grow in intensity. So instead he flicked on the light and grabbed his PDA from its stand.

He opened its journal app, and after tapping for a new entry began typing out what he could remember from his dream. It wasn’t much this time; a river boat on the Nile, an image of the Great Pyramids, and a few odd hieroglyphs, but nevertheless he recorded all he could. The journal was full of these dream entries. Sometimes Tucker could manage to decipher the hieroglyphs he saw in his dreams, but most of the time there were too few to gain any real meaning from them.

From what he could learn though, most of them were from spells. Spells reserved for only the highest priests to perform, often in secret. Spells that Tucker couldn’t help but wonder if he could use. He had used ancient Egyptian magic before hadn’t he? While it had been when his mind was in the grips of Duul Aman, it was still his body, his abilities. But he was still nervous to try. To do so would mean using the staff, letting its power course through him again, and Tucker wasn’t sure he could handle it.

He had long accepted that he was somehow the reincarnation of Duul Aman, living once more in the modern age. While that was true though, he also wasn’t Duul Aman anymore. He wasn’t a tyrant bent on power and immortality through any means, and he valued his family and friends more than anything else. What bothered him though was that version of himself still existed, at least within the staff.

Whenever he held it, it was hard not to lose his mind to the power that it contained. The staff would so easily overtake him and make him into the man he didn’t ever want to be that he was nervous to go near it.

If these dreams kept up though, he might just have to try. They were growing in frequency and intensity and Tucker desperately wanted to understand what they meant. Mulling it over in his mind, he sent a text out in his group chat with Danny and Sam which was appropriately titled “Boo Buddies” before beginning his research on the hieroglyphs from this night's dream.

. . .

The next morning at school he ran into Sam first, which was typical. Danny usually either ran into a minor ghost on the way to school, or was otherwise held up by his parents’ insane inventions.

“What did you mean by past life dreams Tuck? And in the middle of the night?” she asked straight to the point. Tucker sighed, he had been hoping she would at least wait for Danny to get there.

“Well, it's Duul Aman. Ever since the whole staff thing I keep getting dreams about him, and I want to try something." He kept his wording intentionally vague, half worried about her response and half worried about getting to class on time. “I’ll tell both you guys more about it at lunch, we should get to class.”

Sam narrowed her eyes at him, but followed to homeroom regardless as she saw Danny rounding the corner.

. . .

“You want to try what?!” Danny’s yell was swallowed by the cacophony of sound produced by the cafeteria.

“Keep it down will ya?” Tucker hushed him, “It’s not that big of a deal!”

Danny ran a hand through his hair, “Not a big deal? Tucker we’re talking about messing with Duul Aman’s powers. You know, the guy who kinda turned you into a megalomaniac for a bit? I’d say that’s pretty big.”

Sam shrugged, “I don’t know, I think it might be worth a shot.”

Tucker huffed a laugh. Of course, leave it to the goth to be interested in spells.

“But what if he takes over Tucker’s mind again and goes all Pharaoh-ey!” Danny said, waving his hand in a mimicry of Tucker using the staff.

“That’s why you guys will be staying with me.” Tucker swallowed, “Just in case I can’t fight it off, I want you guys to knock me out before I start going nuts.”

Danny looked at Sam for help, but she shut him down.

“You know if we don’t help he’ll just end up trying it by himself.” she said, and Danny couldn’t help but agree that she had a point there.

“Fine,” he sighed, “but I still think this is a bad idea.”

. . .

They met that night in Jackson Park by the treeline, Sam and Tucker on foot and Danny in ghost form with the staff. Ever since the Duul Aman incident he had kept it stored in the Ghost Zone with Pandora since she seemed the type to know how to care for ancient cursed artifacts.

“Ok,” said Tucker, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Did you bring a book Sam?”

Sam replied by pulling out a black leather-bound journal from her coat.

“Good, good. Ok so now I just need…the staff.” he looked hesitantly at the scarab topped staff in Danny’s hand.

“Uh, what spells exactly are you going to try? Just in case something goes wrong.” Danny asked, well aware of how the staff thrummed with power when Tucker looked at it.

“Right, um well, first I’m going to try a book protection spell that I found. I figure that should be pretty safe. And then, uh, there’s this one spell that’s for ‘opening up the west’. I think that one is to make a temporary portal to the afterlife, so like, it'll lead to the Ghost Zone? At least that’s if I read everything right.” Tucker’s nerves were really starting to get to him, but he had to try to do this and see if he was right. See if he could actually do it.

“I figure if I can make a portal then I could use it to help you when you’re fighting ghosts?” he asked.

Danny considered this for a moment. “The first one, yeah I can understand. The Ghost Zone though? I don’t know, there’s a lot of things that could go wrong there.”

“Which is why you’re here just in case!” Tucker said with as confident a smile he could muster. “Just, let’s try the first one and go from there.” he reached his hand out for the staff which Danny reluctantly handed over.

As soon as it was in his hand Tucker felt a wave of energy wash over him. That was okay though, he was prepared for it this time. Pushing back mentally against the power he cleared his mind and reached for his PDA. “See, I’m alright. Now Sam, we should probably have the book on the ground. Just in case.”

Sam nodded, “Right. Be careful with it, that’s my favorite copy of Dracula.” and laid the book carefully on the grass.

Tucker breathed deeply, feeling the staff’s power flow through him, pulled up the ancient text from his phone, and began reciting the words.

As he read, Danny and Sam exchanged a look. Tucker’s eyes had begun to glow golden but neither wanted to break his concentration by noting it aloud. Soon though that disappeared as he finished the incantation.

“Ok then,” Tucker said shakily, “that was manageable. Also, I think it worked. Danny, you should try and open it.”

Danny nodded and bent down to pick up the book. It seemed normal to him, however when he went to open it the thing felt like it had been glued shut. Raising his eyebrows he handed it over to Sam who was able to easily open the cover.

Tucker smiled, “Cool right, now only Sam should be able to actually open it!”

Danny had to agree that it was pretty impressive, and something he might think about using for his journal of ghost attacks as well. While he had hidden it in his wall for safekeeping from his parents he still wanted some extra security, just in case.

“Do you think you’re okay to try the next one? It’s okay if you need a break.” Sam said, both awe and concern evident in her voice.

Tucker thought about it for a moment. While it was exhausting trying to hold the power back from overwhelming him, he also couldn’t resist seeing what else he could do with this power. “I’m going to give the portal a try.” he said, and before Danny could protest he began the incantation.

Danny was more apprehensive about this spell. The book one was cool and pretty useful, but conjuring a portal to the Ghost Zone? That seemed like a huge leap forward for Tucker. But he wanted to be a good friend and trust in his abilities, so he watched as his friend started the next spell.

Tucker felt confident. He could do this, the first spell was a success and he was sure this one would be as well. As he spoke the ancient words he felt the power emanating from the staff increase, and as it washed over him he felt his mind slip to the power of Duul Aman.

Well, at least he had his friends there to stop him from creating another sphinx.

[marblegroves]

Just saw your sketchbook post and I am amazed at how clean it all looks O_O /pos

So I was wondering, what materials do you use for your traditional drawings (all the stuff from sketch to final piece)?

BOY AM I GLAD YOU ASKED THIS *ahem*

Behold 😌

For the sketchbook pages, I mainly stuck to these materials though ^^ these guys are my…

PRIMARY MATERIALS

The green mechanical pencil on the picture on the left has 0.7mm colored lead in it! I alternate between blue and pink colored leads depending on what fits the overall color of the piece better.

Once I finish up the sketch, I line it with the black pilot ballpoint pen! I really like the control and feel of ballpoint pens for traditional lineart, because it gives a sort of variety in pressure I can’t seem to achieve with normal fineliners. I like to switch up the colors of the lineart too sometimes, hence the pink and red ballpens.

Then once the linearts done, I color them in with the stabilo highlighters, as pictured on the right! These guys are my FAVORITES. Sometimes when I’m just freely sketching I use the grey or peach mini stabilos. Although, they do tend to be a bit runny, ‘cause they’re meant for quick highlights and not multiple strokes over an area ^^; so you do have to be careful and quick when coloring with them to get an even coat of color!

Sometimes, though, when there are other colors or textures I want in a drawing, I use my…

SECONDARY MATERIALS

Pictured above are all my alcohol based markers! The four on the left are neon sharpies for when I need that extra eyestrainy kick. The three promarkers with the pointy cap were from when I was a freshman in uni and wanted to collect a full set of alcohol markers, but these were the only colors they had in stock and the college supply store ✌️ I’ve since given up on that dream because they were really expensive ;; they’re really good for sunny grassy scenes though! The last dark blue marker was from a set of other blue markers, but the others have since dried out… I use it when I really wanna darken up a page, like for night scenes!

This is my prismacolor set! I like to pair these with the markers, going in after the initial layer of color to give a bit of variety or shine. Some examples of when I use them would be for adding blush or giving hair a glossy sheen 👍

These ones are my “fuck it” materials lmao

I use these when I really just wanna scribble something down wildly. I had these since I was in gradeschool and its quite frankly a miracle they still work? Oh, and the red and yellow twistable crayolas are missing because I vaguely remember giving them to some childhood friends for some reason 🤔

My fineliners and gellyrolls! Haven’t used these much recently tbh. I’d used them for class before, but I never really likes how flat the thickness tends to be :/ the brush tips and chisel tips are cool though. I used them for that one yellow bdubs doodle to try and see if my opinion of them has changed ^^ it hasn’t. Moving on…

Lastly, we have the special materials! The ones that don’t really go into any sets, or have nice applications. In order from left to right:

Wink of Stella - A brush pen that applies glitter through some sort of black magic. No idea how she works but I love her

Red Marvy Art Director 1400 - A red fine tip marker. Can’t go wrong with a bright red marker 👍

Golden Posca - My only posca marker. Figured if I should get one it might as well be something special.

Faber Castell Blue Highlighter - I use this alongside the stabilos. It has a really nice deep blue color ^^

And well! That should be everything! ^^ Thanks for giving me an avenue to gush about my materials lmao 🥰

[void-ink-studios]

The Existential Horror of Prismo the Wishmaster.

This has been buzzing in my brain for a week now, and after a discussion with a friend egged it on, I need to inflict in on the rest of you.

Also, this thought is at the very least cannon to Wrath of the Wishmaster.

I have so many Thoughts about Prismo, and his relationship with Old Man Prismo. How it seems that Prismo the Wishmaster and Prismo the Old Man are completely disconnected, but threaded together in a weave that simply can't be unraveled. The two don't seem to share memories, but Prismo clearly recognizes the sleeping old man as his mortal body. He knows he's staring at himself, and he seems pretty uncomfortable to acknowledge it.

So, the discussion expanded on it.

Because something I noticed is that Scarab as a projection was pretty much just one to one with his real personality. It was just Scarab in a different form, down to realistic proportions, anatomy, and physics.

So, I propose a thought: What if, once upon a time, Prismo was like that too?

What if, when first put to sleep, Prismo the Wishmaster and "Young Man" Prismo were pretty much identical? That Prismo was pretty much just an extension of his sleeping body.

But, while Scarab has only just been put to sleep, Prismo has been asleep longer. Much, much longer. Hundreds of thousands of years longer. Potentially millions of years longer.

Prismo is ultimately the dream of (presumably) a human. While it's clear Old Man Prismo can't seem to die of old age, he is noticeably aging (look at Prismo pointing out he's hairier and balder than last he checked).

Not to mention, in the brief moments we see Old Man Prismo awake, he's very clearly confused. He mistakes the Lich to be his son, asks where his wife is, and immediately wants to go back to sleep. While this could be due to the fact he just woke up after lord knows how long, I assert it might've been deeper than that.

And it was that rewatch that I had a thought. What happens to a dream that goes on far longer than it's ever meant to?

I think the Prismo we see, in the modern age, is not just a dream. He's a dream of essentially an Alzheimer's patient. He's abstract and gigantic and wraps around in impossible ways because his host's sense of reality and self-image has pretty much been turning to mush in his deep sleep. He's not just a dream, he's the half remembered abstracted idea of what Old Man Prismo might've been like in his much younger years. Prismo the Wishmaster is a memory locked in time, but one that's been put through Google translate several times and told back to the viewer by someone who just woke up and barely speaks English.

It struck me what Prismo reminded me of.

This series of paintings:

A series of self-portraits done by a man (William Utermohlen, btw) with progressing Alzheimer's, based on what he remembers himself to look like.

So, my friend and I are left to ponder the horror of Prismo's situation. He's a mortal brain, that has been faced with an eternity that mortal brains aren't meant to begin to comprehend, much less live through. He's put under sleep young, probably with the understanding that it'd be forever (And the fact OMP references a wife and son leaves him agreeing to that with upsetting implications), and his dream is of himself, as he was when he was put under.

But then the years and decades and centuries and millennia go bye. The human mind begins to atrophy, but the dream still persists. The dream experiences life on its own, and his mind of origin begins to fail and rot.

Thus, we get Prismo the Wishmaster. Prismo who can no longer access any of his old memories, just left with the vague impression of something lingering in the dark corners every once in a while. Vague ideas that something's familiar, but he can't explain why.

It's no wonder he seems uncomfortable at the look of his own body. That man is practically a stranger to him. And yet, achingly familiar. Like looking in a fun house mirror. You recognize the reflection as you. But it isn't you. Not anymore, at least.

Would he recognize himself, if he saw the version of him he was when he was first put to the task of Wishmaster? Maybe, maybe not.

And then, the Lich kills Old Man Prismo.

And all that's left is a dog's memory of the current version of Prismo.

Which means that the original man Prismo once was is gone. Forever. Irreparably. If our current Prismo is a story, this is a story who's original copy was burned, and has been passed down to us thousands of years later, with all the translation errors, additions, subtractions, revisions, censorship, restorations, retellings, and reinterpretations that entails.

What does that do to a mind, to know you're a copy of someone you used to be, but never can be anymore? To know you're not your own person, but the person you're an extension of simply does not exist anymore?

Reminds me a bit of the clones from "The World of Tomorrow" by Don Hertzfeldt.

It's probably for the best if Prismo doesn't think about it too much.

[carlyraejepsans]

> You're panicking. Don't do anything rash. Chances are, you can negotiate.

"I'll throw it in the fire!" you warn him, taking another step back.

Sans looks you over. His gaze fixes itself to the package. Then it meets yours.

"nah."

You stare at him, wide eyed.

"I'll—"

"no you won't. you're bluffing."

He takes another step, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You look around the room with the trepidation of a caged animal. The air feels stuffy, or maybe it's your lungs that are starting to feel too small.

You were right. This was a terrible idea from the start.

"Open the door," you say, taking another step back and stumbling against the treadmill, "You just... open the door, and I'll be on my way. Nobody has to get hurt."

Your stomach drops. Your SOUL drops with it, too. With horror, you watch your chest and arms light with a deep, sickly blue.

"sorry bud, that's gonna be a no." Sans winks.

He takes another step, one hand extended "besides..."

Out. You want out. You need to get out of here, and you need to get out now. You were stupid to come here, you were stupid to even go back at all. You should've stuck to your plans and done everything you could to avoid him. You should've never fallen down that crevice to begin with.

You'd had it so easy these past few attempts, that you'd forgotten what it meant to die. As if the nothingness would've been worth a droplet of spite. But you remember now.

The thought of it makes you sick.

Vaguely, as though in a dream, you realize that Sans has been talking, as suddenly he stops.

He cocks his head at you, "you, uh, didn't hear a word i said, huh?"

You clutch the parcel tighter. The window is still open behind you, a light breeze blowing its way inside makes the flames in the fireplace flicker.

Sans looks at them, then his own eyes flicker back up to the package.

It would be risky, and extremely time sensitive... but if the contents are important, saving them from the flames would take priority on your escape.

His eyes meet yours again. His smile is inscrutable.

"i wouldn't do that if i were you."

-->

[lonesome-witching]

I Melt With You

Another day, another prompt from @rabbitofdeath-atcastleaarrggh. This one is a return customer and I'm glad they keep coming back. Anyway, this one is based of a song, although very loosely based. I tried my best to write a romcom montage. It's weird, it's not serious, it's meant to be ridiculous.

Do you have any prompts yourself? Or do you want to dive into what I wrote before? You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.

Robin Buckley was in love with Nancy Wheeler. That much was sure. It was ridiculous and embarrassing, but it was the truth. She had gotten feelings for prissy Nancy Wheeler.

She wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. One day she had been complaining about her to the Odd Squad during band, the next she was ready to sink to her knees in front of her. It had to be something to do with how Nancy could command a whole room with her voice. The realization had dawned on Robin during Nancy’s history presentation on the Roman Empire.

The presentation on its own hadn’t been all that special. She told the same tale as all the other students. But then one of the jocks in the back of the class had made a joke in poor taste and Nancy had snapped back. It had triggered something in Robin that hadn’t been there before.

Since then, Robin had been thinking of Nancy Wheeler all the time. She screamed into her pillow about it every night.

“There are worse people to be into,” Steve said from his spot behind one of the racks of video tapes. She had only recently caved. Steve had been pestering her for weeks on end. It had gotten to the point where Robin couldn’t take it anymore. He already knew she was into girls. It was a small leap from there.

“C’mon, it’s prissy Nancy Wheeler we’re talking about.”

“She’s really not that much of a priss.”

“I guess you could know. How long were you two together?”

“Almost two years. Why? Do you need help to get the girl?” Steve’s head was poking out from the shelves, a smirk on his face.

“No, dingus, don’t be an idiot.”

“Alright, how are you going to win her over?” Steve walked over, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m not going to win her over,” Robin sighed.

“Not with that attitude.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Not with any attitude. Nancy is… she’s not like that.”

“You know what we need?” Steve slapped his hand on the counter.

“Do I want to know?”

“We need a cliché, rom-com montage.”

“How would that even work?”

-

She pushed the note into the locker. She had never been the type for romantic gestures. Mostly because she never had anyone to be romantic with. But Steve had pushed her to write down her feelings. Just to see how Nancy would react. She hadn’t signed her name at the bottom. She hadn’t been that courageous, or stupid.

Once the note had slipped from her hand, fallen somewhere into the darkness of Nancy’s locker, she’d felt the fear in the pit of her stomach. This was a mistake. She tried to remember what she had written, if any of it could lead to her.

I look at you from across the hall and long to be nearer. I long to be as close to you as I could possibly be. I dream of a better world, of better lives, where I could tell you this without fear. A world where I could declare that for you, Nancy, for you I would stop the world. Simply to melt with you. To be with you. To love you.

All she could remember seemed vague enough. Nothing to even indicate her gender. Nothing to incriminate herself.

The bell rang and she rushed away from the locker that didn’t belong to her. Just far enough that Nancy wouldn’t notice her. At least not right away. Just far enough that Nancy wouldn’t suspect her.

She watched from across the hall as Nancy wandered over to her locker, toying with the lock for a few moments before opening the door. The slip of paper drifted out, twirling in the air for a moment before it landed on the floor. She could barely see Nancy’s frown as she leaned down to retrieve it. Her slender fingers unfolded the piece of paper, her eyes scanned over the words.

Robin had expected her to look around. But she didn’t. She just sighed and pushed the paper back in her locker, in between some of her books. And then she shut her locker and walked away.

She walked right past Robin without looking anywhere but right in front of her. Holding her books close to her chest and marching on.

-

“It didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t work,” Steve exclaimed from the break room.

“If you know it wasn’t going to work, why make me do it?”

“Because it was step one.”

“Step one of what?”

“Of our cliché rom-com montage masterplan.”

“There’s gonna be a step two?”

-

“Do we really have to watch?” Robin asked, sliding further down the seat.

“It’s part of the montage.”

“Steve, you do know no one is recording this right. We’re not in a movie.”

“I know we’re not in a movie.” Steve threw his head back in irritation.

“Then what is this about.”

“Ssshh, there she is.” Steve pointed out the window of his car.

Robin watched as a 16-year-old placed a bouquet of roses on the Wheeler porch. Moments later Nancy opened the door. She clearly sighed as she picked up the roses and threw the door shut. She turned back towards Steve and noticed the frown on his face.

“I don’t think your plan is working.”

“Time for step three.”

-

Robin bit the inside of her cheek. All she had to do was wait for the right moment. No matter how long it took. It probably wouldn’t take all that long. Which was sad for a whole other reason.

She noticed Nancy out of the corner of her eye. Just walking, books pressed up against her chest.

“Look at that, Nancy the slut Wheeler,” a guy yelled from the other side of the hall.

Nancy just kept on walking.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up? Frustrated you can’t get in her pants? You didn’t truly think someone as beautiful as Nancy would sleep with you, did you?” Robin shouted back. She’d practiced the response in her head. Several times. Steve had said it would show Nancy she cared, or something like that. It just felt nice to shout back for once.

But when she looked at Nancy, who had stopped in her tracks, she saw nothing but a scowl on that pretty face.

-

The last person Robin had expected to see in detention was Nancy Wheeler. Maybe Steve was on to something with his rom-com montage. Maybe some deeply exhausted, overly stressed college student was dabbling in writing all of a sudden. At least that was what it felt like when Robin walked into the room and saw Nancy sitting in the front row.

Nancy didn’t turn around, didn’t show any sign of acknowledgment. She just sat there, staring at the front of the class.

“Hi,” Robin said, sitting down next to Nancy.

“We’re not supposed to speak.” It was the first time Nancy had spoken to her. Directly to her.

“There is not really anyone to stop us.”

“What exactly are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

Nancy just nodded, her lips pressed together. One of her hands was tapping a pattern on her thigh.

“What do you have against me?” Robin felt the onslaught of words threaten to slip out.

“Nothing,” Nancy replied.

“Is it because of the rumors? Because I truly thought if there was one person that didn’t believe everything she heard around here, it would be you. But here you are shunning me for whatever reason, and I can’t imagine it’s anything else. A few days ago, you had never even spoken to me. You probably don’t even know my name, do you?”

Nancy turned toward her. The scowl gone and replaced by confusion. “It’s not— I don’t dislike you.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

“Not everything is about you.”

“How the hell is you being a bitch to me not about me?”

Nancy groaned.

“No, please enlighten me. Because for the past few weeks all I’ve been trying to do is woo you. I’ve written you notes, I’ve sent you flowers, I defended you in front of those assholes. And all I’m getting in return is the cold shoulder.”

“That was you?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“Well, I knew you defended me. But the other stuff? I thought it was Steve. After we broke up, he paid some kids to serenade me, so this wouldn’t have been a stretch.”

“He did ask me to serenade you. I just thought that would have been a bit too much.”

Nancy laughed softly. “So, why did you do all of this?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“The note, the flowers, you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

-

“What song would you have picked?” Nancy asked.

“Is this really the time, Nance? We’re supposed to be rushing here.”

Nancy smiled, leaning back down to kiss Robin again. “I’m just curious. If you had serenaded me, what song would you have picked?”

Robin’s fingers flexed against Nancy’s waist. “I Melt with You by Modern English.”

Nancy hummed, moving away ever so slightly. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Who cares?” Robin pulled her back down, connecting their lips.

[gemharvest]

I'm glad you're here.

-----

Holy shit. Karl RGBFverse drabble. wtfffff

This was not planned. I did not think I would actually write anything for RGBFverse and idk if I'll ever do something like this again, but something said in the demon core was driving me Insane (/pos) and I needed to get it out. And the only way to properly get it out was writing, so enjoy. :)

-----

A gentle, yet heavy, weight wrapped around a smaller body, holding the other. Holding him. It made the smaller feel soft; warmed his heart– though he still wouldn’t admit that.

Beef didn’t notice how he shook, lightly but still noticeable, more focused on his relief that Yourself was there at all. God, he was so happy the other was there. Had he a more sober mind, he probably would have realized YS brought him to his couch because he thought something was wrong; that it was an attempt to comfort him.

Maybe he was right, that something was wrong. His nightmare (Had it been a nightmare? Even now, it felt so real…) still fresh in his mind. But that wasn't why he came here. He wasn’t really looking for comfort– though still soaked up the attention regardless.

In truth, his worries had been dissuaded when his text was responded to. He didn't need to have come here; didn't need this hug. Sure, he was shaking, but he had been wound up by a bad dream while high. It was inevitable he’d take a bit longer to fully calm down.

What he really wanted was to just be there with YS. To appreciate his presence after being presented with a reality without it. He wanted Yourself to know he appreciated him, even if it required him being vulnerable; soft. He wasn't the one receiving a hug, at least in his mind– he was giving it.

A song wormed its way into Beef’s inebriated mind. Something he had only found recently. And really, it was a miracle he had found it at all. It was something on the slower side, something Beef didn't tend to seek out often, but it had slid itself into his recommendations the other night and the title piqued his interest. Something about ghosts, he vaguely remembered.

Not his usual style, but it captivated him.

Captivated him, and reminded him of someone– someone he clung to right now. Slow, and maybe a bit eerie, but still upbeat. Hopeful. He'd have to play it for him sometime, though he didn't want to break up their embrace to share it right now.

Without thinking, he started to hum its melody out loud. It took him a few moments to even realize what he was doing, that the sound was actually coming from him. He just assumed he was imagining it vividly again. While he'd normally be embarrassed doing something like that– he was getting more comfortable, but not yet that comfortable –he was still high enough to not really care.

It seemed the other party didn't mind, either; Beef feeling Yourself droop on top of him.

Just as he hadn't intended on humming, he wasn't meaning to make YS doze off– but that didn't mean it wasn't a good thing. They were all at least somewhat aware by now that he hardly got sleep, so him resting around any of them was a net positive.

Besides, his dozing meant Beef could keep hugging him without worrying about it getting awkward. Maybe he was a bit greedy for wanting so much time with him out of nowhere, but fuck it. YS’s consequence for pulling him into his family of selves. Should have thought about that before reaching out to other selves who had the capacity to be clingy little shits.

Beef hummed the tune more consciously now that he was aware it was relaxing Yourself; nuzzling in further himself as he did.

Slowly, YS drifted more and more, leaning further onto Beef in the process; which the smaller didn't mind at all. Maybe he couldn't quite relate to Yourself’s craving for warmth, but he could relate to how pressure soothed him. Especially the pressure of a loved one. Maybe he was still scared of admitting it, but that’s what YS was.

He really just wanted to sit there with appreciative thoughts, starting to drift off himself as both the embrace and the weed still in his system lulled him.

Unfortunately, his ADHD wasn’t going to let things be that easy– his mind wandering almost immediately. The more he thought about YS, of how much he appreciated the other being in his life, the more he was brought back to his dream.

A reality without YS. Not just without him, but one where he was dead.

In his dream, he had intended to go see YS– for what reason, he could no longer recall (though that implied he usually had a reason to visit) –but… something went wrong. The mirror-walking must have messed up, because everything felt off. It was YS’s apartment, but nothing looked right. And there was someone there, but it wasn’t YS, and then… they told him. It freaked him out so much, the next thing he remembered was waking up on his couch. Clearly a nightmare, but… it had felt so real, he-

He was glad it was just a dream. The knowledge of YS’s plan was still fresh in his mind, so his subconscious must've just warped it into a dream. That’s how that kind of thing usually happened. He was bothered by how clear everything remained in his mind, even while intoxicated, but it would fade.

That's just how bad dreams were, right? vivid for a little bit after, before being shaken off.

In his moment of derailment, Beef had stopped humming– though the limp body around him didn't seem to notice. That was good, that he had managed to drift off. He deserved rest.

The way his own eyes started to droop told him he wasn't far from it himself, but he wasn't paying much attention to himself. Not only was it hard for him to pay attention to that kind of thing while high, a ghostly glow drew his eyes.

Wings. Or at least, the ghost of them. He had seen them before, though he had ignored the sight back then. Forced it out, really, as he felt guilty for seeing them.

Right now though… he stared. Took note of how they seemed to wrap around him, like one pair of arms wasn't enough to hold him. Like he needed to be shielded in the other's grasp.

It was weird, how they were gone yet still remained in some form– outside of the scarred bumps on his back. Weirder probably for the one who lost them.

Beef wondered if Yourself was aware his wings still appeared, though he had doubts. Both times he had seen them now, YS hadn't been fully conscious– first lost in a trauma response, and now lost in peaceful sleep. It seemed they were something that showed when out of his control. How many others had seen them?

He briefly thought about asking, but even while high he could tell that probably wasn't a good idea. Beef had done enough prodding already. No, his curiosity could take a backseat and instead he'd just enjoy it as a quirk to the other. The way their presence now implied YS’s care for him (that still felt strange, and not because they were the same person), so it couldn't be a bad sign.

Eyes finally feeling too heavy, Beef shifted to bury his face in YS’s chest. A nap wouldn’t hurt.

Part of him worried about having another bad dream, but other thoughts drowned that out as his breathing slowed. He'd be fine, because his big brother was there, in his arms (he didn't think about how it was him being wrapped around). If the dream repeated, he would wake and see he was fine.

Hopefully he would be sober by the time he woke up too. Fuck, he was not going to test his limits like that again.

[renegade-skywalker]

Another Night With You

Summary:

Gale gives in to his baser desires as he realizes the depths of his feelings for Merit in the wake of rediscovering his will to keep on living. (Vaguely set post Act 2, pre Act 3)

Word Count: 3,405 Rating: E

~~~

Gale was still dreaming of Merit’s smile when he suddenly awoke, the sound of a nearby rustling wrestling him from the depths of his sleep with a sudden start.

It didn’t take long for him to recognize the familiar and welcome sound of Scratch and the owlbear chasing one another not-so-quietly through camp, restless after a day of sleeping in the sun. He couldn’t blame them. After being trapped so thoroughly in the heart of shadow-cursed Reithwin, the beaming strength of the sun on the road to Baldur’s Gate was more than a wanted respite but also an omen of good tidings.

The sun had worn the rest of their merry band out as well, its presence brightening everything in the wake of all that transpired at Moonrise. And somehow, he and Merit had fallen into fits of unexplained laughter before eventually drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms, a phantom giddiness possessing them the moment their heads hit the pillow and holding them hostage until they were utterly out of breath. Smiles were very becoming of Merit, her eyes twinkling with a fire-bright sheen that made Gale go weak in the knees, crinkling in the corners as she brought him close, her breath on his cheek, the sound of her laughter filling him with an elation he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt, even as a boy. 

She was sleeping now, and soundly so, but the echoes of her laughter, the ghost of her smile, stayed in Gale’s mind like both a memory and a ghost, willing to be remembered and resurrected at once. He dared not wake her but he couldn’t help but pull her close. Merit was facing away from him, sighing contentedly when Gale tucked her against him, pressing a kiss to the warm skin of her exposed shoulder. He’d only meant to kiss her the once, expecting himself to settle against her and fall back asleep once more, his face buried sweetly in her hair at the crook of her neck, but instead he found himself kissing her again. And again and again…

Merit tasted sweet, her skin delightfully warm against his lips as he made his way up the curve of her neck. Merit finally stirred once he kissed the underside of her ear. Gale lingered there, savoring the scent of her hair, as Merit dug herself deliciously back into him even in her half-asleep state. Gale’s hands grasped her waist, his fingers digging gently into the grooves of her hips as he guided her more fully against him, placing the pleasing curve of her rear directly over his growing want for her, already hot with desire. 

Merit hummed, her voice lilting as if in song. A pleasant shiver coursed through him at the sound of her, yearning for more and already far more awake than he was mere moments ago.

“I love you,” he murmured into the shell of her ear, his lips gracing her skin as he spoke. He nibbled her earlobe before pulling away, kissing the space where her jaw met her neck as Merit laughed quietly against him.

If he was excited before, he was near to bursting now. The sound of her charmed laughter flitted through the confines of their shared tent like chimes on the wind, and he internally swore he would never tire of that song. 

“I know,” Merit sighed, her voice still heavy with sleep. She twisted to face him though she only moved her head. Merit reached back and threaded her hand through Gale’s hair as she brought his face to hers, the remainder of her body still turned away, pressed against his growing want with her back against his chest now housing a racing heart. One of Gale’s hands remained firm on her hip, holding her in place, while the other crept up her nightshirt and traced the outline of her breast when Merit finally brought his lips to hers. 

Merit kissed him, close-mouthed at first but earnest. She lingered there, whimpering against his mouth as she savored the feel of him before pulling away, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“I love you, too.”

It was hard not to touch her. Not just out of a desire to do so but out of an unspoken wonder, almost ashamed that he’d forgotten how miraculous a mortal body could be. He couldn’t help but let his hand roam, caressing the smooth swath of skin gracing Merit’s rib cage, the soft planes of her stomach, relishing in the way she seemed to only cling to him further as if magnetized the more his intrepid fingers graced the warmth of her skin.

Gale’s breath quickened, his eyes searching hers as Merit’s gaze grew clearer in the din of the tent. It was still darkest night, but through the gloom Gale was able to make out the faint outline of her, the weight of her words echoing through his mind as he admired her every shadowed feature made bright in his memory filling in all the gaps.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Still rife with disbelief at the truth of it, Gale’s mind yearned for the comfort of the Weave, his soul itching to feel Merit’s again, their every thought becoming one as each sensation was surrendered to in unison, their every desire made known as time collapsed in on itself, their every sentiment made absolutely certain. But there was something undeniable about the way Merit made him feel now, the way his body arched towards hers with almost untamable yearning, and the way her body fit against his. As if their shapes were made in time immemorial and they were only now rediscovering their innate need for completion in the other.

“I love you,” he said again, kissing her mouth and tracing her tongue with his before pulling away and kissing the corner of her mouth, and then her jaw, and then her neck once more. “But I also want you,” he continued, breathless, savoring the softness of her skin there, relishing in the sweetness of her. “So very much.”

He could sense Merit smile, the ghost of another twinkling laugh lacing her voice.

“Well then,” she said, urging Gale to meet her gaze again, her eyes flashing with a momentary ferality that electrified him instantly. They were still close enough to share breath, her open mouth so very near his that he felt as if they were caught in perpetual anticipation of a kiss.  “Why don’t you show me?”

Gale suddenly flushed hot against her, their shared heat growing exponentially with nowhere to go. Without thinking, Gale rolled his hips against her, which not only elicited a satisfied sigh to escape Merit's throat, but the sound of her wilting voice and the soft thrust of his growing desire only made him want her more. 

Merit smiled as she kissed him once more, whimpering again slightly before she parted her lips against his and drank him in full, her tongue tracing Gale’s with practiced pause. Now it was his turn to hum, an errant sound erupting from the base of his throat as Merit deepened their kiss and Gale cupped her breast, his thumb softly lancing across the swell of her until it grew firm beneath his insistent touch, his other hand gracing her hip before slowly reaching below the hem of her nightclothes.

He’d denied himself this for so long. Gale’s body longed for Merit’s beyond his mere affection for her, his want mounting precariously into need as she kissed him still, his other hand descending further and further, relishing in the satin-feel of her skin, until his fingers met her matching desire for him between her legs. 

A sigh shuddered through him the moment his touch met the well of her want, warm and hungry as Merit eased her legs slightly further apart at the feel of him, urging herself further back into his lap. He ran his fingers along the seam of her, his breath quickening as Merit grew slippery sweet beneath his touch. Gale already hungered for more of her, and yet that craving mounted still. He thrust himself against her again and Merit whimpered, pulling out of their kiss as she succumbed to both Gale’s touch as well as the sensation of his growing demand. 

Gale thought of saying something - something romantic, something suave - but all clever thought left his mind at the feel of her, the sound of Merit’s yearning mewls undoing him to the point that he could only act, not think. Without another thought, Gale simply lowered his briefs and moved Merit’s nightclothes aside and entered her with an exalted sigh.

It was like quenching a thirst, sating a baser part of him he hadn’t given attention to in so long that in his neglect had grown ravenous beyond the point of desire. He eased the hot head of his want inside Merit, slow and indulgent at first. A shuddered breath escaped him as he felt just how welcoming and wet she was, already dripping around the teeming length of him as he indulged in her inch by rapturous inch.

“Don’t stop.” Merit pleaded, already panting. “Gods, don’t ever stop.”

Again, Gale couldn’t speak for once, only act. The only poetry he could recite was in the way he held Merit reverently against him, in how his only thoughts echoed solely with her name, in the way the ache in his chest craved more of her and endlessly so. His hands gripped Merit’s hips, anchoring her against him as he urged himself up and more deeply inside her, slowly at first, and then with a voracious zeal he could not control, his every urging a plea to feel more of her and endlessly so. 

It was as if he could not stop, even if he wanted to, the idea of it becoming an impossibility his mind could not reconcile.

Gale and Merit fell out of their impassioned kiss, Gale’s panting mouth pressed against Merit’s cheek as he pressed the length of himself inside her again and again. Merit’s hand still wound back behind her and through his hair, her fingers raking deliciously against his scalp as she received his every thrust. Merit sighed, her voice almost lilting and loud enough to wake the others, but it only made him grip her more forcefully to him as his hands began to roam again, one hand gracing her breast once more as he took the hem of her shirt along with it in a half-hearted attempt to remove it entirely while his other hand reached for the pearl of her clit, running his fingers in careful circles until it elicited yet another sweet sigh from Merit’s throat.

If Merit was dripping around him before, she was absolutely drenched now, his growing shaft drowning in her want in a way that made him want to succumb to the succulent feel of her. A week ago, he might not have had a choice, so utterly out of practice he was surprised he made it more than a minute inside her despite his insatiable want for her only made exponentially so after their time spent in the Weave. She’d indulged him then, he knew, if only to sate her own curious mind - which was one of the myriad reasons why he loved her so and had been inexplicably drawn to Merit from the beginning - but even Gale was certain that after an evening spent in the Weave, that simply nothing else would compare.

And while their first truly intimate joining still remained the pinnacle of his relationship with Merit - their separate yearnings, their separate beings finally merging into one, their every thought and every affection made known in a way that defied the reach of both words and touch - there was something to be said for the ever-rapacious thirsts of the mortal flesh that Gale had simply forgotten about. And it wasn’t as if he’d never known them, either. He had, in fact, been held under their enraptured spell, before Mystra. Before he refashioned himself to fit her image, and reimagined his future self to better fit her immortal one. 

With Merit, Gale need not reimagine anything. Only all the ways in which he loved her and how else he might communicate it.

“Wait,” Merit said, stilling Gale’s insistence within her with a pleasantly panting breath.

Again, all words failed him. All he could do was silently obey and await her next order or his next primordial urge. Only Merit didn’t say anything. Instead, she simply shifted herself so she now faced Gale, pulling him into a hungry kiss as she removed her underclothes entirely and gripped the hot length of him with an eager hand. She was about to guide him back inside her when Gale instead pulled away but not out of her kiss, pulling off his briefs before sliding his hands up Merit’s body, slipping her nightshirt off completely so he could feel the naked warmth of her against him. And as they kissed, Gale eased himself back inside her, sighing as he felt the welcome warmth of her want for him, Merit sighing and humming in unison as he entered her once more.

“I love the way you feel,” Merit sighed, nearly whining against his mouth before kissing him again and urging him more deeply inside her. Her hands braced against Gale’s bare shoulders as she wrapped her legs around his waist, the feel of her so utterly intoxicating that Gale’s mind went blank for what felt like the first time in his life. “Gods, you feel so good.”

Merit’s words helped none, the subsequent euphoria that overcame him eclipsing all thought entirely as he obeyed his instinct alone and rode the ecstasy that was her. Gale angled Merit’s head against his as he kissed her deeply, her tongue tracing a tentative though delicious course against his as she descended further into the pillow beneath them. Eventually, Gale angled himself above her, poising his body over hers instead of beside it as he conceded to her kiss and urged his ever hardening length inside her over and over, his bristling desire now full to bursting. 

He panted, relentless, as he fought to remain steadfast in Merit’s kiss as he thrust his growing desire inside her over and over, the length of him hardening beyond want or desire and swaying precariously into need. He wanted to slow down, he wanted to savor it, he wanted to feel Merit climax over him and ease his appetite with her already-satiated satisfaction as he was already so fortunate to be used to feeling. But at the mere thought of it, Gale felt himself succumb, Merit swelling sweetly around his hard and questing length until he had to pull out entirely, reluctantly, before spilling over the font of her.

Merit only smiled as she held him closer to her. Gale trembled against her as she pressed another eager kiss to his mouth. And the moment their lips again met, Gale found his fingers eager and ever hungry, reaching for the core of her, smiling once he heard her whimper and sigh at his chasing touch. Like before, he ran his hands along the welcomingly wet seam of her, only this time he urged two fingers knuckle-deep inside her, mimicking everything he longed to do himself had he not expended his desire so quickly. But judging by the way Merit bucked her hips against his hand, it didn’t matter what part of him Gale had inside her, so long as she felt him at all.

Gale pressed kiss after hungry kiss against her mouth, his tongue mirroring his hand’s insistent exploration as Merit eased herself against and into his touch. His eyes rolled back beneath his already closed eyelids at the feel of Merit clenching around his ambitious fingers as well as in response to the way she kissed him back, the plush of her lips softly caressing his own in a way that made him shiver. His mouth craved to taste her want, to feel her desire against his lips in something other than a kiss, but before he could even imagine the scenario playing sweetly before his mind’s eye, Merit was trembling beneath his palm and pressing herself against him in a way Gale hadn’t yet known before. She rode his hand with possessed bliss, her eyes rolling back as she eased over the edge and eventually surrendered to his ardent touch.

When Merit’s eyes met his again, they were warm and electrifying, her amber irises more akin to fire than honey even in the scant light of the dark tent. 

“I love you so much, ” Merit sighed as she urged Gale’s mouth against hers, her lips caressing his before parting them, exploring the warmth of his mouth with her keen tongue. The words hardly registered in his mind in the shadow of her kiss, the truth of it still feeling like a dream. Gale could only kiss her back and return the sentiment in full, hopeful at least that his affection translated in the way their mouths met. 

Gale’s hands yet again plotted a course across Merit’s body, now naked and free for the taking. Every part of her excited him, each facet of her being providing some provocative notion his mind longed to study. Even without words at his disposal, he could study at the altar of her forever and always find something worth considering, his mouth acting religiously on his mind’s account, exploring intrepidly across every bit of yet uncharted territory. And even once every bit of Merit’s map was discovered, Gale endeavored upon delving deeper, pleasing not just her basest wants but everything beneath it and yet unspoken, unlocking her every secret want not out of any desire to discover it for him and himself alone but to allow her some release, something at least burgeoningly similar to the freedom he felt upon allowing himself to love her this way.

With a hearty sigh, his chest aflutter and still somewhat breathless, Gale tucked Merit comfortably beside him and rested his forehead against hers, tracing the outline of her with one hand as the other relished in how perfectly they fit together. Gale’s eyes followed his roaming hand as it eventually trailed up over her chest, lightly tracing the curve of her breast before delicately gracing her collarbone, slick with sweat, and running the length of her neck before tucking a curved finger beneath her chin and bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her softly, deliberately, as if his lips were delivering the multitude of unspoken things he felt for her, now and always. One of Merit’s hands rose to the nape of his neck, her fingers lightly raking through the base of his hair as she kissed him back, still equally breathless but more than willing to lose herself completely in him.

“I am so utterly in love with you,” he whispered against her mouth, kissing her almost between each word, unable to sate his bottomless need for her. Merit smiled against his mouth, which only inspired a similar smile of his own in turn, their mirrored expressions hanging breathless between their every urgent kiss.

"And I you," she muttered, sweet with sleep once more.

When Gale finally pulled away, it wasn’t far, instead nestling his head in the crook of Merit’s neck as he buried himself again in her hair, just as he imagined himself doing earlier before one quiet kiss turned into a thousand more. He wouldn’t take any of them back, even if he were to never sleep again. What worth would rest be if it kept him from feeling more alive than he had since...?

He kissed her neck again as the realization dawned on him, a momentary melancholy flitting before his mind’s eye as he reconciled the notion that this was the most alive he’d ever felt - not because it was in itself a tragedy, no, but because he had been so resigned months before that his life was already over, when in fact he’d hardly begun to actually live it.

And in the comfort of Merit’s closeness, Gale soaked in the moment as if crystalizing it in amber. He memorized the sound of her earlier laughter, the promise of her every kiss, the silk of her hair, the weight of her against him, and the hope of a world yet undiscovered by her side.

[shmowder]

It was such a treat to read your Yulia hcs!! Earlier you'd made a post wondering what your writing feels like to others. Sometimes I'd liken it to bubble gum - like a big gumball I just want to bite into and chew for a long time (don't worry, it's a magical gumball that doesn't lose its flavor).

The Yulia hcs were like a pastry with powdered sugar and cream (no doubt this is influenced by you mentioning the pastry at the beginning) - something delicate. Like snow falling in a snow globe and like a warm hug at the same time. Lovely ♡ I appreciate that you always take care to mention her leg as well.

I love both kinds of food!!!!! Thank you for taking the time to write my requests :) <3

-

Ooh, ships! I haven't ventured very far into any Patho ships tbh! I know the big one is Daniil x Artemy ofc. I'm really hoping that the Marble Nest and P1 will help me connect with Daniil more. And I do enjoy Artemy x Aglaya.

What I meant was more along the lines of what personality traits in a reader would make them a good match for those characters? Uhh I cannot phrase this to save my life. In your Victor x reader fluff, you said that a stubborn confident reader would do well with him, so something like that!

But you basically answered my question anyway ^^ "Someone who can stand her enough to live together" for Yulia lmfao. Your description of Peter and Yulia is killing me. This too is #girlrotting.

I'm interested to see how Yulia x Eva plays out in P1 or if it's just mentioned in passing. Somebody on reddit described Eva as "a dreamer without a dream" - I barely know her but that seems to match up with what you're saying and I LOVE that phrase.

I see both of your Bad Grief visions and I've actually seen some vaguely shippy Victor x Grief art before.

I'm not too invested in any ships. If you want to know something terrible... I've briefly entertained the idea of Big Vlad x Artemy........ if he didn't always call Artemy "my boy" and if other characters weren't frequently accusing Artemy of being like, owned by him or whatever, then I wouldn't be like this..... it's the guard dog trope. Obviously this would have to be in an alternate universe where Artemy's dialogue choices didn't strongly imply he's not on board 😆 Well, there's my cursed opinion of the day.

🐿️ anon

Oh! I'm sorry, i must have misunderstood your request then.

Here is what I think the "ideal" Reader for each character would be:

Katerina Saburova

Someone who would never lose faith in her no matter how dire her state becomes. To see her value hidden beneath the role she failed to play, the responsibility she failed to fullfill and the Misteress she couldn't amount to.

To understand her pain, take it from her shoulder and carry it before her collarbones crack. Wipe her tears and tell her it will be okay, allow her the small relief of medicine and never judge her because her cruel harsh mind already does that.

She knows she is a mess, she knows her addiction to morphine is wrong. Moments of lucidity sneak up on her from time to time, the guilt suffocating and the shame like razors dragging down her throat.

She is aware of what the town people whisper behind her back, of her ruined reputation. Don't become one of them too, please, more than anything she needs a friend right now.

Someone to love her unconditionally, but also someone to take the difficult steps her in stead. To hold her and comfort her as withdrawal set her nerves on fire and her nails dig into her skin.

To make her forget about this damned town or her barren womb, grant her a moment of genuine peace, a facade of normalcy. Take her outside, let her remember the smell of fresh air, pluck stray dandelions to gently tuck between her hairstrands, keep her warm in your arms as the chilly autumn winds breeze by.

Remind her how life was before all of this madness, who she was. Katerina can't even recall her own hobbies or interests, she is lost and only she can save herself.

So at least be there for her, show her that there is more to life. Be gentle, never cruel. Be patient and never judgmental. Be loving and never afraid.

-

Yulia Lyuricheva

As pathetic as it might sound, Yulia just wants one soul who will stand her enough to spend time together, to live in the same house and share bread and a bed.

She is often quiet around other people, she learned to be. She had to. Being too much was her curse for this lifetime, apparently. Ever since she was young, she quickly understood how saying the wrong things would tremble down the fragile foundation every relationship is built on.

Yulia likes most people, believe it or not. How can she not when everyone is so interesting and unique? Every single person is the accumulative of all the choices and paths they picked during their lifetime. A coin toss of fate during every decision, red strings weaving into a whole person, scouplting their personality out of clay from their history and experiences.

Most humans are interesting and rather adorable. She enjoys observing them, making notes, and connecting the dots. Appreciating the work of art, mathematics' creation.

Each of them like naive children in a playground, pretending to know what they're doing as they wear their adult clothes and go to their adult jobs. Pretending there is some inherent meaning in it all, as if life isn't one big joke, and a rather tactless one at that.

Yulia couldn't fool herself like them. She couldn't play make-believe. She ran by facts and hard evidence, numbers never lied and the grim reality was that humanity's whole existence is just one big coincidence. A blep in the universe, a speck of dust amidst the galaxies and stars.

People didn't like being reminded of those facts, that every birthday is simply one inch deeper into the grave.

Damn her cursed tongue and restless mind.

Therefore she watered herself down, remained content with being an observer. Never causing harm or annoying others, mild mannered and keeping to herself. Isolating, suffocating, forced to be the only victim subjected to the dark corners of her mind.

When the abyss started to whisper to her back, Yulia turned to smoking.

She wants someone who would want her, all of her. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. Someone to admire her brilliant mind while remaining strong in the face of her occasion episodes of apathy. Someone who will understand or at least sympathise why she hasn't cleaned her room in weeks, why old coffee mugs are rotting on the table, why she barely opens the windows in her home.

Why she simply cannot bother to exist on some days, dissociating as she blankly stares out the window, or at a wall or an equation drawn on the chalk board.

Why the clocks in her residence require frequent repairs, courtesy to being smashed against the wall in a swift motion when their ticking starts making her ears bleed.

Could someone even stand her when she cannot stand her own self on most days? Could someone love her as she is? Or is she really irredeemable, cursed since birth.

She may seem smart, but she is prone to rather stupid impulsive decisions from time to time. Indulging life risking experiments out of curiosity because she might as well go down in her own style rather than wait for time ungratefully reap her soul.

Someone who will get her out of bed on the days where the idea of chewing food seems too exhausting.

Yulia doesn't want someone who will gift her meaning and a purpose on a silver plate, rather she'd like for you to kindly hold the candle and shine the light so she may find her way herself. It's been years, and she's gotten used to living in the dark.

Be sympathetic but not overindulgent. Be forgiving and not vindictive. Be her shoulder to lean on but still let her walk on her own two legs. Steady her steps but do not lead her or attempt to diverge her path.

Peter Stamatin

He might make it seem like he needs a muse, that a shiny new thing is what will get him out of this rut.

But it won't, all the nymphs of the forest will look dull after one night, all the gems will lose its shine after one touch.

What he needs, is to wake up.

To stop mourning things immediately after their birth, to not borrow grief from tomorrow and keep reliving it each day.

What he needs is the mundane, the human animal basic requirements. To remember he is a mammal deep down, he isn't a concept nor an abstract collection of ideas, he isn't a ghost watching people pass by, he is flesh and blood.

Someone who will bring him back down from his journey up in the clouds, who will steal him back from the stars, from all the gaint things bigger than life itself that he got accustomed to befriending and haveing one sided conversations with.

He cuts his own thoughts before he finishes them because he lost interest, he stops mid sentences because he grew bored of the words coming out of his own mouth.

He will complain and throw tantrums, but you must prevail his trails and stand your ground. He will dramatise things and get mad, he will cry and break down, he will act as if you're plucking his heart out of his chest and crushing it in your hand.

You must prevail.

Remind him that he will survive. Sure, he can get mad, but he must stay alive. Peter needs an intervention, someone brave enough to risk upsetting the crowned prince of humanity's best of the best and tell him it's bedtime.

To drag him away from the blank canvas he has been staring at for hours, to hold him accountable for skipping meals or rotting in bed for weeks without going outside.

Someone to reteach him the basic maintenances task of being alive, the ones he neglected and gradually forgot as he couldn't bother to remember he too own a human body that requires care. That his brain is an organ that requires fuel and breaks as much as it is visions-plagued maze.

Take him with you to bathe, gently lather shampoo in his hair as he stiffly sits in the lukewarm water while watching the yellow rubber duck float by. Guide his fingers when it comes time to apply conditioner and let him remember how the texture of his own hair feels like, watch him rediscover how nice it is to let water wash his worries away.

Peter needs the simple pleasures in life, his soul requires a soft served ice cream cone, a cheap candy from a corner store, a hummed melody you made up while hanging your clothes to dry.

The mundane, the ugly, the eggs with burnt edges. Food that is merely food and nothing else, drinks that are simply drinks rather than magical twyrine mixtures that let him hear whispers he will never be able to decipher or understand.

Be firm but never controlling. Be a teacher but never condescending. Be a human, most of all, a real human being to show him that he is too.

-

Bad Grief

Grief can't decide if he wants someone to see the good in him or if that would cause more harm than good. He has a role to play and he's very good at it.

It is a necessary evil. The gangs will exist with or without him, it's better that he leads them and makes sure they never cross the line than someone else who might not be trusted.

A cause surprisingly more noble than anyone would ever expect of him. This life has fallen directly into his hands, every road led him down his path as if it was custom made for his measurements alone. It was always suspicious, how well things fell into place, how convenient fate was at times.

Does he need someone to see the good in him? peak behind the curtains and view him at his most barest forms? Not really. He is content with playing this role for eternity, a glorified shopkeeper, he can keep the jig up for many years to come.

But is it what he wants? is that what he really wants from life? to surrender to fate and simply take it laying down? He pushes these swarming thoughts away, as if they won't return at dawn.

You didn't fear him, either someone with a death wish, a brave fool or an apathetic idiot.

But he felt weird under your gaze, as if your eyes could see through him, through the facade. You never reacted to his empty threats or intimidation attempts, neither did you acknowledge the fact he is a criminal much. You weren't here to challenge him or take his throne, neither were you here for a favour or to obtain something illegal.

...you were merely here for him? To what... chat?

He did think you were a fool for a while, he won't lie. ulterior motives or not, you were walking into a den of criminals each morning just to what? Talk to him about the weather and how cold autumn is?

You weren't part of the script, clearly an unfated encounter that you deliberately went out of your way to have with him each day.

Until one day, he noticed the lack of any ticking sounds as you approched him. Your usual pocket clock seemed still in place from the chain dangling from your pocket, which could only mean one thing.

"Hand it over dollface."

And you did, as if you anticipated this request.

He fixed it for you, fingers moving by sheer muscle memory alone, a skill he thought he had long forgotten.

Bad Grief wants someone who isn't afraid to be free, who comprehends the role he has to play, who doesn't condemn things they do not understand.

Someone who isn't trying to save him or make him change from this life of crime, but also someone who is brave enough to walk by his side on the streets, to hold his hand in public, to not bend to the whims of the public's opinion.

The air is really chilly, would you like his jacket? ....don't ever call him a gentleman again, he just doesn't want you to freeze to death, that's all.

Grief would love someone who walks their own path, someone who will make the first step for him because deep down he is frozen by fear, too cautious for his own good. Too aware of what's at risk, of what could happen.

Of how much he could endanger you just by knowing your name, just by people seeing you at his side. You do realise what you're sacrificing? the opportunities which will never be presented to you just because you decided to be with someone like him? It's your funeral.

But he really is touched, that someone will see him worth all of that. Bad Grief had to ensure he remains useful to people all his life, that the townfolks need him more than they hate, that he is a necessary foundation that could never be uprooted without the entire structure collapsing.

Even the authorities know that, the Saburov understand his usefulness in keeping the criminal structure plates at bay, how he sets the rules and decides where to draw the line. A mutual beneficial relationship built of begrudging respect and fear.

He needs you to understand that he must. He digged his own grave, he was lead here on a leash by life. It was this or death. Don't look at him with distant, don't let fear cloud your judgements.

Be brave, never afraid. Be direct and always sincere. Be smart and clever but never cautious or cowardly. Be moral but never vendective.

-

Most important of all, the ideal reader would be different to each character based on what they value most. Someone like Aglaya values personal freedom above all and would fall for an independent Reader with their own convictions rather than blindly follow the herd. Someone authentic and brave.

While someone like Alexander Saburov would rather be that person for the reader. Preferring that you're more dependent on him and believe in his notions and principles, having faith in his justice and righteousness. To rely on him to tell you what's right and what's wrong. It's important to only indulge within limit and never stray too far from the path of what's wrong and right.

On the other extreme, Andrey also values freedom but it is his own freedom he cares most about. Your freedom shouldn't challenge his too much nor ask him to change his ways, if you love him then you must love him for who he is because he doesn't plan on changing for anyone. Morals are treated as another cage that suppresses his freedom rather than human decency.

-

My own writing tastes like a gumball to you- I know you meant it as a good thing but ouch. Does my writing really seem childish and overwhelmingly sugary? Ah-

It's not a bad thing, it's just not what I was aiming for either. At least you seem to enjoy it so yeah. I hoped my style would seem more... poetic to you? Sincere?

I'm grateful regardless. I liked the pastry comparison in Yulia's story, however. It fits the vibe I was aiming for.

I hope your day is amazing, do please take care of yourself.