#like its the same set of clothes and colors but each of them would be slightly different yknow

[purplekonn]

OC KISS WEEK '25 (Belated)

I haven't written anything in literal years, and I've never posted any of it. So I've decided to dip my toe back in. Here's Neve/Kaspian Mercar(not Rook)/Beata de Riva (Rook) for my first and last OC Kiss week submission lol

Bea belongs to @hightowerqueen!

Rating: Mature, mild suggestive themes.

It had been an exceedingly rough year for the inhabitants of the lighthouse. The world had been saved, the day won, and the costs - oh, the costs - neatly packed away in tame little memorials. There had been the honoring ceremonies, a tour of nations awarding whatever prestigious title or honor was appropriate to each of the remaining members of the Veilguard. Then the remembrance, an awkwardly cheerful service dedicated to “those that had fallen.” Put on by the remnants of a Trevisan government, the words were shallow, and undeserving of the grand decorations and banquet set out. 

And then it had quieted. 

The tours stopped, the lights dimmed, the chorus was silent. What remained were the exhausted, poorly placated, and underfunded Veilguard. Though even they were incomplete. Oh, the costs. 

~~~~~

“Did you hear that?” Neve, clad in what Kaspian had come to call her “couldn’t care less” clothes, still dazzled the eye with a teal camisole and slightly oversized grey sweatpants that seemed to swallow her feet. 

“The screaming? I thought it was a little hard to miss.” Kaspian, shirtless as ever and sporting sweats that match the color of Neve’s cami, raised an eyebrow at his partner and tilted his head as if to listen harder. “Sounded like Bea.” He slid off the queen size mattress they had managed to squeeze into the detective's office and padded over barefoot to the door that would lead him out to the lighthouse courtyard. “From the kitchen.” Neve added with a small frown. 

“Lets go.” A simple nod followed her words, to which Kaspian responded with a mock salute and began searching for something a bit more appropriate to wear. 

The two exited Neves office moments later, Kaspian in a quarter zip sweater he liked to wear under his armor, and neve with her sceptre - just in case. Hurried steps took them the length of the courtyard and through the heavy wooden door to the dining room and kitchens. Upon first glance nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary, a dimming fire crackled in the fireplace, the lights in the dining room, magically one would assume, matching the soft glow. Seconds after entry, though, the pair could make out a soft and muffled sobbing echoing from the cracked door to the storage room. The warm light that spilled into the dining room through the crack let the two know where Beata would be. 

The two exchanged concerned glances, the same thought seemingly working its way through each of their minds, and Neve let out a low sigh as she leaned her sceptre by the door and made her way towards the storage room. Kaspian followed behind after closing the door to the courtyard and asking a wisp to keep people away from the building until they leave. 

Neve nudges the door open with her foot, the light spilling over the couples form as they both shuffled into the room. 

There at the far end of the long rectangular room was Beata “Rook” De Riva, crumpled in a pile of Hazelnuts and a bag each of sugar and baking powder. “Bea? Beata, darling, did you slip? What happened its hours from sun up.” Neve knelt next to her. Their history was deep and the bond they shared was unique - more similar to Kaspians bond with her than Bellara’s. Bea was the leader of the Veilguard, but beyond that she was one of Neve’s closest friends, and her former flame. ‘A decision needed to be made, I appreciate that. I just wish it had been a different one.’ Neve hadn’t been able to get over it as quickly as she thought, and decided she needed time before she could even consider what they could be. 

That hadn’t stopped Neve from loving Bea fiercely. When she met Kaspian, when Bea fell for Lucanis, they had shared nothing but love. When Bea had lost Lucanis, the months spent searching and waiting for Kaspian after he sacrificed himself to the fade prison in Bea’s stead, they had leaned on each other in ways they couldn’t do with any of the others. 

“It’s my fault.” Bea mumbled, tear streaks marking her flushed cheeks as slowly they ceased. She was covered in powder, hazelnuts adorned her hair. “Hey, everyone slips sometimes.” Kaspian told her gently. Bea glanced at Kaspian, his words and expression of genuine confusion and kindness seeming to fip some switch in her. Her once dull and tired eyes filled with the smallest amount of humor, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards despite themselves. “No, the torte.” Bea spoke with a subtle giggle, almost imperceptible, as she began wiping her eyes and drying her face. “He never got to make the Hazelnut Torte.” she finished as she brought her hands back to her lap. The light dimmed again, as she remembered why she had been crying to begin with. 

Neve threw a playful scowl at Kaspian who, to his credit, had the sense to look embarrassed. “Thats why youre in here covered in baking powder and hazelnuts.” Neve placed a hand atop Beas head and smoothed her hair down, knocking shells off of her as she did. Bea sniffed, “I was going to make it for him.” Her gorgeous brown eyes filled with tears again, threatening to spill over as she made eye contact with Neve. 

Crack.

The two look over to where the sound of an eggshell breaking came from. In the doorway Kaspian stood, shirtless, with a mixing bowl in one hand, and a split eggshell in the other. “Let’s get cooking, then.” His smile, warm and affectionate, dried the encroaching tears and set Bea to almost giggling again. “You just had to take your shirt off.” Neve drawled, hiding a laugh as she aided Bea to her feet. 

“How else will people know I’m ripped?” Kaspian called from the kitchen where he had already made his way back and had begun whisking the eggs. 

Bea and Neve glanced at each other and shared an eye roll and a heartfelt hand squeeze before linking arms and joining Kaspian. 

~~~~~

Hours later, after a moderately burned hazelnut torte had been shared with crew, after moderately too many glasses had been poured, the three sat, puddled on the long couch in the central room of the lighthouse. Long since left by their colleagues and companions, they teased, and laughed, and in general made merry. As the night wound down, and the yawning began, they began their goodbyes. 

“Thank you.” Bea said softly. She was unused to the kindness, even after so long. She didn't quite have the words to express what it had meant when the two of them had found her. Spiraling is easy. Imagining the what ifs, the why nots, the why hims. Far too easy. The pulling yourself out? The mending and the healing? She found it almost impossible. Gravity only works one way. 

“You are welcome, sweetness.” Neve and Kaspian stood, Kaspian stretching and yawning loudly before leaning down and placing a light kiss on Bea’s forehead. “Anytime, Trouble.” He slurred, still coherent, but certainly inebriated. Neve did much the same, though with less drama, and leaned in to brush her lips over Bea’s cheek. She held the other side of her face in her hand as she said, “If you ever find yourself looking for a different kind of pick me up, Kaspian is very eager to please, and you know I would take care of you.” 

Neve’s nose crinkled in that funny way of hers, a smirk plastered to her face as she pulled away from a blushing and flustered Bea. Bea watched the two circle their arms around each others waists, Kaspian throwing a wink over his shoulder, and begin the walk back to Neve’s office.

As the massive double doors swung shut and Bea was left to her thoughts, the heat in her cheeks only increased. She covered her mouth with her hand, looked all around her to ensure there were no late night wandering witnesses, and dashed off of the couch to follow the two. 

[dailydegurechaff]

Today's Daily Degurechaff is… sometimes I wish isekai quartet put them in cute uniforms

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[thomamaru]

Hierarchy of Intimacy (Chapter Nagi)

Synopsis: Nagi always thought it was a hassle when people in movies would sacrifice their time just to say goodbye to their loved ones. Who would risk all that just for 5 minutes for their partner? He would. (Risking everything just to see them, even if it was for 5 minutes)

Tags: Nagi Seishiro x gn!reader, fluff, nagi regretting his nonchalantness

Author notes: this is a series based on a trend of tiktok. characters that will be included is nagi, yukimiya, rin, chigiri, isagi, reo, kunigami, sae, and bachira. If you want to add a character, you can request with a prompt :)

The sound of the train's whistle echoed faintly in the distance, blending with the quiet hum of cicadas outside the open window.

You were kneeling on the floor of your bedroom, folding the last of your clothes into a suitcase. Each piece of fabric you packed carried a mix of nostalgia and bittersweet anticipation for the new life waiting for you in another state.

College, you told yourself. It was just a temporary move, seven months at most, yet it felt like the weight of a lifetime hung over your shoulders.

In contrast to your swirling emotions, Nagi Seishiro sat across the room in his usual spot on the couch, controller in hand, intensely focused on his game. His silver hair shimmered faintly in the sunlight, his usual casual slouch making him appear as relaxed as ever.

But it baffled you—this was Nagi. Your Nagi. The same clingy, sweet, sometimes overwhelmingly dependent boyfriend who would sulk if you so much as hung out with someone else for an afternoon.

Yet here he was, calm and collected, even as you prepared to leave.

You placed another neatly folded shirt into the suitcase and glanced over at him. "Sei, are you sure you'll be okay without me?"

"Mmm?" His reply came distractedly as he furiously mashed buttons, his avatar onscreen delivering a devastating combo.

"Seishiro," you called again, firmer this time, "I’m serious. You know you’ve got to take care of yourself, right? Proper meals, not just snacks. And remember to water the plants at least twice a week—oh, and don’t forget laundry days either. I already sorted the detergent by color for you."

Nagi spared you a brief glance from his game. “You’re acting like you’re leaving forever,” he mumbled, lips twitching slightly upward.

Before you could counter his teasing tone, he set down the controller, walked over, and leaned down to press a soft kiss against your forehead.

"Chill. I’ll survive," he said, his warm breath tickling your skin. He pulled away with a lazy smirk and flopped back onto the couch. "It’s only seven months, right? You’ll be back before I even notice.”

You sat there for a moment, pressing your fingers to the spot where his lips had just touched.

His response was as casual and predictable as always, but for some reason, it still made your heart flutter. A chuckle escaped your lips. “You’re hopeless, Sei.”

The day passed quickly, and soon, it was time to leave. Standing by the door with your suitcase in hand, you turned to face him. “I’ll call you when I get there, okay?”

“Mhm. I’ll be here,” he said, still glued to his game.

It hurt a little—his seemingly indifferent demeanor. But you brushed it off, smiled to yourself, and closed the door behind you. As you walked to the station, doubts began to creep in.

Could Nagi really live alone for seven months? Would he remember to eat, or would he just subsist on snacks? What if something happened and you weren’t there to help?

Still, you shook your head. I’m worrying too much, you told yourself. Nagi was a grown man. He could handle this. Probably.

---

The apartment door clicked shut, leaving an unsettling quiet in its wake.

Nagi sat motionless on the couch, his controller resting loosely in his hands. His eyes flicked over to the empty space near the door where your suitcase had been moments earlier.

The same spot where you’d stood, looking back at him one last time, smiling despite the worry etched across your face.

He sighed, leaning back, telling himself to brush it off. Seven months was nothing. He’d keep himself busy with games, sleep, and... well, whatever else there was to do. You’d come back before he knew it. Right?

Except, the silence hit harder than he’d expected. Without the faint shuffling of your packing, the apartment felt unnervingly still.

His gaze wandered across the room, landing on the things you’d left behind—a photo of the two of you on the shelf, your hoodie draped over the chair, a forgotten hair tie on the coffee table.

His chest tightened as a heavy realization crept over him. “You idiot,” he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

Why hadn’t he said anything more? Why hadn’t he stood up and at least walked you to the station? Why had he acted so nonchalant, like you leaving didn’t matter?

His mind replayed the moment he pressed that quick kiss to your forehead. It was supposed to be reassuring, casual—something to let you know he wasn’t worried.

But now? Now it felt like he’d let you walk out without really saying goodbye.

A pang of regret shot through him, sharp and suffocating. He’d always found goodbyes a hassle—so much drama and unnecessary energy. But this wasn’t just any goodbye. This was you. His everything.

In a rare burst of panic, Nagi shot up from the couch, throwing on the first jacket he saw. He slipped on his mismatched shoes in his rush, not even noticing as one foot found a sneaker and the other a slide sandal.

It didn’t matter. “I need to see her,” he whispered, slamming the door behind him.

---

The crisp air stung his lungs as he sprinted down the street, his legs moving faster than they ever had outside a soccer field. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly run like this—certainly not for a game.

His heart pounded, not just from the exertion, but from the fear clawing at him.

What if he didn’t make it in time? What if you got on the train and disappeared from his sight for the next seven months?

The thought made his chest ache. His messy hair bounced with each frantic step as he weaved through the light crowds, muttering apologies to startled pedestrians.

I should’ve hugged her longer. I should’ve walked her out, carried her suitcase even if it was a pain. Why didn’t I tell her that I’d miss her? That I already do?

For someone who often lived in the moment, Nagi now found himself consumed by what he hadn’t done.

He couldn’t help but replay the scene of you leaving over and over, each iteration stabbing him with regret.

When the train station finally came into view, he pushed himself harder, ignoring the burn in his legs.

His mismatched shoes made running awkward, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except finding you before it was too late.

By the time he burst onto the platform, he was out of breath, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. His wide eyes darted around, scanning every face in the crowd.

“Where is she...?” he muttered, his voice strained. His heart sank for a moment as he thought he might’ve been too late.

But then, his gaze landed on you, sitting by the edge of the platform, your suitcase next to you.

You were looking down at your phone, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside him.

Relief flooded his body, nearly making his legs give out. But he didn’t stop. With a renewed burst of energy, he called out, his voice louder than he thought possible.

“(Y/N)!”

Your head snapped up at the familiar voice, confusion etched across your face as you spotted him stumbling toward you.

His hair was disheveled, his jacket crooked, and his shoes hilariously mismatched. “Nagi?”

When he finally reached you, he doubled over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “You—” He gasped between breaths. “You left too soon.”

You tilted your head, still baffled. “Sei, what are you doing here? I thought you—”

Before you could finish, he straightened up, cupping your face in his hands.

The sheer desperation in his expression caught you off guard. His usual sleepy eyes were wide and filled with something raw—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and unsteady. “I should’ve walked you here. I should’ve... done more. I didn’t want to just sit there and let you leave like that.”

Your heart swelled at his rare display of emotion. “Seishiro…”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven. “I know it’s dumb. It’s only seven months. But I already miss you,” he admitted quietly.

Before you could respond, the speaker announcement echoed across the platform. “Final boarding for train 308.”

Your stomach twisted as the realization of your limited time together hit you. Still, you reached up, placing your hands over his. “I’ll miss you too,” you said softly.

He pulled back, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead. “Call me, okay?”

You nodded, forcing a smile as you grabbed your suitcase and stepped toward the train.

Nagi stood frozen on the platform, his mismatched shoes planted firmly as he watched you board.

As the train began to pull away, you looked out the window, waving at him. He stood there, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his usual calm exterior returned.

But as the train disappeared from view, he muttered to himself again, “This sucks.”

And for the first time in a long while, Nagi truly hated the distance between him and what mattered most.

(*＾3＾)/～☆

[refeverie]

only with you.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.7k

summary. non-sexual nudity & intimacy; body painting with flowers; recollection of past events (wanderer).

sumeru is a dualistic region. where knowledge and reincarnation richly seep through every concept there is, it would still not exist without any ignorance, nor destruction. one needs another to thrive. 

wanderer himself is a dual man—a human being without an organic heart yet a puppet with feelings. somebody, who had multiple names throughout. somebody, who once had a mother; friends. somebody, who was given a midway place in this world across his journey. as a wanderer, he is said to have no name, kin, or destination.

maybe there is a definite reason for him to spend the majority of his time in sumeru after all. as he originated from inazuma, a land of isolated eternity, spent years at the claws of the notorious nation of snezhnaya and—seeking his ascension to godhood, eventual prosperity, and validation at last—was forced into flimsy redemption in sumeru.

wanderer self-destructed his ignorance to reincarnate it as full of knowledge; to shape his existence anew. all of this for him to question himself and suffer the same.

the sacred tree of the world—irminsul—answered the questions he always sought and yet, he was betrayed once again. wisdom is a heavy burden with a great cost; it could be one’s demise. ignorance to him was, indeed, a bliss. as well as oblivion, which he was stripped of in a little of a while. 

since the day he had to relive his entire lifetime in a minute and earned an anemo vision in the process, the world around him changed. in fact, he met you, who made a significant change to his demeanor. wanderer may not be the best companion there is, however, you both always seek each other in a crowd. even if there is none of it.

the sunset is pretty today, you think as you immerse yourself up to the chin into the lukewarm water underneath the waterfall of gandharva ville. wanderer remained apart from you for a while. he was hesitant. he may have a synthetic body of a puppet, but being stark naked in front of you felt way too vulnerable by his nature. it felt like cutting himself open and letting himself go free.

he was never free to begin with. freedom to each is a different concept. the day the god of eternity sealed his power and hid him like a failure of hers, followed by letting him roam free, he chained his mind to different intentions of ei’s. he felt neglected and deprived of who he was meant to be—not knowing he was a mere prototype, never designed to hold and wield the electro gnosis; whose existence was about to be terminated right before they saw him cry in his sleep—rather than free.

he had no given name nor a home to get back to at the end of the day. so, naturally, when fatui took him under their wings, he felt that being the sixth seat was his rightful place. 

there were many kind people in his early ordinary days of learning how to be human between the time he was discarded and given the title of the balladeer. your way of carrying yourself immensely reminds him of them all. sometimes it can be agonizing to wanderer, but lovely just the same. he reacts to your eyes, inviting him to join you bathing in the stream while the sun slowly sets. 

erstwhile clear water, due to the reflection of the sky, is dyeing itself in colors of yellow, orange, violet, and pink. the river takes its appearance like the flower field around you at once. 

as wanderer takes his clothes off, he is quickly submerging himself into and under the water. it is shallow, so you can swiftly reach his side. you have qualms about whether he would let you come closer, despite that, you carefully stretch your hands towards his shoulders. you sit him up. he has a lot on his mind lately, thus, he lets you take care of him without thinking much. to tell the truth, he trusts you to a great extent, knowing you would catch him if he fell—literally and figuratively. 

you pluck a lone flower from the floral field. it is greenish blue, or rather turquoise, in color. one would rarely see it blossom. the color reminds you of wanderer’s tattoos’ when they glow with power.

you slowly trace them with luminous petals, so it leaves dye markings; barely visible, but you both know it’s there nevertheless. it is a silly activity yet remarkably intimate for either. he does not feel skin contact the same as everyone else, regardless, he gets chills from your delicate brushes.

somehow you do not care about him being born unhuman at all. maybe because in your mind he is the most human one could be—cruel and all the things beautiful at the same time; imperfect. 

you offer him another flower of your favorite color, for him to paint on your bare body as well. he is skeptical, however, it takes only a moment to engage in the act. you shiver every time he tries touching you softly. neither of you talk. 

you warily touch his face then. the pink rose in your frail grip is kissing his cheeks, and nose, consciously avoiding his pursed lips as well as eyes, which are dyed burgundy anyways. the color was indeed deliberately chosen to imitate a blush of sorts. you thought it was cute. 

he is feeling your skin alongside, attentively selecting parts of your body you would be fine with; giving your consent to. it does vary how you react.

you reach for his chest subsequently, holding a flower of opaque red. you are faltering while drawing something. at that moment, he stops his own tracery and retracts his arm further from you; stays still. you painted a little heart on his chest. likewise, you keep looking at it in silence, smiling. 

it was a heart he was able to call his own. 

he remembers. puppet he is, abandoned by the almighty shogun for being overly human, but used as a tool by fatui ever since. in no way they saw a human—whereas he could not die and had an empty space of a heart. how can one be a human being without a heart? his existence contradicted itself in that sense.

as a harbinger, did he become more human then? when a tainted heart he got from the doctor saved him, it was offered to him in the form of the ashes to have in that empty shell of a place. at first, he did not know it was niwa's; that same withered one he discarded after condemning the entire incident as his second betrayal of cruel mankind nature. a human heart he yearns for is not worth the pain of another person’s death. 

afterward, he sought a gnosis to take that place instead. his luck was one of a kind really. the contentment he became so familiar with, was short-lived in the end. it was not a real heart anyhow. can the anemo vision he recently acquired serve as his vital core replacement?

each time he came into possession of a fill-in for a heart, someone else had to suffer. merely this time, he actually felt you blessed him with a heart he could be endowed without any anguish. he put his singular hand up to his chest and held it pressed. he was fond of his ephemeral heart. 

you slowly but surely grasp his fingers. the puppet joints over the years looked almost seamless. it evidently looked human-like. you cautiously brush your lips against his knuckles, meeting his violet-blue eyes. do they twinkle—was it mirroring the stirring water on second thought? 

promptly, the serene moment of yours is interfered. you turn your head to unfamiliar hushed tones and humming. there pop up a few heads of plant-like forest spirits. you notice wanderer is gifted to see them as well. 

aranaras are critters, only to be seen by trustworthy dreamers of pure and kind hearts. it is a mystery really—wanderer’s ability to spot them. is he, not a doll without a heart; can he be regarded as good-natured; is he to be trusted… he is not a child either (but acting like one every once in a while). 

thereafter, wanderer stretches his hand toward a bright blue-colored creature, holding a yellow poppy. flowers help aranaras remember their friends whenever they meet. besides, they gain power from memories. do the spirits of sumeru forests lay hold of dreadful recollections as well? wanderer is brimful of them. 

after a while, wanderer looks in your direction. he is deep in thought at the moment, pondering who exactly he is. he does understand the concept of being human pretty well, yet he does have uncertainties about whether he can call himself one, partially at least. he did give up trying to be human in the distant past, though, he had experienced pieces of being human underway—having emotions, enduring pain, having a heart of some form, a place to live, a region to serve, people he called family, and a name. 

truthfully, he had a myriad of names; words he was called by others. he never deemed them his names frankly. nonetheless, he loved himself as kabukimono—the dolly wandering eccentric, perceived as naive and peculiar. deep inside he knows he did not stray far from his roots, it was simply eclipsed by the wounds of his past. 

he did name himself kunikuzushi, the world-destroyer once. alongside was given titles of the balladeer and scaramouche. it should be mentioned that whilst no man on teyvat recalls it being him—he was formerly known as the everlasting lord of arcane wisdom; shouki no kami, the prodigal, too. 

attempting erasure of himself, including rectifying past events that his existence, and rage-driven deeds caused, wanderer reincarnated into someone as curious as the young kabukimono. he opted for calling himself a wanderer. was he an eccentric one this time on top of that? at the end of the day, it all comes full circle. 

at present, he does go by a freshly given name, restraining himself with a new psyche all while making an effort to atone for his sins. he accepted his birth, not to mention, the entirety of his past. 

he looks all around his own porcelain-like skin, currently dyed with multiple colors. it tugs at his heartstrings. he does glance at your body then, admiring the art, positioned in front—meaning you, not the mindless drawings of flowers’ pigments on your figure. 

hence, he finally feels like he has reached the promised divinity. only whenever he is with you.

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one. 

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can. 

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father. 

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you. 

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before. 

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone? 

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well. 

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the  little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners  as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf. 

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ? 

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside. 

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality. 

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids. 

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour. 

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered. 

These answers, these excuses. 

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart. 

Why? 

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away. 

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him. 

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers. 

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck. 

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did. 

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck. 

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him. 

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you. 

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper. 

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same. 

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening. 

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon. 

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up. 

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

.

.

.

Little gremlins.

────────────────────

Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

[mesopotamism]

Carve (Choi Su Bong AKA Thanos x Reader)

You never expected to see him again – but if it had to happen, you never expected it to be here. (PREVIOUS FRIENDS -> STRANGERS/ONE-SIDED ENEMIES -> FRIENDS AGAIN -> LOVERS)

tw: mentions of blood, a knife, hospitals, references to mental illness, mentions of psychiatric care, mentions of non prescription meds LOL, metaphor of an injury, it’s set in squid games so that is kinda expected.

(WHERE ARE MY FREAK NASTY TOUCH STARVED BITCHES. MENTALLY ILL POS DRUGGIE LOVERS RISEEEEE)

Chapter 1: 2.6k words

The stinging, antibacterial smell of tile was something you were all too used to. You couldn’t even find it in you to feel surprised, at first, waking up in that godforsaken room; encased by beds all around you, the walls a white and green pattern that was far too cheerful for the situation.

Even here, with all these other losers, you scoffed at their stupidity as they stood, looking around in shock. Anyone who thought that signing up for an undisclosed game for money was going to put them in a safe situation is deluded, you thought. Anyone who didn’t feel a sense of dread upon seeing the gray van pull up to the meeting point, in the dark, alone, their breath freezing in the air…was an idiot.

The same numb feeling encased you now, seeing that your clothes had been stripped of you and replaced, along with your belongings, as it had encased you when you saw the narcoleptic gas billowing from the car vents last night. Maybe it was the all-too-sterile environment around you that comforted you, knowing that blood had been spilt already, and you would not be the first. All in all; you weren’t surprised by anything that had happened in the last 24 hours. Playing stupid games, winning stupid prizes, it all didn’t matter when the only other alternative was to end it all.

Curiosity pricked your mind, however, when personnel emerged, wearing masks, each adorned with a shape. The shapes differed – some had a triangle, some a square – but all of them wore the same, uniform, pink tracksuit.

You climbed down from the bunk bed, eyes squinting from the light bouncing intensely off the bright white and green walls. You knew you should focus on the personnel, but their pink clothes hurt your eyes the worst. Everything was in too much color.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome,” the front guard, wearing a square mask, began. As he tried to begin, shouts of dissent erupted from the crowd.

“Hey, where are my clothes?”

“Did you drug us? In that van?!”

“Where are our phones? I need to text my parents - they don’t know I’m here…”

If you have a family, why be here? Why resort to something as hopeless as this? You thought. You focused on the ground, trying to avoid the color bursting from around you - but even your sneakers were squeaky white and clean.

Out of the sea of people, a complaint stood out to you from them all.

“What about my shoes? Those were limited fucking edition!”

For the first time, from the time you were smacked in the face by a man in a suit who offered you money to play a children’s game, to being drugged in a van and waking up in this sterile bell-jar, a shudder of shock ran down your body, freezing to the bottom of your spine.

“All of your belongings are being kept safely. They will be returned to you once the games are over.”

“And what if something happens to them, huh?! You gonna pay for them?”

“Like I said, all belongings, including clothes, shoes, electronics, and anything else, will be returned after the games.”

“You motherf—”

The screen above the guard flashed to life, showing a video clip of that violet-haired idiot staring at the screen with challenge flashing in his eyes, taking a hit from his blue and yellow vape.

It really was him.

“--Player 230, Choi Su-Bong, debt of 1.9 billion won.”

Your shock had faded slightly from that point, and resignation had taken its place. It was unlikely to see him here, but yes – very like him to do. That fucking idiot.

“Kim Hyun Ju, debt of 1.2 billion won. Kang Mi-na, debt of 850 million won.”

As the guard continued to name and berate each person who had spoken up, you turned your head in the direction of where that idiots’ shout had come from.

A shock of violet carved into your vision through the sea of brown and black hair. You couldn’t help it - you stared. Even after being humiliated, his eyebrows raised sharply in challenge, his lips somewhere between a pout and a grimace, like a petulant child. His hand messed absently with the zipper at the top of his green tracksuit, and – as if the amount of color wasn’t enough – his nails were painted an array of bright colors.

You studied his hand as it twitched absently on the zipper. You could recognize his hands just as easily as his face. They were hard to miss, as he never talked without waving them around in ridiculous, emphatic expressions, or without holding a substance to his mouth. The vein that trailed up the back of his right hand disappeared into the green cuff of his jacket, and you knew – you could picture – where it continued to go, and where it ended, under the fabric.

His hand stilled. You shifted your gaze back up to his face, to find him looking back at you.

You fixed your expression into one of indifference as fast as possible, but you knew your eyes had given you away. You turned your eyes back to the front as naturally as possible, forcing your neck to slow the movement and appear natural. Your heart rate raised slightly, and you knew Su-bong too well to doubt that his eyes were definitely burning through the back of your head.

The guard began to talk about the games themselves, drawing your attention back to the front. The guards ordered people into lines to sign the consent forms, and you shifted idly to your right to suit a line. As you crept up to the front, you saw out of the corner of your eye the same unkempt violet hair swaggering to the front of the line, as player 124 grabbed player 333 by the shoulder next to him.

“The amazing Myung-gi from MG Coin? Right?” 124 spoke.

“...Who are you?” you heard 333 ask him nervously.

“You may not know me, but I know you, MG Coin,” Thanos spoke up. “I was subscribed to your channel.”

You can see Su-Bong shift closer to 333, who backs nervously away by a step.

“And I lost a shitload of money, asshole,” Thanos’ voice drops as he sidles closer to 333.

“As did I,” 124 chimed in.

You couldn’t help but have the edge of your mouth quirk up a bit. It made complete sense that Thanos would lose everything to something as brainless as a crypto scam. At least he wasn’t the only one – his new groupie was now eyeing the scammer with the same predatory smile.

“...You’ve got the wrong person,” 333 responded unconvincingly, trying to walk past them. Thanos pressed a large hand firmly to 333’s shoulder, holding him in place.

Good fucking luck, dude, you thought out to the scammer – player 333. Not only was he the smallest of the three, but it was clear from Su-bong’s body language that he was still as apt to pick a fight as he used to be. In highschool and college, he only ever won fights more than half the time – and usually, that had been from enlisting more groupies, as player 124 had turned into now – but whether he lost or won, he never lost the pettiness and gall needed to elicit one.

“I watched your content all day, every day,” Thanos continued. “Now I even see you in my dreams, motherfucker.”

He set his elbow on 124’s shoulder.

“Your name is Nam-su, right?”

“-Gyu, Nam-gyu, remember? From Club Pentagon.”

“Ah, right, right,” Su-bong responded airily.

You jerked your attention from them, read the consent form diligently, and quickly marked your name. Forcing your head away from the child’s fight Thanos was picking, you hung at the back of the room, waiting for new directions. You thought about how he had met your eyes earlier, and couldn’t help the stab of bitterness you felt that he hadn’t indicated his recognition since.

You took a deep breath of the sterilized air, and closed your eyes. For a second, you were happy to imagine yourself back between those white walls, the beeping of machines, the creak of those old hospital doors opening and shutting. When you wiggled your toes, you could almost imagine the feel of the tile on your sock-clad feet. The only sort of freedom you got in a place like that – to walk around in just socks.

“Señorita, excuse me,”

Your head snapped up, meeting his eyes. Close. He was so colorful, and so close. He raised his hands to his chest, pressing his palms against himself.

“Not gonna say hi?”

“You didn’t,” you reply as evenly as possible. He hadn’t really done anything, and he already felt like a thorn lodged under your skin.

He scoffed, switching back to Korean, his voice taking on his usual air of petulance.

“Hey, you saw me first. You were watching me pretty hard…” he dipped his voice, and you made yourself stay still as he leaned closer. The scent of his body hit you like a ton of bricks, carved through you like glass. Just how it used to be. The faint, sour scent of man-made stimulants and hallucinogens. A cologne far too macho and expensive for his style, or his bank account. Coupled with the perfumed smell of hair product, he travelled coolly through your sinuses, filling your head with the heady scent of him, him, him.

“It’s hard to miss you with that nauseating fucking dye job,” you say bitterly, and he laughs.

“Wow, so mean,” he says, clutching his chest and bending his knees so his face is level with yours. “You’re not still hung up on-”

“--Attention, players. Please line up and follow the path into the hallway as marked. Player identity photos will be taken before the first game begins.”

You brush past him, clipping him with your shoulder as you do so. You hear player 124 ask him a question, but if Thanos responds, you don’t hear. You file into the middle of the line, away from the way he overwhelmed every sense you had.

…….

The hallways were even worse than the dorm. You reminded yourself to feel grateful for the white linoleum when you went back later as you messed with the end of your braid. As you observed everyone lining up to take their photos in a line of booths, commotion and grumblings of discomfort arised from over your right shoulder. You turned your head to see Thanos and Nam-gyu pushing their way ahead in line.

He stopped when he pushed far enough to be in line with you, rolling his shoulders back as he swaggered. You saw him look at you from your periphery – you could even see his jaw work and roll. God knows how much dental work he’s gotten from substance abuse at this point. His underbite was definitely slightly worse than you remember. You ignored his gaze.

“What’s going on with you? No hello for your old frie-”

A lanky, sharp-featured man appeared from a line over from Su-bong, peeking over his shoulder.

“You’re Thanos, the rapper,” the man said lowly. Thanos looked him up and down in surprise.

“Oh, shit!” the man said in surprise, bursting into one of Thanos’ verses. He pointed at Thanos knowingly. “The runner up from the Rap Battleground Final!”

Thanos’ expression turned to face forward, closing off from you. As everyone shuffled forward in line, you stole a glance at him. His expression was pained, distant.

The man persisted. “I’m Gyeong-su, big fan. I’ve been to several of your concerts, please take a picture with me…” the man begged quickly as Thanos started to step towards the photo booth. Many other people felt comfortable approaching after Gyeong-su had, and they chimed in.

“Me too!”

“Me too, please!”

It didn’t take any sort of feat to see the way Su-bong’s expression brightened with confidence and ego, but it made your heart twist all the same, seeing him try to fix his face and pretend to be irritated by their request instead of elated. It reminded you of who he was before, when he’d been himself, not this caricature of Su-Bong – Thanos – standing before you.

Nevertheless, nostalgia hit you seeing him not-so-humbly accept a photo with the players, and you felt faint surprise at how many people continued to push past you to join in, even more that young adults still remembered who this washed-up rapper was.

Suddenly, Su-bong’s head turned, his cool brown eyes meeting yours. He extracted his hand from the herd of crowded bodies, beckoning towards you with two fingers curling towards himself. He jerked his head to the space next to him.

“Hey, I don’t mind having one more person.”

You raised your eyebrow in slight offense.

“Come on,” he encouraged again in English, turning his fingers up and back to the floor, as if he expected you to comply with ease.

A ding sounded from in front of you, and you released the end of your braid, turning to see a guard beckoning you in to take your photo. You rolled your eyes at Thanos’ offer and walked into the booth, missing his slightly deflated expression. As you emerged a moment later, you caught the end of 124 ushering the other players away from the rejected photo, just soon enough to catch Thanos raising his hands to flip off the camera. The way his lip curled was so reminiscent of his stage mannerisms, you had to look away.

Was it bad, you thought to yourself, that he was throwing you off more than the scent of antibacterial liquid masking blood had in that dormitory? That his voice set you more at unease than the modulated ones behind masks? Or was it simply your body adjusting to the whiplash that was experiencing someone again that once had been normal, and yet had long ceased to be?

“I’ve got five days to bother you, I’ll get you to talk,” he commented as he sidled up to you, running his palms over the flat sides of his bright hair. You glanced up, catching his profile as he fell into step with you. For once, he didn’t turn to face you, instead pretending to be fixated on seeing what lay ahead in the hallway. Although, he didn’t need to look back at you; the sight of his upturned smirk told you enough. It nauseated you. Or, maybe it was just the sickening amount of color and detail about him that sickened you. His violet fucking hair, spiked like he’d rolled out of bed – the thick black tattoo that ran from his neck, to his hand, and disappeared down his back – his fingernails, painted neon, individually, with care – that heady scent of powdered drugs and rich cologne – even his pooling brown eyes that threatened to fool you, weaken you. If anyone was to make someone feel sick through experience alone, it’d be him, you thought bitterly. He cut through reason like a knife, and carved his name on you like he deserved to own everything. After all of these years, you felt him again, in the last place you wanted. Running a blade over the long-faded scars of where his name was once etched into your traitorous, weak soul.

(I’ve written fics for YEARS but never posted on tumblr! Sorry the format is jank - but if literally one person reads this I’ll die happy. THANKS LOVE Y’ALL)

[42ap]

I remember that day when we arrived at the beach—it was already too late. Everyone had left, leaving behind only the remnants of fireworks scattered across the sand. Colorful confetti, soaked by the sea, made the advertising print on them nearly illegible. Among shards of broken colored glass and seaweed, you found an already opened condom wrapper in the muck and excitedly pointed it out to me, while I felt nothing but disgust.

At the time, I didn’t love this filthy backyard excuse for a scenic spot. I hated how dull, backward, and utterly empty it was. I especially despised how other small-town residents saw it as some romantic haven, drawing teenagers who wandered the damp sand like pilgrims. They’d come meticulously dressed, as if convinced their destined love would emerge from the sea, birthed into the arms of a lonely soul like a newborn from its mother’s amniotic fluid. But this was the 1970s—the moon was already covered in steel machines. Even Venus ought to emerge from a delivery room by now. The beach was no place for romantic miracles.

You nudged me and told me to take off my shoes. I didn’t. You burst into laughter and, with no regard for the risk of being cut by glass, walked barefoot onto the damp sand. I watched your feet, but you didn’t step on anything—not glass, not anything else. You kept walking into the sea, farther and farther, fading into the growing darkness. Soon, I could barely make out your figure in the vast, dark ocean. Then you stopped, raised your arms, and shouted toward the opposite shore, your voice swallowed at the edges by the white noise of the waves. You sounded happy.

When you came back, you said, disappointed, that you hadn’t expected everyone else to leave so early. You strained your eyes toward the other side but saw nothing—not even the lights of New York. Because it’s already four in the morning, I said, swallowing the second half of my sentence. We were late because I wouldn’t leave the house until I finished an assignment I was deeply invested in at the time. You never interrupted my studies.

We leaned against the car, watching sparks crawl along the fuses of the fireworks you’d set up, and you cracked open a can of beer. I declined when you offered me one, immediately regretting it. The fuse took far too long to ignite the firework. I had nothing to do but look around and again caught sight of the torn condom wrapper. Not long ago, someone had made love here, I thought. Then you moved.

We were standing so close that I could feel your body heat in the gaps between the sea breeze. Someone had made love here, right on this beach, and now we stood on the very same sand where they had.

The firework exploded—yellow and orange. You shouted in excitement, but I was lost in thoughts of what happens when people make love. They take off their clothes. They touch each other. They whisper sweet words. Smoke rolled up from the firework casing as I turned to look at your face, bathed in orange-red light. Then, with a jolt of horror, I realized that lovers also kiss on this beach.

As the yellow sparks faded, they turned the color of calcium chloride. The purple ones, I thought, must be from strontium salts and copper chloride. These burning metal salts streaked through the air, their brilliant colors dyeing the smoke that trailed behind them. I tilted my head and lowered my gaze, pretending to examine the firework casing but really sneaking glances at your face from the corner of my eye, trying to study the shape of human lips.

Kissing. I thought about the word. I didn’t know how to French kiss, but at that moment, I knew nothing could stop me from leaning forward and pressing my lips to yours. A chill ran down my spine.

I asked myself why I would think such a thing, but a more terrifying voice asked why I wouldn’t. Maybe it was a kind of high-place phenomenon, like wondering whether touching the firework would hurt. I wanted to know what it felt like to jump from a great height, to drink sulfuric acid, to press a blade hard enough to slice my finger open, to walk into the sea and let myself be submerged. I wanted to know what would happen if I kissed you. It was all just idle thoughts, but in that moment, I felt dizzy, hyperaware of every part of my body as though I might forget to breathe if I didn’t focus.

I started to feel trapped inside my own small body. I thought I saw you glance at me, and I was terrified you might know. I was even more terrified that you didn’t, because that would mean we weren’t close enough.

I wondered what excuses I could use if I did it, and that thought pained me because I wanted to be honest with you. Sitting beside you on that New Year’s night, watching the fireworks turn purple, all I could think about was how intensely I felt that if I didn’t kiss you at that moment I might die,I would never have another chance. Summoning all my courage, I finally turned to look at you, overwhelmed by thoughts and realizing I might start vomiting if I didn’t speak. Just then, you turned to look at me too. In your eyes, I saw the reflection of the fireworks.

You said, “After we finish the fireworks, can we go to my friend’s house and watch a movie? There’ll be a bunch of people—it’ll be fun.”

I said, “Sure.”

We finished setting off all the fireworks we had. It was fun. We even tried to use the fireworks to light the surface of the sea. On the way back, we saw other people—they had just gone elsewhere to hang out. You stroked the steering wheel, musing about how great the car’s engine was, and that was the first time in my life I felt shame.

[wrioreid]

| Valentine's Day | spencer reid x reader

You and Spencer have plans to celebrate your first Valentine's Day together.

Warnings: fluff, slight angst?, indefinite season, some references to the series, without a definite pronoun I think?, lots of rambling.

Author's note: Hello, happy Valentine's Day! The day is literally over, but I only managed to post now :c I really wanted to write something involving my pookie and rewatching some episodes I had some ideas to put in the fanfic. Sorry if any part was confusing or doesn't make sense, I swear I tried!! Anyway, I hope it's fun to read!

The simple drops of icy water that fell calmly from the tree branches contrasted completely with the warm feeling emanating from the couples walking around there. Couples, lovers, families, friends. The street was full of people who were overflowing with love for each other, and you watched them solemnly while leaning your back against the icy wall of some random store. Not even a morning of persistent rain and unpleasantly below-par temperatures could spoil the romantic atmosphere and prevent people from loving each other.

It was February 14th, Valentine's Day. Or rather, your first Valentine's Day with someone. It was late afternoon and the rain had stopped, leaving only small drops of water as a reminder. The temperature continued, but nothing that good layers of clothing and a warm love couldn't solve.

You were waiting for Spencer. You had started dating the previous year, after February, so this was the first time you would celebrate this day together. In fact, neither of them cared about the date. You could even hear his skeptical voice again, talking about how this celebration made no sense and that it stopped being a proof of unconditional love a long time ago. On the other hand, you had never cared about the date because you had never had someone special enough to show that you were still made of love. Now that you had someone, you wanted to make the date unique.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, remembering how Spencer looked when you answered him saying that you had the desire to experience the magic of the day at least once. Not shocked, not surprised, but hopeful. The “Me too” that he whispered uncertainly like a secret being eternally kept in your mind. After that day, you started planning how you would spend the celebration, the millions of colored papers full of ideas - and dreams - scattered on the floor of his house being a warm memory in your mind.

But even though the plans were set a few good weeks ago, you - and neither he - could control your nervousness when today finally arrived. Even when you were walking together a few hours ago - him accompanying you to your house as he always did at least once a week - you couldn't hold a decent conversation. There was barely a goodbye, just you running inside the house to get ready and him running to his house to do the same. Now there you were, playing with a small puddle of water in front of you with the boot you had specially chosen while you waited for Spencer to arrive.

It wasn't like him to be late at all, and it was starting to get difficult to control your anxiety. Maybe he gave up. Maybe he realized it was something silly and irrational to celebrate. There were millions of thoughts battling against the small memory of the genuine smile he let out every time he read the post-its with the ideas for the long-awaited day.

Despite his confession when the subject came up, you had never actually talked about Valentine's Day before, much less if he had ever celebrated it. You knew that Spencer had already been in relationships with a few other people before, but you deduced that he had never celebrated the day, probably because he let reason take over, as always. However, deep down, you couldn't help but think that it was because he never allowed himself to celebrate, the idea that he was incapable of being loved rooted in his mind.

You felt pain in your heart, almost like a heart attack, when your relationship grew deeper and you would notice with each encounter these small - big - scratches that he had on his soul. Someone who would like to be seen as normal, to be perceived as someone capable of loving and being loved.

So, you take a deep breath and let the bad thoughts go away. Deep down, this is also his wish, and you accept this fact. You push yourself away from the wall, determined to find a better and more visible spot to make it easier for him. However, you didn't count on finding him standing in front of you when you stopped looking at the floor. And damn, he looked stunning.

His soft and tidy hair, his untidy white t-shirt, the wine-colored cardigan on top showing off his crooked black tie, his slightly wrinkled dress pants quickly revealing the pair of mismatched socks. All of this being soaked up by the dark gray overcoat and the purple scarf. There was literally nothing different about his style, but at the same time there was everything. Maybe it wasn't anything different physically, but whatever it was, was enough to make the thoughts that tormented you before seem like nothing more than a small fraction of an unknown nightmare now.

Spencer clears his throat, trying to bring your attention back to the real world. You can't tell if he's blushing because of the cold or because he's been stared at so intensely, but either way, it's cute. "Sorry I'm late," he says quietly, even though no one else can hear.

"It's okay, we'll still be a few minutes early." You smile playfully and awkwardly stand next to him, ready to go to the first attraction of the day. After millions of desires were buried by a job that took up too much of your time, the final decision was a traditional Valentine's Day schedule so that you could enjoy all the romantic experiences that couples usually have - as much as possible. The first stop would be at a small local theater to watch Romeo and Juliet. Afterwards, you would enjoy a beautiful romantic dinner at a special place, and by that you mean that you would have dinner at Spencer's house. And then, he would walk you home. It sounds simple, but it was more than perfect.

Despite your movement, Reid doesn't move. He looks at you with a tight-lipped smile as he unrolls a black and white fabric from his messenger bag. You hadn't realized it was there and before you know it, he's lovingly wrapping the scarf around your neck.

"I knew you'd forget," he whispers, smiling like a child who's been naughty. You use the scarf as a shield to hide your flushed cheeks, starting to walk quickly after whispering a thank you. The smell of freshly washed clothes with a hint of fresh vanilla is the only thing you can smell now, intoxicating you like a drink.

However, it's not enough to make you not notice the awkward silence between you. You've known each other for a long time and talk a lot, but the idea of ​​something new, a unique - and secret, in a way - celebration between the two of you was too much for both. You snuggle even closer into the scarf and slide your hand closer to his, your pinkies touching. You notice him looking at you from the corner of his eye, a look full of secrets for the others, but not for you. Calmly, he intertwines his fingers with yours, you now walking hand in hand and both of you smiling foolishly behind the scarf.

The play's performance was interesting, but it was hard to concentrate on it while Spencer made several dissatisfied expressions beside you. "It's almost revolting how a play about young love, family rivalry and lack of communication turned into a mere sad story about love at first sight. And I haven't even talked about the imaginary balcony yet!" It was the last thing he said after you left the theater and started walking towards his apartment, distractedly engaging in other matters.

“You can’t deny it, Spence,” you laugh out loud, smiling at his pouting face. “Love moves worlds!”

“It changes realities, that’s what it does,” he mutters, looking irritated, but a playful smile plays on his lips. “A tribute to a bishop who went against an emperor turned into a celebration of love with an exchange of gifts and declarations just because they decided to combine love and romance! And it makes much more sense for the celebration to exist because this is the first day of mating for birds. It’s the order of life!”

“Of course, it makes much more sense for men to leave love messages on their loved ones’ doors because the birds are procreating,” you giggle. “I think I’m talking to the reincarnation of Claudius II and I didn’t know it.” You joke, having even more fun when you notice Spencer pondering his words for a few moments, a furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Technically, men who have nothing to lose are better at war than those who have love,” he pauses, now speaking again with a mischievous smile, “For example, I worked much better before I met you.”

You stop walking, shock written all over your face as you stare at him in disbelief. Spencer laughs, stretching one of his hands to intertwine them. He gently kisses the top of your hand. “Contrary to statistics and facts, I have been working better since we met and you know that very well,” he whispers, still with your hand close to his mouth, his lips brushing against your skin with each movement. You turn your face away, still angry, but taking the opportunity to control the immense urge to kiss him.

However, the whole act ends when you feel something different in your hand - the same one he was holding until just now. You turn your head quickly only to notice the beautiful red rose that magically rested in your hand, its scent so present that even from that distance you could smell it. Paralyzed, you stare at Spencer, mouth open, not knowing what to do. He stares back at you with a smile from ear to ear, his nose red from the cold.

“As someone told me the other day,” he says calmly and amusedly, “It’s worth ignoring the hype, the advertising and the high prices for someone special.”

You can barely react. Twirling the rose between your thumb and index finger, the only thing you can do is control the tears that are welling up in your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve received a flower so full of feelings from someone. A single, simple flower, but it was worth more than an entire field. Spencer calmly waits for you to recover, tenderness sparkling in his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” you manage to whisper, hugging the flower gently so as not to ruin it or hurt yourself, despite your clothes. “H-How? Since when?”

He shrugs, reaching for your hand again and intertwining it with his, putting both in the pocket of his overcoat as he walks on again. “A magician doesn’t reveal his secrets… and he always has tricks up his sleeve.” He lets a sentence hang in the air, more mysterious than it should be. You stare at him, waiting for him to continue, but you only get a pat on the hand.

The rest of the way was calm and quiet, but comfortable enough for you to process everything, your eyes never leaving the delicate flower resting on your chest. When you arrive at the apartment, you can't help but notice how much - more than ever - this place made you feel like home.

A small smile escapes your lips as Spencer offers to help you remove and put away your coat and scarf. He removes his own scarf and coat as well and offers to put your rose in a container of water so it doesn't die. You hand it to him and as he disappears into the kitchen, you wander through the rows and rows of books, stopping when you notice that the chess pieces were not on the usual table, the moonlight coming through the window and illuminating only the chess board.

"I couldn't think of a better place," you hear Spencer say before looking in your direction, noticing the beautiful vase with several roses that he held in one hand and the tablecloth that he held in the other. He lovingly hands you the jar, smiling softly “I tried to put them all in my bag, but it was a bad idea, so they were waiting for you” he laughs embarrassedly as he arranges the tablecloth on the table.

You smile from ear to ear, enchanted by the beauty of the flowers, and place the vase in the center of the table so you can help him set up the rest of the romantic dinner. When everything was finished, you stop for a few moments to appreciate it and can't help but smile when your gaze lingers between the two chairs. As your relationship with Spencer deepened, a second chair began to appear frequently at the chess table, a sweet reminder of all the times you played there - and that, now, was even part of the scenery in his apartment -.

You sit there, smiling amusedly when Spencer reappears with a lit candle in his hand. "Waiter, please" you joke. He looks at you with arched eyebrows, carefully placing the candle next to the flowers. "On average, more than 7,000 candle fires happen here in the country each year".

You laugh nasally, fascinated by the moment "Thank you, Spence… I don't even know what to say. Everything is so… right, so romantic".

“It’s the least I could do and… I actually wish I had cooked, but time…” he scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“It’s perfect, seriously. Next time we’ll cook together and you’ll see my culinary skills,” you say, making a silly smile appear on his face as he nods positively.

You eat and talk calmly for a long time, enjoying each other’s company. When darkness already dominates the streets, you realize it’s time to end the night. After helping Spencer put things back in their proper places, you pause in the middle of the room on your way out, pondering what to do. It was still Valentine’s Day and you hadn’t kissed.

However, in these last moments, Spencer seemed more spaced out and lost in his own thoughts, probably overwhelmed by the emotions of the day. You feel bad for a moment, wondering if you hadn’t forced it too much with him. So, you choose to quickly grab your flowers and your coat, your little goodbye speech already on the tip of your tongue.

“Wait,” Spencer, who was standing there watching you get ready, spoke hurriedly and, after making sure you weren’t leaving yet, disappeared into his room, returning moments later hugging an object to his chest. He walked until he was close to you, but never stopped looking at what he had in his arms. Looking closely now, you noticed that it was a somewhat old book, with some obvious marks on the cover and spine.

Spencer opened and closed his mouth several times, but unable to say anything, he just handed the book to you. Parlement of Foules was printed in large letters.

“T-This is considered the first Valentine’s Day poem,” he said uncertainly, his tone lower than normal, as if he wasn’t talking to you. “For this was on St. Valentine’s Day, when every fowl comes there his mate to take… is a 700-line poem that follows the tradition of dream vision poetry, a medieval literary style, and Chaucer uses it to discuss romantic love and freedom of choice… my mother read it to me when I was a child” he finishes in a whisper so low that you doubt if you heard it right. You press the book against your fingers, understanding the weight that it implied.

Spencer bites his lip, but resumes speaking, now with a more confident tone “It was a poem that stuck in my memory, more than any other and… given today’s date I would like it… to become important to you too. It’s the second copy my mother had in case something happened to the first one… but nothing ever happened and well… one copy is enough for me” he smiles embarrassedly, scratching the back of his neck “I-I left some notes throughout the book, too, so you would always feel accompanied while reading and… well, know my opinions about it”

“Couldn’t you read it to me too?” The question escapes your lips, your eyes glazed over the book as you caress the cover with interest.

Spencer is taken aback by the question, but a small smile plays on his lips. “I could too, of course” he paused again, now looking at you expectantly “There’s one more thing in there…”

You press your lips together and stare at him. Passion, surprise, affection… you felt so many things in that moment that not even the cold wind outside could cool the warmth that permeates your heart. You delicately open the book, noticing a writing on the title page. It was in pencil, and the marks from previous attempts were still there as if they were telling you a secret, but they didn’t get in the way of reading the large, hurried letters.

You can only teach a child to love by loving them. Johann Goethe, From your Spencer

A small drop falls onto the page, briefly staining the paper. You then realize that tears are streaming down your face, even though a tender smile has not left your lips. Spencer comes even closer, taking the book from your hand so he can hold it in his. With his other hand, he slowly passes it over your face, wiping away the small drops that insisted on running down.

“The whole discussion of the poem revolves around love… whether people are destined to be together or whether they have the right to choose, whether by passion, affinity or social conventions.” He speaks delicately, never taking his eyes off you. “Love is everyone’s final destiny, but it is a complex, free and uncertain process that, honestly, is still the action of hormones and neurotransmitters…” He bites his lips, quickly looking away to look at you again, determined. “But even so, even though it is not destiny… I firmly believe and I am more than happy to know that I made all the correct choices that led us to meeting.”

Honestly, fuck it. You put your hands around his face, cradling him, and bring him closer to you. Your lips touch gently, and you can't focus on anything else. Spencer timidly holds your waist, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Delicately, he starts to run his hands over your body as if he were appreciating a work of art until he reaches your face, where he caresses the side of your cheek with one hand and pulls you even closer with the other - if that's possible -. You separate from the kiss panting, but remain close, your foreheads touching. Spencer calmly places a tender kiss on your nose, then your forehead and, finally, on the top of your head, enjoying every second.

When you look at each other again, the only thing you can whisper are several "Thank yous". He smiles lovingly, still caressing your face.

“I don’t even know how to thank you, Spence,” you whisper. “You gave me so much today, with so much love, so much dedication… and I only gave you a meager little letter with messages that you surely already knew… I really don’t know how to repay you.”

His smile widens and when he answers, you feel like you’ve finally found your place. “Nothing could surpass the happiness your letter brought me, love, there’s nothing you can repay. However, it would make me even happier if you slept here…”

Author's note 2: Hello there! If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I'm also on c.ai with the same user @/wrioreid, but the process of making the bots is going veryyy slowly.

[penumbra-mayhem]

Do You Want to Leave? - Darlin’/Sam fic

“If there was any color left in Darlin’s face, it dissipated at the soft question. They’d fucked up. This was it. Time to go. Grab the bag and run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Ru—”

(I hc that Tank has a stutter; there's more on that here if you'd like. This takes place a couple months after Darlin’ moves into Sam’s place.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam hadn’t meant to find it. He wasn’t snooping, he’d just been cleaning. Between him and Darlin’, they didn’t own that much stuff, so stumbling across a black backpack shoved to the back of their closet peaked his curiosity.

He pulled it out, scanning over its nondescript exterior before unzipping the largest pocket. His brow furrowed. Clothes. Money. A knife.

A quiet, sharp inhale—Sam’s head shot up at the noise. Darlin’ stood frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on the open bag in Sam’s hands.

“Darlin’,” Sam spoke, his voice low and laced with hesitation, “What’s this?”

They didn’t say anything. They couldn’t. Sam waited for a reply. When it appeared he wasn’t going to get one, he asked again,

“What is this?”

Darlin’s hands began to tingle. The doorway began to shrink around them. What could they say, besides the truth? Anything but the truth.

Sam looked back down at the bag. Clothes. Money. A knife. He didn’t want to ask. He already knew the answer.

“Is this a go-bag?”

If there was any color left in Darlin’s face, it dissipated at the soft question. They’d fucked up. This was it. Time to go. Grab the bag and run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Ru—

“—are you leavin’ me?”

Darlin’ finally resurfaced from the whirlpool of their thoughts. Sam’s countenance toed the line between despair and disbelief. He began to tremble. The distance between them was unfathomable, the bedroom stretching before their eyes.

“N-n-no,” Darlin’ replied, before weakly adding, “n-n-n-not unless y-y-y-you w-w-want me t-to.”

Sam shook his head, “What do you mean? Why would you think I’d want you to leave?”

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. R—

“—baby,” Sam pleaded, trying to pull Darlin’ out of the spiral he could see them sinking into, “talk to me…please.”

Darlin’ knew they couldn’t avoid this. Couldn’t avoid him, with his damned loving gaze and soft downturned lips. Yet they tried all the same, shaking their head and biting the inside of their cheek to keep from talking.

Sam set the bag down on their bed and slowly moved towards Darlin’. They resisted the instinct to flinch as he raised his hand towards their face. He wasn’t Quinn. He wouldn’t hurt them. Right? Run. Run. Run. Run.

His fingers brushed softly against their cheek—a motion like he was brushing away a tear. Were they crying? They were, fuck. They felt his other hand grasp one of theirs as he spoke again, “Darlin’, please. What’s goin’ on?”

They stared at his chest, unable to meet his gaze as they finally whispered, “It’s j-j-just in c-c-case.”

“In case what, love? In case…in case I hurt you?”

Darlin’ felt sick at the question. They gripped Sam’s hand tighter as they met his teary gaze and tried to quell his fear, “N-no! N-n-no, I kn-kn-know you’d n-n-never….you’re n-n-not….”

Not Quinn.

“It’s j-j-just….in case y-you w-w-w-want me t-t-to leave. In c-c-c-case I-I f-f-fuck this up.”

Sam’s jaw set. Something flashed in his eyes before he let go of Darlin’s hand and turned around, heading towards their bed. Darlin’ watched as he grabbed something from the bag. Clothes.

“W-w-what’re y-you d-d-doing?”

Sam didn’t reply as he opened their shared dresser, placing each article of clothing inside. He walked back to the bag. Money.

He grabbed Darlin’s wallet on their bedside table, stuffing the money inside before returning to the bag.

“Sam!” Darlin’ exclaimed, taking a step into their bedroom, “Wh-what are y-you d-doing?”

Sam turned to face them, his gaze firm, his voice resolute.

“This is your house. Your home. You’re not leavin' unless you want to leave. Do you want to leave?”

Stunned by the blunt question, Darlin’ didn’t respond. The silence carved anguish into Sam’s face, causing panic to rise again within Darlin’. Run. Run. Run.

After a moment, they whispered, “N-n-no.”

The answer covered the floor between them like a varnish and slowly dried as they stared at each other. Sam reached back into the bag, murmuring, “C’mere.”

Darlin’ hesitated, then closed the distance. Sam held out his hand. The knife.

“Go on,” he urged quietly.

Darlin’ took the knife from Sam’s shaking hand. They placed it in the drawer of their bedside table before glancing at him and whispering, “I’m s-sorry.”

Sam shook his head slightly. His fingers trailed up Darlin’s arms and caressed their cheeks.

“Oh sweet thing…” He placed a gentle kiss on their forehead. “It’s ok…” A kiss on their nose. “I understand….” A kiss on their lips.

“You want to leave?”

“N-no. N-n-never.”

[litrly-justagirl]

Shed What’s Holding You Back to Build the Life You Want

Remember when we used to play The Sims? There was something so powerful about designing the perfect character—choosing their look, their hobbies, their personality. You could decide what their hair would look like every day, what their clothes would say about them, how they’d spend their days and nights. You’d play out their dreams, and somehow, it felt like magic when those visions started to come to life.

Now, it’s time to stop dreaming in pixels and start creating our own life. The game is over—this is our reality.

you have to let go of the past

It’s time to shed the version of ourselves that’s stuck in the past. Let go of the old narrative. The one that tells you you’re not enough, or that you can’t be who you want to be. The imposter syndrome has had its run, but it’s no longer welcome here. We’ve mourned the past long enough, and now it’s time to step forward.

We’ve been clinging to the old, but now we’re called to something greater. We’re destined to move forward, but we’ve held ourselves back by staying rooted in who we once were. It’s time to release what no longer serves us so we can step into the future God has waiting.

How to Let Go:

Release what God has rejected. It’s not a loss—it’s a redirection.

Resume your responsibilities. Pick up where you left off with intention.

Get ready for something better. God's next is always greater than what’s behind.

The Vision for My 2025

So, if I could build the perfect version of myself for 2025, what would she look like? This is my vision—a woman who radiates confidence, elegance, and a clear sense of purpose.

Wardrobe: She dresses with intention, like every outfit is a reflection of her inner world. She’s effortlessly classy—sensual, grown, and timeless. She gravitates toward eclectic pieces, each one telling its own story—a statement bag here, an asymmetrical top there. Her style is uniquely hers, and it turns heads without trying. Even when she’s dressed down, people can’t help but compliment her. Her wardrobe feels high-end, but it’s the simplicity and comfort that make it stand out. She loves colors—rich hues that pop against her skin, because she knows that her complexion allows colors to literally radiate from her. Red for date nights, black for a touch of mystery. Each piece is chosen with care, because she knows how to blend luxury and ease, making every look an experience.

Work Attire: She’s a force in the corporate tech world, mainly working from the comfort of her home. But when she steps into the office, she brings the same timeless style with a modest twist—effortlessly chic, like she’s walking through a boardroom runway. Every outfit is a statement, without saying a word.

Sleepwear: Even bedtime is an opportunity to feel like a goddess. Her pajamas are silky, feminine, and luxurious. Think chemise dresses—soft, flowing, and sensual—not your grandmother’s nightgowns, but an elegant nightwear collection she can’t wait to slip into. She’s drawn to soft neutrals like whites, creams, blacks, and delicate pinks, with a quiet confidence that she looks just as beautiful while she sleeps.

Makeup: Her everyday makeup is subtle yet stunning—accentuating her features without masking them. For special events, she goes bold: a deep red lip, or a smoky eye that demands attention. It’s always about enhancing what’s already there, never hiding. She knows the power of looking effortlessly put together, whether she’s headed to the office or a night out.

Diet and Fitness: Her body is a reflection of the life she’s building—strong, healthy, and active. She eats a balanced diet, focused on protein, fiber, and fresh greens. Nigerian dishes fill her plate, but she’s learned the importance of balance. She’s gaining weight to build curves, strengthening her body with every workout. The gym is her playground, and she wears colorful, flattering sets that make her feel unstoppable. Wednesdays are her chance to romanticize her life with pink workout gear, a personal touch to remind her that she is branding her life, on and off social media.

Community: She’s surrounded by women who don’t just dream—they take action. They are spiritual, entrepreneurial, and fiercely ambitious. They love Christ and believe in lifting each other up. They’re a community of beauty lovers, skincare enthusiasts, and fearless dreamers. Together, they make things happen. Their support is unwavering, and they inspire each other to live life fully—no holding back.

Home and Environment: She lives in a luxury penthouse with panoramic views that take her breath away every time she looks out the window. Think floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in natural light, with a view of the city—maybe Dallas, her favorite city in Texas. Her space feels like an oasis—soft neutrals with deep textures, creating a balance of tranquility and energy. Browns, creams, greens, and touches of gold make her space feel alive and welcoming. It’s the kind of home that excites her to be in, a sanctuary for when the world gets too loud. Her furry companion, a little fawn-colored Shorkie, keeps her company as she reflects on her life.

Lifestyle: She’s the type of woman who enjoys the simple luxuries—brunches at her favorite spots, working from cozy coffee shops with the best ambiance, and discovering hidden gems in the city. She’s constantly inspired by the world around her. She takes time to do her devotions, and attends church regularly—on Sundays and Wednesdays—fully immersed in her faith. She wants to be more active, and has joined the women’s Bible study group at church.

Creativity: She’s rediscovering her creative side, embracing the things she once loved as a child—painting, pottery, and exploring new forms of self-expression. She’s letting go of the pressures to conform and is finally diving into what makes her feel alive.

now i want you to try!

Imagine waking up every day in a space that feels like you’ve stepped into your dream life. Your wardrobe reflects your confidence, your energy, and your purpose. You move through the world with intention, shedding the weight of what no longer serves you and confidently stepping into the person you were always meant to be. The path to this transformation is one step at a time, but each step is a declaration that we are no longer bound by the past. We’re building something new, something powerful, something real. So, let’s make it happen. The life you’ve been dreaming of is waiting to unfold—and it starts now. Together, we’re shedding what’s holding us back and building the life we want. Let’s bring this vision to life.

[chipadequeso]

hi so i posted a drawing just now and heres a long post under the cut on my design choices If you were curious . or you can just look at this image for the basic color motifs

Ok. hi. waves

overall its 100% obc + motf oobc based etcetera If you know me you know this is Always basis for everything marvin trilogy i draw

detailed descriptions + other things linking characters together that arent covered by the Image:

marvin dresses like shit but there's Some cohesion there keeping it together. his family shares his warm colors; mendel uses his browns a little differently, and whizzer doesn't share his pallete at all

trina's favorite color is pink :) there are literal articles of clothing that are tied on her, one is red for marvin and the other is green for mendel. as the story goes on she would probably swap this and have a green tichel instead

trinamarvin have similar shades of pants/skirt, and jason has the mix of their yellow and red as an orange on his arms. travel travel travel from side to side!!!

^ on this note jason has things from his 4 parents and theyre all strangely layered all together

ie both him and whizzer have white over the rest of their clothes

whizdel and whizzvin are the only combinations which don't share at least one color, but:

whizdel have light/dark blue contrast and complementing red-green

whizzvin blue yellow contrast babyyyyyyy yeaaaahh boyyyyy!!!!!!!!! they wont agree

whizzer's got the most unique color palette also the least direct connections to everyone else: only trina, who wears a tichel paralleling his ascot and ties them back to marvin, and jason

trinamarvin's shoes are the same, each their corresponding hair color; mendel wears something most similar to marvin's shoes but he gets silly with it; whizzer gets to have shoes that stand more. he's cool; jason's got sneakers! and theyre whizzer colored because whizzer has his own whole deal with running

^ jason trina and whizzer all have red around their necks; mendel also very specifically doesnt have it

mendel and jason Dont have belts or anything resembling ones. this was deliberate but honestly theres not meaning to it

so yes. marvins setting the base the others generally interact with; trina tries to be plain; mendel is goofiest; jason is still figuring things out; and whizzer outsider themes Save me. whizzer outsider themes. save me whizzer outsider themes

ok That is all thank you. small bow

[meganechan05]

The 6 Heroes

Been on my mind for a long while but took time for me to finally finish figuring out their designs and color schemes. So everything is under the cut.

Rhyniol Husty: (ライニオール・ハスティー)

This is a younger version of Rhyniol compared to what we saw in the movie. Essentially what I believed he would look like just as he took the throne as a young King rather than the very ornate and heavy-looking clothes he wears in Hakabaka. His famous cloak passed on for generations was originally open with the long cloth primarily behind him so his arms aren't as restricted when fighting.

Personality-wise, he's sorta a mix of both Racles and Gira where he does everything for the sake of others regardless of what happens. He's rather brash but as the battles continue, he develops his skills to become the strongest and the leader.

Raine Brasieri: (レイヌ・ブラシエリ)

Jeramie's father. A laid back individual who does his best to be a pacifist between both humand and Bugnarok after learning the latter was in the same situation at the hands of Dugded. But, like his son, he had to learn that sometimes violence is the only way to get the point across when it comes to war. And like his son, he's actually terrible at providing text for subtext. Most likely because he only spent time with his family during his exile so they always understood each other. His death when Jeramie was a child was due to transferring his Symbol of Rule to his son which was protecting him from illness. His last wish was hoping Ishabana would protect his son from the same fate.

He's very much a romantic and his attitude tends to get on everyone's nerves. I'm pretty sure Rhyniol always warned his bloodline to stay away from Raine's because of this and later have a stroke when he learns about Giramie.

Neura Ferous: (ニューラ・フェロス)

A thrill-seeking tinkerer who has their eyes set on innovation even with all the obstacles of what was available at the time. The other Kings see them as a bit of a nutjob whenever she gets inspired at the worst times, but they get the job done.

The development of the OhgerCalibur and King's Weapons was their work as well as the Kings' Symbol of Rule after some were damaged (further explanation at the bottom of the post).

Their design is based off of pilots as she's often riding God Tonbo from atop its head rather than the cockpit.

Cosca Cula: (コスカ・クューラ)

An honest women who considers everyone her family and would do her best to protect them. While she performs tasks expected of women at the time, the other Heroes were well aware of her strength as a warrior and would even be afraid of her if they take things too far. But she tries to offset such intimidating behavior by being playful at times which only makes things worse.

Her founding of Toufu was because of her wish to feed the planet wonderful food and for descendants to be powerful and protective of their own families.

Rodi Ran: (ロディ・ラン)

A free-spirited individual who admires anything he seems beautiful inside or out, though he prefers his descendants to be both. His blonde and pink hair is actually a mutation caused by his Mark that became a dominant trait passed down in his bloodline.

Despite being a healer, Rodi is actually prone to violence and would threaten others with his Mark with a sweet smile on his face; something inherited by his descendent, Himeno. The others often have to hold him back whenever he gets too agitated as even Raine would need to hold him back.

Xerces Glauco: (セルセス・グラウコ)

The last Hero to join the team due to their disbelief that they were tasked with protecting humanity after growing up witnessing the darkness of it. But they were convinced to join the team after being told becoming a Hero can allow them to make change and achieve the justice they always wanted.

Aside from Raine, Xerces was one of the Heroes that sympathized with the Bugnarok the most and almost had a falling out with Rhyniol when the plan was to make the Bugnarok the enemy. When founding Gokkan, Xerces made sure the laws they and their people agreed one would apply to both humans and Bugnarok in hopes the two sides would find peace.

As the original user of the Ice Seal, both of their eyes are ashen in color. When teaching their successor the Seal, they didn't know why it only affected one eye but played it off as a choice.

The Symbol of Rule:

Many months ago, I had a theory about the 6 Heroes' weapons and how 5 of them were what inspired the King's Weapon and the Modes used by all Kings: Sword, Gun, Sickle, Bow, Claw.

I believe the development of both the OhgerCalibur and King's Weapon was used as a way to unite the Five Kingdoms even with borders and the eventual issues between the next generations of Kings. The OhgerCalibur being based off ZERO was to respect Rhyniol who won the competition to become the planet's King but then decide it should be split between the five. The King's Weapon was to symbolize the Heroes banding together to fight a large threat. The ability to switch between different Modes allows flexibility.

But what about the Symbols of Rule?

Basically my thought was based off the fact that in Episode 44 when the new Alliance was signed, the Symbols of Rules were glowing: The OhgerCrown, Yanma's earring, Himeno's crown, Rita's bracelet, and Kaguragi's amulet. The outlier was Jeramie's KumonoSlayer despite the fact his Symbol was actually the gem embedded in his chest.

This was probably an afterthought but hear me out: the gem was only half of the actual power of Immortality.

What I found odd was the use of the gem when it came to defeating Grodie. How did the power of Eternal Life grant a living corpse true life but also have said corpse be killed after being granted eternal life? It didn't make sense to me, really, so I had to think through everything. I shouldn't, but my lore brain demands it.

As I said before, the KumonoSlayer glowed with the other Symbols of Rule when the Alliance was signed and sent the light that pierced the universe. I believe it's the other half of the Symbol or it's the main source of the power but gave half of its power to the gem. Such power returning upon Grodie's defeat.

I'm only saying this because of Jeramie's story with his mother. She died in battle when he was still a child (if we assume he aged normally and stopped aging upon reaching adulthood) and there was no sign of his father during said flashback. He was also much more attached to his mother despite having fond memories of his father like how he was the one who taught Jeramie how to draw and told him the story of King-Ohger.

Given the implications that his father died some time after turning his KumonoSlayer into Jeramie's mask. Without the KumonoSlayer, he would no longer have full access to the power of Eternal Life which would make him more susceptible to illness and disease and die an early death. And it's highly likely given the fact he was banished and wouldn't have been allowed near humans so he wouldn't get the treatment he needed. He would leave everything to Nephila to take care of their child before she, too, dies but in battle.

So what about the other Symbols?

This is a bit more of a stretch as it's connected to my theory of the original weapons of the 6 Heroes were actually the modes used in the King's Weapon.

We'll start with Husty Family. The OhgerCrown and Lance were sealed away due to its universal power. The OhgerCalibur ZERO was Rhyniol's original sword and also the key to sealing and unsealing the Crown and Lance (along with the king's crown). And in order to activate ZERO, it needed a blood sample of the one wielding it to transform.

The power of the other Symbols were also sealed.

Considering the other 4 countries don't have 2000-year-old weapons like Shugoddom or Jeramie, the next closest thing would be their Symbols of Rule. If we consider the idea of the Heroes taking their damaged weapons and turning them into such Symbols, it's most likely how they sealed it. What makes them different from Shugoddom is that reforging such weapons would free the Symbols of the restriction that is requiring the bloodline to use it which is important given that 3 of the countries don't use bloodline for succession.

But again, these are just theories and speculations based off what the show has given us. I could just be reading into it too much, but it's a lot to think about whenever I'm trying to brainstorm stories revolving around the Symbols.

As for the markings on the drawings, its mainly my take on the fact that they're the original users of said powers so such use would create long-lasting effects on them.

[queerprayers]

Hi! This advent I really want to honour my faith rather than just celebrating christmas in a secular sense. I found your post about advent and the liturgical new year inspiring, and I was wondering if you could point me towards some ideas or resources for advent practices or ways to go about worship specifically for this period - everywhere I've looked just talks about lighting candles, which I'm not able to do in my current housing. Do you have any suggestions?

Thank you for your blog and everything you write here, and I hope you have a wonderful new year <3

Happy Advent, beloved! Candles are great (including fake ones or felt/crafted ones)—or you could recreate a similar weekly/daily thing, like hanging another star in the window. But that's not your only option. Here are some thoughts! (I also said some similar things last year you might find interesting.)

One of the most meaningful things about my Advents growing up was the fact that it was visibly not-quite-Christmas. We put up our tree maybe a few days before but we didn't decorate it until Christmas Eve. We didn't listen to Christmas music till Christmas—we listened to Advent music. We put our nativity set in the window, but gradually—we would set up Mary and Joseph traveling to it, and I remember waiting to unpack the baby Jesus until Christmas Eve. (The wise men were on the bookshelf until Epiphany.) I've put a painting of the Annunciation on my altar, but Christmas stuff will wait. 

It's very important to me to make each season distinct materially. The things around me, the music I listen to, the books I read, the prayers I say, change tangibly—in Advent and Lent especially. My emotions come and go, what I'm thinking about is different every day, but it's Advent because I am doing Advent—and not yet doing Christmas, no matter what the music in the grocery store or the parties I'm invited to tell me. (I don't refuse to find joy in them, I'm just conscious about the fact that I'm in a different season. It's not as big a deal to me as the Lent/Easter divide, though, which I will defend with every part of me.)

I love liturgical colors for this reason, too—my church isn't very extravagant and mostly looks the same throughout the year, but the altar cloth is a different color. I know exactly what season it is just from that. (Our Advent is blue to honor Mary, but most people's is purple like Lent with maybe a pink Gaudete Sunday.) My home altar also changes color, so I have that visual in my room as well.

So do it on purpose, candles or no. Maybe wait on a few Christmas-y things, like ornaments or music (don't worry, Christmas has twelve days and then you can keep doing it all through the Epiphany season if you want). Make it Advent, whenever you start! 

Historically, Advent traditions have been very similar (or identical) to Lenten ones. The Orthodox church calls Advent the Nativity Fast. It's been a penitent preparation. Things we may associate with Lent, like going without things or structured prayer, can find a home in Advent as well.

Secular celebrations and consumerism have affected Advent as well as Christmas, with countless calendars and just in general by filling our lives with Christmas themes that might make us forget Advent has its own themes. (To be clear, I support anyone celebrating Christmas—once a religion evangelizes/colonizes/rules, it has no right to accuse people of appropriating its holidays. I am simply talking about how the cultural practice differs.) Advent has themes of peace and love and hope, but it's got more specific themes than that, scarier stuff than that. It's about Christ's coming in the Incarnation, but it's also about Christ coming all around us every day, and Christ's promised future coming.

Spend some time with Isaiah, spend some time with meditations on Mary (I just read some of Catherine of Siena's words which are here as a reading for March 25.). From the poem I posted, you can tell I spent some time with Joel last year. Here's the Revised Common Lectionary daily readings for these seasons—you could start a habit or do it for a season or explore some passages every once in a while. You can find the Book of Common Prayer's traditional Advent prayers here (The Collects >> choose Traditional or Contemporary language >> Seasons of the Year). The ancient "O Antiphons" accompany the Magnificat starting Dec. 17 (here's a booklet with commentary & Latin chant). Forward Movement has several podcasts, if you want to pray daily while commuting or taking a walk or right before bed.

There are a million Advent devotionals out there—you can find one from an author you like, or search your/a denomination + "advent devotional" or "advent prayers" and you'll probably find something. For some social justice oriented ones, I've found Red Letter Christianity's Reflections from Bethlehem (by Palestinian authors), Justice Unbound's Boundless: An Anti-Colonial Advent Devotional, and the UCC's Abolition Advent Calendar. Cole Arthur Riley (Black Liturgies) is doing an Advent series on her Patreon. Jan Richardson posts art and poetic blessings throughout the year.

In terms of books, I recommend:

Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas

Preparing for Christmas (Richard Rohr)

Celtic Advent (David Cole)

WinterSong (Madeleine L'engle & Luci Shaw)

Advent for Exiles (Caroline Cobb)

If you want poetry: Accompanied by Angels (Luci Shaw). 

I'll tell you a secret—most devotionals are meant to be read every day, but no one will know if you don't do that. You can start them at any time and read as much as you like whenever you like. Don't not start one because you don't think you'll be regular about it. 

And of course, you don't need a book to say "Advent" on the front for it to be an Advent book—or music or anything else. I'm about to start God Hunger: Discovering the Mystic in All of Us (John J. Kirvan) which I picked up at a book sale but it's on the Internet Archive! I'm drawn to poetry and Marian hymns in this season, and things that talk about the end of the world and prophecy. Whatever Advent is to you, surround yourself with it—and anything you're just starting to think about, you can explore.

The beautiful news is? The years spiral on, and Advent returns. Every year we're confronted with it, and every year I never do exactly what I wanted. But I've found some stuff to bring with me, some books to reread, things I know further my practice and things that don't. And when the spiral returns to this distinctive place of waiting for something already in our hearts, of hoping for something we don't understand, of inviting in someone who has already snuck in like a thief in the night, we can try again.

So happy Advent, and may yours be visibly, tangibly, purposefully Advent. May you be the impractical kind of hopeful and the holy kind of scared. Christmas is a miracle slowly being tended (rather than Easter's miracle erupting from the ground)—not that there's no blood, no surprise, but that for nine months Life itself grew quietly. So keep watch. Make your life a womb, make your Advent a narrowing toward the humanity God enters. Tend the darkness and bring in some light—a candle is just a way to do that, but there's so much light in the world. Here's to finding it.

<3 Johanna

[silentium-symphony]

Spoiled Rotten (Link x Reader) SMUT

(a/n) needed a break from now watch me whip, so here's some smut :) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

i didn’t really mean to make a sequel for Starved, it just kinda happened 💀 can def stand alone tho! i don't typically write a dominant reader, but i had a lot of fun trying smth new :) i hope you enjoy ♡

cw: afab!reader, mentioned somnophilia (like one line), swearing, nice and fluffy in the beginning, ya'll being absolute BRATS to each other oml, taking turns dominating the other :), link once again having the dirtiest mouth in the world, spreading you on all fours, riding link like the gorgeous stallion he is

wc: 5.8k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Passerine warbles teased your consciousness from the lands of slumber to the realm of morning. A curtain of colors whisped behind your eyelids and you felt the warmth of the sunbeam conveniently placed on your eyes; cracking them open a smidgen spelled the death of your pupils as you were immediately blinded by its solar glory.

Your head lulled to the side, still very much weighted by sleep, and came face-to-face with your lightly snoring husband. His golden brows were pulled into a relaxed arch, no longer featuring a drawn, terse look. His cheeks, smushed into the pillow, slotted perfectly in your hand and you stroked them fondly. A soft moan left him and you could feel the little bits of tension in his jaw disappear completely. Looking further down, you saw his neck and chest littered with hickeys galore; your lips tingled hotly.

You lifted the arm that was dangled loosely over your waist with great care, gauging his expression for any hint of discomfort or arousal. You were genuinely shocked he didn't slug his arm over you and hug you tighter as he normally would. While setting his arm down in front of you, you saw bright red scratch marks running up and down his arms. Highlights of last night pervaded your mind and it took a considerable amount of mental fortitude to not start grinding against his bare member. Additionally, thinking about how he abused your cunt with his incessant pounding started to fill you up with post-orgasm sleepiness--not what you wanted when you were trying to get out of bed.

And he did all that right after he got back. Y'know... It makes sense why he'd be knocked out.

Your lips ghosted atop his twitching eyelids while you slinked out of bed and oNTO THE FLOOR OH SWEET HYLIA

A hand flew to the corner of your bedstand and you somehow managed to catch yourself before you ate shit. Link really diddly darn fucked you 'til your legs gave out, huh? Can't say you were complaining--

You hauled yourself up, your knees shivering and buckling from the arduous task of existing in an upright position. You scooted closer to your shared dresser, the smooth walls acting as support, and you slipped on one of Link's shirts. His scent wrapped around you comfortingly and was reminiscent of one of his hugs. There was also the added benefit of Link really liking you in his clothes--a fact you very much took advantage of.

With the wall still acting as your cane, you made the trepidatious trip to the kitchen.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

You balanced two plates of fried eggs and rice on a small wooden tray, complete with silverware, water, and two mug cakes! You managed to find the recipe haphazardly scribbled down on a random piece of parchment. You thought it looked delectable and hoped he thought the same.

You limped ambled your way to the bedroom and opened the old door as gingerly as possible.

Unluckily for you (and him, now that you thought about it), the wakeful tendencies stemming from the extreme sport of sleeping alone in the wilderness kicked in and his ears visibly twitched, disturbed by the softest sounds from across the room. He shuffled quickly and turned to you, his eyes still drooped with sleep.

"Mm... g'morn..." His nose quivered. "What smells so good...?"

"Breakfast!"

:O

:D

"Breakfast? In bed?" He could barely contain his excitement.

"Breakfast in bed!"

He sat up, propping and fluffing the pillows as you made your way over to him. He clapped and rubbed his hands in glee.

"Oh! Are those...?" The gears in Link's head buffered and churned.

"Mug cakes!" You set the tray down on his lap and saddled next to him.

"Mug cakes!!!" He returned your gleeful energy. "They look delicious, darling."

"Thank you, dear." You shoveled a fluffy mound of rice topped with an equally fluffy piece of egg in your mouth and sighed contently. He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek before dipping to your ear.

"Not as delicious as you though." He breathed, eyeing the plain white shirt hanging from your frame. You gasped at the sensation of heat tickling your neck and your palm connected with the backside of his head.

"Ow!" He pouted. "Unnecessary."

"J-Just eat the damn food!" Clearly flustered, you scraped more food into your mouth and promptly turned away from him. He laughed while smoothing out your bedhead before chowing down on the simple spread before him.

"How're you feeling? I'm sorry for being a bit... rough last night."

Good sir you almost broke my back and yours "a bit?"

He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. "Okay, fine, but my question still stands--how're you feeling?"

"I'm all right! My... Legs were pretty weak this morning." You shrunk, feeling Link's ego swell. You could practically feel the smirk on his face.

"Were you okay climbing out of bed this morning? You didn't fall, did you?"

You were so thankful he couldn't see the imaginary sweat beading down your brow.

"Nope! All good!"

"Glad to hear it."

Your conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence as you both relished in each other's company and the food. While you finished up the main dish, Link dipped his spoon into the gooey mug cake and almost kicked his feet in childlike joy.

"This is amazing! It tastes just like your hugs!"

Your heart simultaneously fluttered and melted into one big goop.

"Heheh... And what, good sir, do my hugs taste like?"

"Hm..." He leaned in and glomped onto you. "Warm... Soft... Sweet..."

While you were basking in his warm embrace, you didn't notice the sly hand sneaking for the hem of your shirt. Warm digits traced up your torso and cusped your breasts; a pleasurable chill shuddered through you.

"Tantalizing..." He husked, lowering you onto your back. "Enchanting..."

He showered your neck with gentle pecks and retraced the bruises and nips he planted on your skin the night before. Your arms wrapped loosely around him, pulling him closer. You could feel his dick begin to throb with heat.

"Mm... Link..."

Guuuurgle...

Oh.

He pulled away from you, light, innocent giggles bouncing between the two of you.

"Let's take our time today, okay?"

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

After clearing breakfast and cuddling for an hour or so, you both finally got up and started your day. Link volunteered to wash the dirty dishes while you put away the... scattered clothes from last night. Tidying the room to your liking, you came down to meet your husband.

Whose got his lean, toned, battle-scarred back turned to you.

Your love marks from last night were due to join his never-ending collection of scars--at least for the coming weeks. A wicked smile crossed your lips and you stalked toward him, tiptoes feeling around the squeaky floorboards.

He soaped up the water some more and smiled at the bubbles that floated to his nose, humming a happy lil' tune, completely oblivious to your sinful intentions. As he dipped a plate into the soapy basin, arms wrapped around his torso and he felt something warm and soft trace his back and sides.

His next exhale caught in his throat and he sputtered... some type of exclamation. As quickly as it tensed, his sinewy muscles grew lax in your embrace, melting into your touch. He adored the way your mouth hungrily suctioned to his old scars and how divine it felt for your hands to caress him, rubbing soothing patterns into sore spots he never knew he had.

You worked your way up and brushed your lips along the still-fresh scratches on his shoulders. You painted them with tender, loving kisses as your hand drifted lower and lower...

"You're marked up so nicely for me..." Your fingers coasted the prominent bulge in his pants and he bit back a whine. "I'm going to have so much fun with you."

Hands spun his waist around and his eyes flew shut, fully expecting to feel your lips slam into his as you took him right then and there.

...?

Except... You didn't...?

His eyes cracked open to his beloved's absence, confounded. A bright, chirpy whistle had him swiveling his head for a double take and he saw you happily drying the dishes he washed. Like nothing happened.

"You okay, love?" You looked at him through your lashes. "You've got stars in your eyes."

Said eyes twitched.

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The sun was still high up in the sky when you finished torturing the poor man with your household chores. The door swung open; Link went out first, bucket and brush in hand, while you stayed at the door for just a moment longer. The open windows couldn't quite demonstrate the soul-cleansing power of the fresh winds and you relished the wind tugging through your hair. Your lungs expanded as much as they could, filling themselves with the scent of home-tinged wilderness, before breathing out.

Epona's happy nickers tickled your ears and you drew closer to the duo. Link was going through her sleek coat, brushing it of dirt and grime while you filled her troughs with fresh hay and clean water. You threw yourself onto Epona and gave her fluttering kisses on her snout and neck, singing praises into the ears of your equestrian friend and thanking her repeatedly for bringing Link back home safely.

Link, smiling, grabbed the bucket and left her stall.

"I'm gonna grab some more water."

You acknowledged him with a bright "mm" and turned your attention to Epona, who was lovingly nuzzling your neck. Your husband rounded the corner and disappeared behind your house--you waited a few moments.

Now was your chance.

You flew out of her stall and veered into your house, cramming as many apples as you could hold in your arms, and practically teleported back to her stall. The sweet mare let out the happiest whinny you've ever heard and pawed the ground with anticipation. You peered over your shoulder as you presented her her favorite treats and prayed to Hylia Link's bucket broke or something. Just... Please Goddess, stall him for a bit.

Link loves hates it when you tease him with the 'nonsense' of Epona liking you more. You remembered the first time you brought up such a notion and Link was quick to scoff at your claims, assuring you that he and Epona share a bond like no other. The sweet, sweet look on his face when Epona responded to your voice and not his that one time never left your mind. To add insult to injury, not only did she straight up ignore the blonde--she clopped away from Link and over to you, leaving her beloved rider in the literal and metaphorical dust. Link reverted back to silence for the rest of the day.

Besides! She works just as hard as Link in keeping Hyrule safe. She deserves all the treats in the world.

Epona made quick work of the bushel and pressed her snout to you for more. You laughed and gently pushed her away, kissing her nose as you did. You turned around, half-expecting to see your husband with a silly exasperated look on his face; no one. You rocked on your heels, keeping a steady stream of pats on Epona's neck as you craned yours to find your beloved. Where was he?

The familiar knot of worry pitted your stomach and, pressing one final nuzzle into Epona, left her stall. You followed the trail your love had taken several minutes ago, careening your neck around the corner. The well sat unattended and the bucket your husband carried laid on its side. You approached the scene carefully, your lips forming into a 'Link?'

A pair of hands dug into your waist; your vision whizzed into a blend of colors, the back of your house bleeding into the scene of a little alcove. You barely had time to think let alone scream before something hot and wet muffled your lips. Your assailant pressed you further into the wall, pinning your arms above your head and coasting his digits up your thigh. Link's handsome features flooded your view and you moaned into the kiss, feeling your core grow hot with need.

He moved himself between your legs and gyrated his clothed tip against your engorged and sensitive bud. Your lips pulled away with a pop and he busied himself tarnishing your neck once again, reinforcing the lighter bruises already beginning to fade and making new ones in previously unexplored spots. His pants grew uncomfortably tight as he listened to the pathetic whimpers dripping out of you.

"Shh..." A playful kiss lapped your collarbone. "Not so loud hun, someone might hear..."

You fussed and squirmed under his treatment, his mischievous, nippy kisses along your skin sending your thoughts into overdrive. You hadn't even noticed your hips rolling faster, sloppier against him as your heat craved that sweet friction. Link felt your juices seep through the thin fabric of his pants and moisten the head of his cock.

"Look at you, making a mess all over me..." He sang, nibbling the lobe of your ear.

His hands left your wrist to find solace at the back of your thighs. With a grunt, he hoisted you into a seated position and pressed his full weight against yours, nullifying any chance for escape. Your legs hung uselessly at his hips as he continued moving against you in both body and lip.

His mouth moved to capture the beginnings of your breasts, suckling the curve of your mound until your chest glistened with his spit. He looked up at you through trembling lashes, committing your hooded gaze, gaping mouth, and flushed cheeks to memory.

The tips of your toes grazed the ground as Link lowered you delicately before he not so delicately spun you round and slammed your front against the wall. The sudden impact knocked what was left of precious air out of your lungs and your brain roared, the organ already doubling over from a pleasure-kissed lightheadedness.

Calloused hands connected with the soft of your inner thighs, flowing it open and dragging a finger, slow and deliberate, across your clothed folds. You all but screamed his name, his previous warnings to keep it quiet muddling with lusty bliss. Wet, hot breaths on bits of your exposed back sent your eyes rolling into your head and you balled your fists at the thought of him taking you here and now.

You felt his weight leave your form and you waited with growing impatience for him to be rid of his clothes. Your eyes were still squinted shut as you whined, trying to push your rear against his tented crotch hungrily.

He's... further away than you expected. How big is this alcove...?

You looked over your shoulder, confusion meddling with your arousal, and caught a glimpse of blonde swaggering away from you as if nothing had happened.

Heart thundering, legs quivering, blood rushing, your bent frame crumbled in on itself as your knees gave out from under you.

"LINK!!!"

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Safe to say by the time dinner rolled around, the two of you could hardly look at each other and any attempts at making small talk felt like Ganon shooting his piss into your eyes. Any semblance of Link in your brain always ended up with him either railing you or you fucking him until collapse.

You looked up from your plate to grab the water pitcher before you and you could feel the darkness glimmering in his eyes, heavy with lust and frustration. Your thighs grinded against each other, hoping to satiate the growing need to stimulate yourself even if only a little.

You were one look away from pinning him onto the dining table and fucking him until he was a babbling, crying mess under you. Unbeknownst to you (not really), Link happened to share those same sentiments.

Hylia, you were so horny for each other and your skin felt aflamed by his absence. But... you'd be lying if you said you didn't find a sick pleasure in watching you and him squirm under each other's heavy gaze, seeing how long either of you could last before one of you bites the arrow and takes the other.

"(F/N)."

You jolted at the sound of your own name and looked up into Link's blown-out pupils and barely parted lips, moistened with spit. Not a word was spoken between the two bodies; a velvety darkness took hold of your chest and you absently felt your feet march over to your husband before locking lips with his in messy desperation. Your hands explored the warmth of his skin, rubbing the back of his shoulders, his face, his chest. With a small tug on your wrist, you fell into his lap and he steadied you with level hands. You rolled your hips against his aching cock, teasing his stiffness with every sultry sway.

His lips latched onto your shoulder and his teeth sunk into the soft flesh, feeling your body shiver against his. He moved in time with your motions, rocking you faster against his dick that sweltered with desire. His chair skitted back and his hands flew to your ass, squeezing the soft, plump flesh as he carried you to the bedroom. Your legs hugged his torso to keep yourself up as he blindly fumbled with the doorknob, impatience ticking both your features.

He swung the door open, the shockwave from the sudden slam knocking down whatever trinket or picture was hanging on the wall. You paid little mind to the clamor of knick-knacks as Link tripped onto the bed, his back sinking into the soft mattress and you adding to his weight. You braced your hands on the sides of his head while his found your hips, fondling and diveting the soft flesh.

Languid lips moved with his before traveling towards his jawline and down to the soft skin of his neck, lapping it with butterfly kisses. A shaky breath all but stopped at the base of his throat as he saw you trail red, hot pecks along the dip of his shoulder and down to his chest, assaulting his lust-stricken senses with a campaign of pleasure. You looked up at him teasingly, swirling the tip of your tongue about his perked nipple.

Link's eyes fluttered close as a breathy sigh left him, his hips bucking wildly against your own. He tried so hard to catch his breath, but every roll, every graze, everything flared a white flame throughout his core. His mind was slipping, he could feel it, but by the gods did he do his damnest to savor every little sensation he would feel tonight.

Your hands quickly discarded your undergarments and flew to the hem of your shirt, tossing it aside like you've done hundreds of times before. Link followed suit, doing the extra step of lifting his hips (you still on top) to shimmy his pants off. He kicked the offending fabric off the bed and you both sighed, enjoying the pleasurable tingles the cool night air brought to your hottest spots. You lifted yourself and slowly rubbed your folds all over him, drinking in his dirty mewls like it would be the last thing you tasted. Something dark snapped into your husband's eyes as a hand left your hip to cruelly flick your sensitive bundle of nerves.

A whine lapsed out of your mouth and you bobbed your dripping cunt up and down his tip. A growl countered your moans while his thumb rubbed long, teasing circles about your clit. Nails dug into the swordsman's thighs as tears clouded your vision.

"You want to play this game?" His eyes read. "Fine. Let's see who wins."

You're unceremoniously pushed forward by his limbs and your chest lands squarely atop his face. Link's muffled moans hummed between your mounds and you sighed, head lolling forward. You scooted your hole closer towards his propped thighs, dipping just past his angry head and taking a little bit more of him in your cunt. You whorled your hips slothfully, savoring the way he rubbed every corner of your entrance. Teeth dug punishingly into your nipples and worked the small buds until they were raw and red from abuse. A hot, sloppy tongue swirled around the aching buds, matching the pace with your hips.

It took everything in you to not let out the sweet cry bubbling in your chest as you pulled and twisted his soft golden locks, determined to break this man before he broke you. Without any warning, you rammed your cheeks against his thigh, taking all of him in one go; you both choked as you stretched to accommodate his length and girth while your caving walls sent him to cloud nine.

Link was the first to cry out, with you following shortly after. Still remembering the game you were playing, you slid off him almost completely before slamming yourself down again with a force that got him seeing stars. Knuckles tightened around your waist and nails dug into your supple softness as the man beneath you writhed with untold pleasures. Your throbbing heat begged you to wait, to adjust to his size, but you were so focused on getting him whimpering under you that you brushed the sensual shock off.

Link adjusted himself slightly to naturally hasten your rolls; you also adjusted yourself in a bid to level the control you had over him. You decided your gait, not him. Soft hands went to pry the battle-worn digits off your side but were promptly met with a sharp slap over your wrists, gluing them to one spot. As he positioned you slightly angled above his pelvis, his smirk countered your falling expression as you began to realize the compromising position you were in.

Not wasting any time, Link roughly entered your hole, keeping you right where he wanted you for maximum pleasure. His sudden entrance elicited the sweetest calls for his name and you threw your head back, barely keeping yourself together. Try as you might, you couldn't wriggle free from his grip (though he loved watching your futile attempts, your countenance contorting into the prettiest, sluttiest faces). Your hands twitched and convulsed, wrists writhing uselessly against your side as he hastened his thrusts.

"Nngh! Link! S-Slow--please!"

"Hm? What was that?" He asked coolly, exertion inapparent in his voice.

"T-Too fast--Link, I c-can’t--"

"Oh, but you took me so well last night. Besides, I'm having fun watching you struggle like this." He snickered, watching the rebellious glint in your eyes dull into something lustful. You were trying so hard to pry from his grasp. You thought you could break him first? How cute.

Link's head rolled into the bed as he felt you stretch and expand with every thrust, locking his cock in a vice grip. Gods, you were so tight. And warm. And wet. He cursed under his breath as he watched your juices pool at the base of his cock. His clasp unknowingly began to loosen.

Slackening just enough for you to wiggle free. He gasped, no longer feeling your convulsing hands under his and before he knew it, those same hands that got you under his control were pinned above him. You laughed something wicked as you sat promptly on his dick, stilling his wild pistoning. He felt small under your piercing gaze, like some prey item looking up at its predator. You leaned down and nipped his ear lobe, a soft whine escaping him.

"My turn." You purred, rolling against him painfully slow and giving your abused cunt a much-needed break. A groan rumbled out of him the instant he stopped pounding your insides at unimaginable speeds. You fought the wrists that tried to pull away from you and locked his lips with yours, tongue and teeth mashing sloppily against the other. Frustrated at your own slow pace, you took your rolls up a notch--fast enough to keep his mind from imploding but not enough to give it the release he craved.

"Please, just a bit faster..." He sputtered, pleading.

"Do you really think you're in a position to be giving orders?" You cooed. "Don't rush me."

Your hips lulled into a steady rhythm that was a step faster than what you were previously going. Link turned into a fumbling mess under you, filling your bedroom with his begging whines and gasps for more. With one hand still pinning him down, the other grazed the various scars that littered his abdomen. Your tongue swiped your bottom lip while you watched the outline of his abs convulse with each pleasure-stricken breath. Every one of your touches, every one of your kisses, every sloppy squelch your wet hole made as it took him whole fogged his mind with ecstasy.

"Mm! You've been so good... Letting me use your cock..." You whipped your hips forward, grip tightening around his wrists. The Hero of Hyrule's pathetic little whimpers traveled to your ears and you looked down at the whining man squirming underneath you, tears prodding his eyes.

"You like that? Hm? You like it when I bounce on your hard, hard cock?" You accentuated each word with a snap of your hips. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he let out a cry of pleasure.

"Please... Please, let me touch you--feel you... I need it, please..."

"Not yet darling," you kissed his tears away, giggling as more came to replace what was lost. You felt him swell inside you and you moaned. "Fuck, Link..."

You leaned back, resting on his thighs for support, and gyrated your hips in a circular motion. Link was practically screaming, begging, imploring you to grab you, hold you, anything just please--

"Nuh uh uh," your sing-song voice dripped with a lusty venom. "The moment you lay your hands on me, I stop. Got it?"

"No!" Blue eyes shot up to meet yours, mortified. "Don't stop! Whatever you do, just don't... Ah... Don't stop..."

You fucked and fucked this man until your thighs clung to his with sweat. Link pressed his face into his bicep and his hands balled into pale fists, shaking as he fought the urge to overpower your teasing self and ram his throbbing cock against your sweetest spots.

"You look so pretty, Link... Gods, absolutely gorgeous." You gingerly pulled his face to look at you. "Don't hide from me, I want to see you..."

You sunk your chest into his as your hips lifted and snapped down with a lewd squelch. He let out a noise between a gasp and a yelp and he bucked his hips up to meet your cunt. You hovered in the air, low enough for Link to slip in and out of you but high enough where he couldn't immerse himself wholly. A race of obscenities slurred out of his mouth.

"P-Please (F/N)... Can you come down a little lower for me? I need you... Need you wrapped around me..."

"Mm... I'll think about it." You laughed darkly as Link strained harder to fill you up with his cock. Eventually, his breathing became haggard and you felt his heart thunder in his chest. He threw his head back and chanted your name like something holy. Your lips left bluish welts all over his alabaster skin and you pulled away, admiring your masterpiece.

"So pretty... All right, I'll give you what you want..." You began lowering your hips--barely at first--while Link sang your praises, feeling the lower half of his dick be squeezed by your tight, wet walls.

"You fill me up so well, baby..." You rolled your hips faster, faster, faster. "Fuck, you're so big...!"

Link's abs suddenly crunched up and you yelped, slipping into his lap. Rough hands pulled you off him and spun your body round, faceplanting you into the soft sheets. He scuttled you closer and poised your ass in the air, taking a moment or two to appreciate your hole pulsating with want. His torso dipped into the arch of your back, sending hot breaths up your spine and into your ear.

"It's been fun, but..." He licked the sensitive spot under your ear, melting into your moans. "I'm gonna make you mine now, okay?"

Two fingers curled into your needy hole and thrusted at mind-numbing speeds. You screamed into the fabric bunched at the foot of your bed, fists balling uselessly in response to his merciless onslaught. As if your mind wasn't wrecked with enough pleasure, another hand snaked around your waist and dipped down your pelvis, kneading your swollen clit. The simple motion almost got you coming undone by his fingers.

"I'm gonna make you regret teasing me for so long." He hissed, his sexual frustrations turning into something sadistic.

As quickly as they entered you, his fingers pulled out and rubbed your slick all over his throbbing cock. He pained to feel your tightness vice around him, but Link was a patient man.

"You're such a tease, you know that? Gods, look at you... You're making a mess of our sheets." He hummed, rubbing his twitching head along your folds. "Whatever will you do to make up for this?"

"A-Anything!" The word flew out of your mouth before you could catch yourself. "Just please--please fuck me already!"

He chuckled evilly, prodding your entrance deeper. A whine wrenched from your throat and you tried pushing your cunt against him, but you were kept firmly in place with his hands.

"Begging's a good look on you, darling," He sang sweetly. "(F/N), you're gorgeous... Spread out so beautifully for me..."

Whispers laced with obscene praises overtook your senses as you felt your husband slowly fill you up, making sure you felt every sweet inch seep into your core. No words could explain the unholy heat that spread from your core to your fingers, tingling them with mind-rocking sensations. You felt his pelvis against your ass and you both let out a pent-up sigh.

Not a moment later, his hips snapped to life and you were completely at the mercy of the Hero's thrusts. Your breasts spilled into his hands, a wave of soft flesh lapping the other side of his palm with every forceful thrust. The other hand reached for your abused folds and rubbed your clit, each swirl more feral than the last.

"So good... So good for me... Your body was made for me..."

You were sobbing at this point. Shaking. Screaming. All for your beloved Link. He fucked every sense of coherency from your mind, filling your brain and cunt with nothing but him. He straightened his back and burrowed his fingers into your hips, admiring the little crescents his nails left behind. The air behind you stirred and the burn of a slap seared into your bouncing cheeks, lodging a pained whine in your throat. He rubbed the swollen handmark, loving the red that grew to settle on your skin and traced your relatively unmarked back that was practically begging to be marked by him.

He started with gentle kisses and tonguing here and there, gauging your expression (or moans) for discomfort. A high-pitched mewl acted as permission for him to continue. He followed the natural curve of your spine, teething the soft flesh and suckling so contently. He initially took his sweet time marking you, but the thought of his bruises painting your skin spurred him faster, rougher.

He bit the back of your shoulder and dragged teeth and tongue to your neck, his home. You felt him breath deeply, no doubt getting drunk off your scent and the smell of sex that clung to the air. You suddenly felt a hand burrow into your disheveled, sweaty hair and he pulled you up, pressing your body flush against his. The modified position allowed him to reach even deeper and at speeds he hadn't gone before.

Digits wrapped about your chin and neck, prying them sideways to make way for even more hickeys. Each mark still wrought your skin with a heat you could never get used to, no matter how many times he claimed you. Moist lips covered the shell of your ear as a husky whisper wormed through your thoughts.

"My cute lil' wife... You're taking me so well. Making me feel so good... Do you feel good too? Are you drunk off my cock yet?"

Some messy confirmation stammered out of you as lidded (E/C) met hooded cerulean. The imperceptible knot in your gut began tangling itself into tight ribbons. You were getting close.

He pulled you into a messy kiss raptured with delight, losing any form of standard structure as tongues met and coiled around the other in an intoxicating dance. You were no longer yourself, turned into a mere plaything by your loving, adoring husband. He chuckled at the dazed look in your eyes, nuzzling into your cheek.

"I love you so, so much..." His hand on your clit moved faster and faster. "Come for me, okay? Can you do that for me, my queen?"

The all-too-familiar tension grew and grew in your lower abdomen; your head lolled downward, bopping your nose clumsily against Link's. Your hand wandered to the top of his sopping-wet fingers while the other snaked around his neck. He balanced your forehead against his and locked adoring eyes with you.

"Don't look away... Look at me. I want to see your slutty face as you come..."

His velvety purr was the last push you needed to fall the over edge and into the sweet, white abyss. A scream you didn't recognize sang into his ears as you poured your juices all over his hand, your cunt shaking from the magnitude of release. The delightful twitches shot him over the edge and his eyes fluttered shut, pure unfiltered bliss kissing his features as he brimmed you with his seed.

All the strength in the Hero's legs sapped, you both fell backwards into the plush sheets, sweat and slick binding your limbs into a messy pile. Spent exhales intermitted with each other and neither of you moved, locked in warm, satisfied catatonia.

"I've never..." He breathed out with much effort, "Came so hard... In my life..."

"I think I... saw the gods." Exhausted laughs spilled from the both of you and you felt his loving gaze. You looked over at him as he tucked your sweaty locks behind your ear.

"Makes sense. You're absolutely divine, after all."

A weak slap to his bicep and a chortle.

"Must you tease me?"

"It's not teasing if it's the truth." He rubbed into your neck and sighed, feeling the post-orgasm sleepiness weigh his eyelids; your consciousness was already waist-deep into slumber. In the moments leading up to what would undoubtedly be the best sleep of your lives, he drew you closer and treated your ear with a low, tired whisper.

"I love you, (F/N)... Thank you for being mine."

[cobragardens]

Red & Yellow Can Hurt a Fellow:

Color Symbolism in 1941 (Part 1)

(Plus Bonus Sundry 1941 Observations)

"Nazi Zombie Flesheaters" is such an interesting title, isn't it? You don't need to say flesheaters if you've already got zombie: it's redundant. It's like the title was chosen by someone unfamiliar with very basic zombie tropes. Also fwiw "Nazi zombie" is an anachronism: zombies did not exist in the popular consciousness before George Romero's Night of the Living Dead in 1968. I feel like maybe an angel titled this minisode. There is evidence both that the Metatron fucks with the story and that the flashbacks are Aziraphale's memories, so my guess is it's one of them.

***

In "The Colors of Crowley" I make an effort to evidence that crimson red is both the the color that symbolizes Crowley to Crowley and also the color that symbolizes passionate romantic love.

In light of that, here is this tiny beautiful moment:

As they did to each other in 1793, Crowley is sending a message here to Aziraphale with his clothes, so let us dwell on it.

Crowley's tie has Aziraphale's colors on it--white and blue-- in a design that connects two points (through a larger, dark point between them), one above and one below.

And Crowley opens his jacket with a flourish and shows Aziraphale the tie.

So first we we get this beautiful gesture of opening a covering and exposing a hidden, brighter, truer self beneath it, along with the metaphorical implications of exposing the heart and the guts, the snake showing its vulnerable red belly. Then the tie says, I like you. I'm wearing your colors. I want to be connected to you. And Crowley doesn't just display that message by opening his jacket, he then calls attention to it by straightening the tie.

Aziraphale gives no outward sign he has received this message. But.

There is so much red in this bookshop tonight.

The bookshop structure is brown and tan, with bright yellow in the back rooms (just as Aziraphale always has fear in the back rooms of his mind). But in this flashback there's a red carpet on the steps in front of the door, a red carpet on the floor in front of that, a display of red books on the circular tiered stand, a pile of red books in the corner, more red books on the windowsill behind Crowley's head, and the red velvet chair that Crowley's sitting on.

Here's the other side of that room, i.e., what Crowley is facing:

The walls of the bookshop are, again, brown and tan, but there's a red rug, red brocade on the front panel of the cashier's table, two red-upholstered chairs, and a red-stained chest of drawers Aziraphale is mostly blocking, plus another red thing in the right corner behind the stepladder that I can't even identify but that looks like the same velvet as the chairs. That's a determined effort to cram in as much red into a brown space as possible without actually taking a paintbrush to anything.

There are other metas showing how Aziraphale takes pains to make the bookshop into a welcoming place for Crowley [link if I find them again]. Just as likely imo his love of red and gold in soft furnishings is to remind himself of Crowley because they don't get to see each other very often.

But the books Aziraphale would be constantly rearranging, and buying more of, and possibly even occasionally selling when it can't be avoided; and bibliophiles do not generally organize their books by color. I therefore suggest two things are happening simultaneously here: on the Doylean (authorial) level, the set dressers are using the red notes in these backgrounds to symbolize the passionate romantic love Aziraphale has just realized he feels for Crowley; on the Watsonian (intra-story narrator) level, Aziraphale's feelings are "coloring" his memories.

This red as symbolic of Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley is not subtle. It starts immediately after his epiphany about those feelings--I mean literal sparks fly--

--and it does. not. let. up.

Note the other colors in the (brick red) dressing room besides red: blue, white, and off-white, Aziraphale's colors. There are even white and off-white feathers, indicating these are the angel's feelings we're being shown.

Brief digression. I've listened to this line several times now and for the life of me can't hear the final -s. I suspect Crowley may in fact say "Chalk up a win for the side of the angel," i.e., Aziraphale, which definitely makes Aziraphale's reaction of giddy delight track well, but I don't have a decent pair of headphones, so if someone would be willing to verify whether I've caught a Moment or just have romance on the brain, I'd be very grateful. [Update: I've got one confirmation so far that Crowley says "angels."]

Anyway. Note the splashes of blue and off-white surrounding Crowley, indicating all this red (he's sitting on a red velvet chaise btw) continues to be linked to Aziraphale's feelings for him. This whole narrative is drenched in Aziraphale's passionate romantic love.

Until this moment:

Now something really interesting happens. For the first time in the scene (I went back and checked), a bright spot of canary yellow suddenly becomes visible in the frame.

It's a jar of ostrich feathers, dyed bright yellow, on one of the dressing tables. How do we know it's meant to represent fear?

Because it already has done.

And remember how yellow is specifically fear of the head offices?

Look who shows up.

Now suddenly the camera shoots Aziraphale from a different angle, and yellow appears in the frame here, too--more fear.

The yellow feathers remain visible between Aziraphale and Furfur for the remainder of the scene.

So that's one gif and 18 stills I've shown you thus far in this essay about how the use of red in and yellow in this minisode is consistent with the use of red and yellow throughout Show Omens and is being used in a symbolically meaningful way, right? I mean they come down pretty hard on it.

So it's very interesting, in terms of colors, how the minisode ends.

Which I will talk about in Part 2!