#man who is insanely hard to draw core

[juiceyborger]

making a new piece of my oc evan bc i want to base my second tav for my solo bg3 playthrough off of him

decided to compare him to my older evan art and man i do NOT know how to draw this guy lol

[kavehayati]

Lord give me energy today eueueue

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Lone Warrior pt.2

summary :reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

a/n : tysm for the love on the first post hope u enjoy !!33

part 1 , part 3

" Y/n ?" Damian asks as he turns to Alfred , his face morphs into a mask of confusion . He has resided in his father's mansion for three years, and never has he heard of someone by that name ever being mentioned . He stared at Alfred curiously as he shuffled through the door and steeled himself to sit on the dusty bed .

Another reason that bewildered Damian to the core - he knew Alfred personally tended and cleaned all of Wayne Manor regardless if a space was used often or not so for this room to be neglected in this state itches at his mind .

" Y/n is one of your older adopted siblings Master Damian." Alfred begins . Damian huffs - ' Seriously, another charity case his father had to take pity on ? ' he thinks as his mind grew bored - the initial interest being lost . " Y/n was adopted around the time Master Jason had passed, and before Master Drake joined us," Alfred continued , paying no heed to Damian's uninterested look.

He rolls his eyes , " That's nothing special, Pennyworth. Besides, where are they if they're my supposed adopted sibling ?" Damian asks pointedly . Alfred goes silent for a few moments , wringing his worn hands together as he looks everywhere but at Damian .

" We do not know where Master Y/N is " he finishes - voice going soft . Damian quirks up an eyebrow, " Thats insane Pennyworth surely we have an inkling where they are - hell, we know where Jason is whenever he's being all pissy and distant !!" Damian exclaims .

" Master Damian , Master Y/N left when she was 14 without saying anything to anyone," Alfred explains as he stares at your bed with a face of longing . Silence draws out between them - Damian is too shocked to say anything . " Did father not bother to look for them ?" He asks carefully.

Another beat of awkward silence passes between them before Alfred answers with a quiet ' no ' . Nothing is said between them again for a while . " Why " Damian questions in disbelief - it's too uncharacteristic of his father to simply forget one of his own children - he is batman - batman always has a plan for everything - always thinks of possibilities- always solves anomalies - so why hadn't father cared enough about this ? About you ?

" I am afraid Master Name and Master Bruce never clicked seeing as ...they never once conversed for the scarce years she lived with us " Alfred shakily answers - it as if the thought of you haunts him deeply - maybe you do - maybe you do haunt the old man after all in his eyes you were the only normal child he had the pleasure of raising in Bruce's ward.

Damian says nothing , just walks around the room until he stops at an old portrait of a young girl - what he presumes a younger you . It's worn down from the years and pile of dust . Damian takes a good look at you , notes your dead eyes - dead eyes that reflect indifference to the world around you with hints of pain and endless suffering burrow within . Your hair is loosely tied behind with a ribbon behind . You are noticeably not smiling , even when you hold a giant ice cream cone in your hands - just a dead pan look staring back at him.

His hand caresses the portrait with care - he wonders what you are like . ' Were you someone kind ?' . ' Someone who takes and cares only for themselves? ' . 'Were you a born genius or hard worker type ? ' . 'A hero or maybe a villain ? ' . ' Were you a go with the flow person or practical?' .

' Why were you so unheard of ? ' , ' Why hadn't Father , Grayson, or Drake told him about you ?' So many questions he wants to demand but all left unanswered . " Tell me about them, Pennyworth." Damian demands , turning around to look at the old man .

Pennyworth sighs as he runs his hands along the sheets , " They were quiet - not the awkward type of quiet , the observing type - they didn't say much about themselves - only briefly mentioned her parents and life before . She was an incredible student , straight A's and incredibly independent .....in fact - I've never had to clean up Master Y/N because she insisted I hadn't because of my elderly age ....... she loved gardening and making little water fountains for the strays and the birds that used to come by . She loved apple tarts and loved to swim, but if K recalled properly , she hated whenever people talked about Arkham Asylum . " Alfrdd recounts.

Damian takes it all in - you sound complex - an enigma , sound so unlike himself and his siblings but alike at the same time . " Why did they hate Arkham Asylum?" He asks , intrigued . ' Were you close to Tood ?' , ' Had something happened to you for you to be there ?'.

" She never said - just ... expressed how inhumane Arkham Asylum is, " he finishes . Silence passes between them as Damian ponders on the response . " I must leave now Master Damian to prepare dinner," Alfred excuses himself as he leaves the room promptly.

Damian pays him no mind , eyes glued to your portrait with determination. There is something inside him that prompts him to take it - a siren call begging him to find you and if he's learnt anything in life - he knows it's best not to ignore a gut feeling .

With determination , Damian swipes your portrait, hiding it in his pocket before leaving .

Y/N sits on a rooftop , overlooking the vast skyline of distant skyscrapers . Each moment is precise as she she carefully tracks her target, leaving a store . Y/N uses the advantage of the setting sun's bright light to align her sniper's magnification on the target's neck . - A perfect disguise as the target wouldn't see her coming unless he wants to risk his eyesight .

The gun of the sniper is pressed against her cheek while her trained hand rests on the trigger as she patiently awaits the perfect moment . The target fishes out his phone and begins to converse while walking past an open dumpster - here, she carefully takes point and shoots .

She watches with a muted look as her target halts in their actions , blood spills from his head as he falls dumbly into the dumpster . " Great job agent 15 , a job well executed," a voice buzzes through her earpiece . Y/N tucks her sniper back into its discreet brief case before answering, " Thank you, agent 17 , permission to clock out for today's mission ?" Y/N asks into her intercom , the sun setting behind her in a beautiful arch as the wind blows past her .

" Permission granted , please return to base 15 " agent 17's motherly voice chimes in before cutting out . Y/N takes a good look at the setting sun - thoughts of her mother and father come to her mind - she wishes - she wishes she can cradle them both and comfort them with the knowledge that their daughter is putting a stop to crime but she knows it's wishful thinking - she knows mothers far too insane and father has long forgotten her but still - she's determined to prevent what's happened to her , happen to another person. Determined to save an innocent life from walking down the road she has .

With that , Y/N looks back at the setting sun's one last time before jumping off the rooftop and disappearing into the evening's abyss .

Damian sits in front of the bat computer as he busily types away . The batcomputer scans through hundreds of possible pictures of what Y/N would be grown up to look like now , another monitor is combing through the internet archives trying to find any presence of her .

He groans in frustration as a monitor displays another 'error' - ' how can a computer capable of decrypting alien tech be so incapable and useless when it comes to finding a missing person?' Damian thinks as he runs another program.

He leans back in the seat - exhausted and tired , it has been three hours and he has yet to find anything about you - not even your old school records, not even your own birth - it's like you were seamlessly erased from the earth and it does nothing but fuel his intrigue and nagging gut feeling to find you.

' Were you trafficked?' , ' Were you murdered and thrown away to rot in a ditch?' , ' Or used in some illegal organ transfer ?' So many thoughts course through his mind violently like a tornado.

He silently curses Bruce and Pennyworth in his mind -' how can they possibly allow a 14 year old girl to run away ? ' . ' What made her run away in the first place ?' . So many questions but no answers .

Damian was suddenly ripped out of his dilemma when a monitor began to go off . His head eagerly whipped towards it - almost snapping his neck at the pace . There on the screen , displayed a blurry security footage of a figure leaping off a building and disappearing into an alleyway along with your portrait from earlier - a 40% guaranteed match as the software compares both hair properties and the blurry closeups of your faces .

Damian's eyes widened in eagerness as he enlarged the footage and immediately ran it through software to find the footage's location . He feels his heart beat rapidly - this could be it - he could have found you ! - he might actually have done something, not even batman could do. Pride and accomplishment swell within him as he watches the loading screen complete and there - his answer to all his past questions display as bright as day , ' Russia ,Rostov-on-Don ' .

" Russia ?" He murmurs a bit confused . ' How did a 14 year old girl get to Russia of all places ?' He questions . He looks back at the blurry footage of what might be your figure leaping off the building and disappearing into an alleyway . Whatever the reason is , he is going to find out - he is going to take this sliver of hope and find you himself ." I am coming for you, sister," Damian declares as he promptly begins his preparations for Russia.

like + comment + share please!!

incorrect quotes

Taglist :

@bellethesleepypotato @1abi @pix-stuff @shadowytravelerlover @cxcilla @vanessa-boo @not-your-average-url @sirenetheblogger @fennecspage @cj-theyoungling @jsprien213 @lonelyladyghost @type-ink @ryuushou @twismare @crazycaoticsimp @bunnyharp @narmothewraith @leelovesmadly @geminis93

@rottmntdonnatello @levi-09 @anutellaa

@the-dumber-scaramouche @anyisaravia2001 @wiseduncherryblossom @nightwinggrayson12 @ghost-Orch1d

@allycat4458 @sunnydream91 @luxylucylou

[daryltwdixon]

Part 1 | Part 2 | masterlist

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun, aren’t we, bunny?” Summary: You should have been afraid. You should have been begging for your life, not begging for more. But the more he took, the more he pushed, the more he forced you to see what you really were, the more you broke for him. Because when you finally shattered, when your body gave in one last time, you understood—you hadn’t just loved the fear. You had craved it all along. || DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT 🕊️ horror, smut, MDNI 18+, Dark!Daryl Dixon, blood and implied violence, no walkers, motel room encounters, morally gray reader, predator/prey vibes, dubious situations and dubious consent (the reader whole heartedly consents they're just trying to reason with themselves that this is a terrible idea), serialkiller!Daryl, unprotected pinv, fingering, some f!recieving oral, itty bitty knife play, fear kink, Reader has issues™ a/n: once again a massive thank you to my friend @dixonsdarkelf for beta reading & making me feel not so insane for writing this ! Inspired by these gifsets x x

Your senses were on fire. Set ablaze like flint striking steel, sparking, catching, burning. Everything was heightened—every touch, every sound, every breath—yet anything beyond teeth, tongues, lips, and warmth faded into a distant, fevered haze. Even the scent of blood, thick and metallic in the air, blurred into the background, nothing more than a ghost of a thought as he took you against the door.

This unnamed man, the one who had seemed to know you the second he laid eyes on you, kissed you with so much veracity that you shook—no longer with fear, but with an overwhelming need to be closer. You pushed into him, the tension in your body unraveling as the warmth of his mouth settled into something unbearable, something dizzying, something that made every inch of your skin feel too hot, too sensitive, too much.

His fingers remained tangled in your hair, holding you there, keeping you pressed between him and the door as his lips moved slow but deep, tasting, teasing, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before his tongue licked into your mouth, swallowing the soft sound you didn’t mean to let out.

Your grip tightened in his robe, fisting the soft pink fabric as you pressed closer.

Then with a sudden, violent strength, he pushed you into the door hard enough that you expelled the air in your lungs with a grunt. The hinges whined against the broken frame, the solid weight of him pressing in, keeping you right where he wanted you. His hands shifted—one sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat, pressing just enough to make you gasp as he tilted your head back. The other grabbed at your shirt, yanking it down with no hesitation, dragging the fabric past your chest until your breasts spilled free.

A wicked smile played across his lips as his gaze dropped, hunger flashing in those sharp, dangerous blue eyes. He didn’t give you a moment to adjust, didn’t offer any pretense of gentleness before his mouth was on you, his lips wrapping around one of your hardened nipples.

Instead of the soft caress a lover might have given, he bit down.

Sharp, sudden, teeth sinking into your oversensitive flesh, making you cry out. Your hands flew up, fingers wrapping tight around his forearm where he held you back, your nails digging into his skin, but he only hummed against you, amused by the way you squirmed.

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun, aren’t we, bunny?”

His voice was thick with something rough and indulgent, his breath hot against your flushed skin as he chuckled, the sound vibrating around the aching peak of your breast. His tongue flicked out, laving over the bite, soothing the sting with something warm and teasing before he moved to the other, lips closing around it, sucking slow and deep before biting again.

The sharp pleasure-pain shot straight to your core, your head pressing harder against the door, breath shuddering as he worked you over, taking his time, drawing out every reaction.

Savoring every reaction, every gasp of breath he let you have as his hand tightened around your neck. 

His free hand dragged down your side, light, teasing, the contrast almost unbearable as his mouth continued licking, suckling, and nipping at your tender breasts. His fingers traced the soft curve of your body before slipping lower, playing at the waistband of your pants, hovering, waiting.

A shiver ran through you, your thighs pressing together on instinct, but he was watching you now. You could feel it even as you squeezed your eyes shut.

Then, he laughed. Low, warm, mocking.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” he murmured against your skin, voice dipping into something taunting, something mean. His fingers pushed just a little lower, teasing. “That why you’re squeezin’ your legs together, bunny? Tryin’ to pretend you don’t wanna spread ‘em for me?”

Your breath hitched, mortified, but before you could answer, his teeth moved up, scraping your collarbone, his voice lowering to a growl.

“I’m gonna need some kinda answer here, bunny.”

He groaned into your skin, grinding against you, his movements slow, deliberate, meant to make you feel every inch of him. There was no mystery to it—he was big, the thick outline of him pressing firm and heavy against your stomach through the thin fabric of his robe. The softness of it was stark against the hardness beneath, the heat of him pulsing through the fabric, aching, demanding. Each slow roll of his hips dragged him against you, the pressure teasing, measured, like he was making a point. 

“C’mon, sweet thing. Tell me you want it. Tell me how bad you want me.”

Your brain was screaming at you.

Stop. Think. There’s a dead body in the room.

You don’t know his name. He’s covered in blood. He’s dangerous.

And yet—his lips were still on your throat, his hands still exploring, teasing, and your body was still melting into him like none of that mattered. Like all that mattered was the heat rolling off him, the weight of his body pressing you harder against the door, the way every slow drag of his mouth set you on fire.

Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his robe, but this time, you weren’t pulling him closer. You were pushing at him, weakly, without force, your hands betraying your own hesitation. It was instinct. Some last-ditch, pathetic attempt at self-preservation. But you could feel the way his grip tightened, fingers flexing around your throat, keeping you still.

“No—” The word barely left you, breathless, shaky, uncertain.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate.

The warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin as he let out a low chuckle, lips curving against your throat like the sound itself amused him. He hummed, slow and thoughtful, like he was turning something over in his mind before finally speaking, his voice dipping lower, rough and thick with amusement.

“So you’re tryna tell me if I put my hand down your panties right now, you wouldn’t be soaked for me?”

The way he said it—so certain, so fucking smug, like he already knew the answer—made something inside you clench. Heat licked through your stomach, twisting tight, and before you could even attempt to deny it, before you could convince yourself to shove him away, his hand was already moving.

His touch was light, too light, barely there, but it sent a violent shiver racing down your spine. He wasn’t rushing or forcing anything. He was taunting, playing with you like a cat with a mouse in its claws.

He gave you plenty of time to stop him.

But you didn’t.

A slow, wolfish grin stretched across his face, like this was exactly what he expected, like he already knew your body was betraying you, and then he moved.

His fingers at your waistband slid lower, dipping beneath the fabric, slipping between your legs without hesitation, and the second he felt it—the moment his fingers met the dripping, messy pool of slick between your thighs—his grin faltered.

His breath hitched, chest rising against yours, and for the first time, that unwavering confidence wavered.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice suddenly rougher, thick with arousal. His fingers slid through the obscene wetness with no resistance, parting you easily, gliding over the swollen flesh he found there, coating his fingers with you. He pressed into you deeper, the heat of his skin against yours almost unbearable, fingers teasing at your entrance, feeling the way your body welcomed him, wanted him, clung to him like you were already desperate for more.

Your stomach twisted, face burning, a fresh wave of humiliation crawling up your throat. He groaned, deep and slow, like he was savoring the discovery, like the realization of just how wet you were for him was something he wanted to commit to memory. His free hand at your throat flexed, a slow, indulgent squeeze, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way your thighs instinctively pressed together even as you arched closer to him.

“Christ, bunny,” he exhaled, his voice heavier now, thick and oozing with satisfaction. His fingers dragged through the mess of slick again, slow and lazy, not giving you what you needed, just feeling you, learning the way your body reacted. “And you really tried tellin’ me you didn’t want this.”

The noise that left you wasn’t a whimper, but it was close enough to one to make him chuckle again, but this time, it wasn’t just amusement. This was something darker, something hungry, something filled with pride.

And then, too soon, too fucking soon, he pulled his fingers away.

Your breath shuddered, the loss of contact sending an unbearable ache twisting through your stomach, but before you could even process it, before you could decide if you wanted to stop him or chase him, you watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth.

You should have looked away.

But you watched as he sucked his fingers clean, slow and deliberate, his tongue dragging over every inch, savoring the taste of you like it was something rich and decadent.

It should have been disgusting. The remnants of dried blood still clung to the back of his hand, streaked up his wrist, smearing deeper into his skin as his lips closed around his fingers.

But instead of revulsion, all you felt was the sharp, aching pulse between your legs like a hunger that only grew.

The slick coated them, thick and glistening, and he licked it off slowly, dragging his tongue over the taste of you, sucking his fingers into his mouth as his half-lidded eyes never left yours. His tongue flicked out, licking up every last drop, taking his time, savoring you, enjoying every bit of what you had just given him without a fight.

Then, before you could react, he reached to you, dragging the wetness across your lips.

His touch was rough, unrelenting, marking you, smearing it against your mouth, your chin, watching as you shuddered under the weight of it.

“Taste yourself, bunny,” he murmured, voice thick, dripping with cruel satisfaction. “Since you’re so sure you don’t want this.”

Your chest heaved, your lips parted slightly, and for a split second, you almost did.

But then something inside you snapped.

Your head jerked away, your lips pressing together in refusal, the last bit of fight in you breaking through the haze.

His eyes darkened. The amusement didn’t disappear, but something shifted beneath it.

And then, before you could react, before you could take another breath, his hand on your throat was ripped away for an instant before it was back, but this time, the cold press of steel kissed your throat.

Your body locked up, your breath freezing in your chest.

The knife had appeared so fast you had barely seen him move, drawn from the pocket of his robe like it had been there all along, waiting, ready. He held it lightly, casually, the blade barely pressing against your skin.

Your pulse pounded against it.

His lips brushed against your ear, his voice slow, teasing, almost gentle.

“Maybe you just need a little encouragement,” he mused, his tone almost sweet, almost harmless, like he wasn’t holding a blade to your throat. His free hand slid back down between your legs, fingers cupping you over the denim of your pants, making you jump.

“Since you love bein’ so scared, little bunny.”

Then, with excruciating slowness, his fingers found the button of your jeans, popping it open before dragging the zipper down, the sound loud in the thick silence between you. He didn’t rush. Didn’t force. Just took his time, savoring the anticipation before moving his hand between your thighs, pressing against the heat of you through the thin fabric beneath.

The knife stayed at your throat.

His lips pressed against your jaw, warm, deliberate, teasing. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t have to. His breath was warm when he muttered, “Now, let’s see if you can keep pretending you don’t like this.”

The words sank into you, curling around the last fragile thread of resistance you had left.

He pushed your panties aside with deft fingers and dragged through your slick, swirling slowly over your swollen clit, and it was too much, too sudden, too good. Your knees nearly buckled, your eyes rolling back before you could stop them, your hands scrambling against his robe, searching for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself.

You weren’t fighting anymore.

Your body had given up the charade before your mind had.

“Gonna need to hear it,” he growled, his voice rough, hungry, like he was done waiting for you to stop lying to yourself.

The words were out before you even thought about them.

“Yes, yes, yes—fuck, I want it. Please, I want you.”

The sound of your own voice startled you. Desperate, wrecked, raw. It felt foreign. Like it was coming from someone else, someone shameless, someone who wasn’t supposed to exist inside you.

But she did.

She had been there all along.

And she was the one moaning when he dragged his fingers lower, pushing two thick digits into your clenching, desperate pussy.

The stretch had you gasping, head pressing back against the door, body arching, hips tilting forward to take more, more, more.

The noises spilling from your lips didn’t feel like yours anymore. This wasn’t you.

But maybe it was.

Maybe this was the version of you that had been buried for years—the version of you that craved fear, submission, control, that had spent her entire life running straight toward danger just to see if she would survive it.

Maybe you had always wanted this.

Maybe you had just been waiting for someone like him to find you.

His thick fingers pumped into you, slow but deep, dragging slick from your core with every deliberate stroke. His thumb moved in a lazy circle over your clit, the touch surprisingly gentle, almost soothing—a cruel contrast to the way he had you pinned against the door, to the cold bite of steel resting at your throat.

The knife felt sharper now, pressing just enough to remind you it was there, the cool metal stark against the fevered heat of your skin. The whole room felt too hot, too small, too full of him, with his breath ghosting over your jaw, his chest solid against yours, and his voice thick and indulgent as he dragged you deeper, deeper, deeper into this.

A broken moan tore from your lips as he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot, the one deep inside you that made your stomach tighten, your back arch, your legs threaten to give out.

“Oh, fuck—” you whimpered, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into whatever you could hold onto, fighting to stay upright as your body clenched around him.

His mouth curled against your cheek, amused. Pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured, his voice rough with something dark and satisfied. “Knew you’d give in, bunny. Just had to get you to admit it.”

His fingers pumped harder, slick and messy, shoving you closer to the edge with every stroke. The pressure of the knife didn’t waver. It stayed exactly where he wanted it, pressed against the delicate skin of your throat, making every breath feel shallow, dangerous, intoxicating.

"You gonna come for me?" he mused, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with arrogance. "Or you still gonna pretend this ain't what you wanted all along?"

You couldn't answer—not with the way he was fucking you with his fingers, not with the way your whole body was unraveling, breaking apart, coming undone.

And he knew it.

He fucking knew it.

“I’m gonna–oh god–” you moaned, your back arching at an almost inhuman angle as he kept you pinned, as the knife at your throat kept you grounded, your body caught in that sharp balance between pleasure and fear. “Can I please—please?”

His lips curled against your skin, pleased, smug.

“Love when you beg so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough, thick with indulgence. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh of your pulse point, dragging slow over the frantic beat beneath your skin, teasing, threatening. His fingers didn’t slow, didn’t ease up, didn’t fucking stop, working you harder, dragging you right to the edge.

His grip never wavered, the blade steady, firm, resting against your pulse like a silent threat. Like a promise.

"Come. Now." The command was rough, guttural, fingers driving into you harder, sharper. "Don’t hold back. Don’t fucking fight it. Wanna feel you squeeze me. Give it up, bunny."

Your mouth dropped open, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure hit you all at once, your whole body tightening, legs threatening to give out, the pleasure tearing through you so violently it almost hurt.

And just as you shattered apart in his hands—

He bit down. Hard.

Teeth sinking into your neck, marking you, branding you, his mouth hot and unrelenting, drinking down every sound, every desperate cry as you came around his fingers, as you broke completely.

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you in uneven waves as his teeth finally eased from your neck, lips dragging over the fresh mark he’d left behind. You barely had the chance to catch your breath before his fingers slid from inside you, leaving you empty, aching, still twitching from the force of your release.

You gasped as he pulled back, his grip steady as he guided you upright, keeping you from collapsing entirely. The knife was gone now, slipped away just as quickly as it had appeared, but the ghost of its cold steel still lingered against your throat, the reminder settling deep in your bones.

Still catching your breath, your limbs felt weightless, unsteady, the lingering tremors in your legs making it nearly impossible to hold yourself upright. You weren’t sure if you would have moved at all if it weren’t for the sudden warmth of his hand wrapping around yours.

Your fingers twitched in his grip, a brief hesitation, but he didn’t let go. His touch was firm, grounding, leading you away from the door with a slow, deliberate pull. 

Your legs wobbled, still weak, but he didn’t seem concerned. If anything, the smirk tugging at his lips made it clear he liked seeing you like this—wrecked, breathless, too unsteady to even move without his help.

"Not done with you yet, bunny," he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he led you across the room.

You barely registered the direction he was taking you, still floating somewhere between the high of release and the lingering haze of adrenaline. It wasn’t until your hips hit the edge of something solid that your mind caught up.

The counter.

The mirror in front of you was wide, stretching across the wall above the surface, the reflection hazy in the dim motel lighting. You could see yourself—disheveled, undone, lips swollen, the fresh mark on your throat already bruising. And behind you, he stood close, his body radiating heat, his grip still wrapped around your wrist. He pulled your hand to rest with his at your lower back, only one hand to support yourself up on the cold countertop as he bent you in half.

“Right here, bunny,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, lower, almost soothing. His other hand smoothing over your waist, fingers tracing over your hips as he guided you into place.

Your gaze flickered to the mirror, following the line of his arms, the shape of his body hidden under the pink robe caging you.

And just beyond it, in the reflection—

The bed.

The body.

It’s head was turned in your direction, almost like it was watching.

A fresh chill crawled down your spine, sinking its teeth into the heat still simmering in your veins. You swallowed, pulse flickering unevenly, but before your mind could catch up, his lips brushed your shoulder, warm and slow.

“Eyes up,” he murmured, voice deep and edged with something almost… gentle. “I want you to watch.”

His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers brushing over your knuckles for a fleeting second before he let go. For half a second, you thought maybe he was easing up.

Then his hands were back on you—rough, unrelenting, impatient.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he ripped your jeans down, yanking them past your hips with one sharp tug, the force of it knocking you further against the counter. The denim scraped down your thighs, dragging over your knees before he picked up each of your feet to take them off completely, discarding them across the room.

The second they hit the floor, he was already hooking his fingers into your panties, wasting no time before peeling them off too, this time slower, like he was teasing himself until you were completely bare for him.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp breaking free—but before you could even react, before you could catch up to reality, his mouth was on you.

“Oh—!” The sound tore from your throat, breathless, shocked, your legs nearly giving out as heat exploded under your skin. Instead of pulling away, instead of standing back up, he dragged you closer, one hand gripping your thigh as his tongue flattened against your folds, licking deep, messy, hungry.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, obscene, echoing off the cheap motel walls. You could feel him groan into you, feel the vibration of it, like he was savoring the taste of you, drinking down the remnants of your last orgasm like he needed it, like he couldn’t help himself.

One last slow, filthy swipe of his tongue, and then he pulled away, standing to his full height, his breath warm against your back, the heat of him pressing into you from behind.

"Just needed a taste," he muttered, his voice rough, low, still thick with hunger.

His hand found your hip, fingers digging in, keeping you still as he leaned over you. You could feel him grin, feel the heat of it against your shoulder.

Your gaze snapped to the mirror as you felt him shift behind you.

In his hand that he brought up, was holding your panties. They dangled from his fingers like a trophy, like a fucking prize.

The fabric looked so obscene in his grip, white lace contrasting starkly against the dark red of dried blood still smeared up his wrists, staining the soft material, ruining it.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, eyes locked on yours in the reflection.

“Keepsake,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, before tucking them into the pocket of his robe like they belonged to him all along.

Then, he moved to stand straight, the absence of him making you shiver. Something in your stomach clenched, but then you heard the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor.

Your breath hitched, your gaze drinking him in through the mirror.

He was bare now, the absurd pink robe crumpled at his feet, nothing left between you but heat, want, and the lingering scent of blood still clinging to his skin.

He was all hard muscle and soft belly, broad shoulders tapering into a strong chest, lean but striking, the cut of his hips dipping into the thick, aching proof of his arousal. His arms were strong and gorgeously toned. But it was the blood—streaked across his throat, dried against his knuckles, smeared over the ridges of muscle on his torso—that made your pulse stutter, made you squeeze your thighs together despite yourself.

A slow smirk curled on his lips as he watched you take him in, his hands finding your hips again, pressing against them, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who was in control.

His hand trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate, fingertips ghosting over the sensitive ridges of your back before pressing firm between your shoulder blades. A silent command. A demand. He pushed you down, bending you further over the counter, your chest meeting the cold surface.

A sharp shock of contrast coursed through you—the chill of the countertop biting at your bare skin while your body burned, throbbed, pulsed everywhere he had touched. Your nipples stiffened against the cool surface, the ache mingling with the unbearable heat twisting through your veins. 

“Now,” he rasped, his voice darker now, lower, aching with need. “Let’s see how good you look takin’ it.”

Behind you, he exhaled slowly, dragging his cock through your leaking arousal, teasing, coating himself in you.

“Fuckin’ soaked for me,” he muttered, almost in awe, almost reverent. “Drippin’ down your thighs, bunny. Ain’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your breath shuddered, your legs trembling as he pressed in, just the head pushing inside, stretching you open.

The burn was immediate, a sharp, toe-curling ache that had you whimpering, your hands scrambling against the counter, nails dragging against the surface. He was thick, too thick, too big, and he knew it, moving slow, forcing you to take every inch.

"Shhh," he hushed, voice syrup-thick with amusement, smoothing a hand over your lower back as he pushed in deeper. "You can take it, bunny. Bein’ so good for me."

Your walls clenched around him, the sheer stretch of him forcing your body to adjust, forcing your breath to come in ragged gasps as your head swam.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice almost soothing, his thumb stroking lazy circles over your hip, a small, almost mocking comfort as he split you open on his cock. "Givin’ me everythin’, huh? Knew you’d be so good."

He bottomed out with a deep, guttural groan, his fingers tightening on your hips as he held himself there, letting you feel just how deep he was.

Your forehead pressed against the counter, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. The stretch was overwhelming, unbearable, too much.

And then he moved.

Not slow. Not gentle.

He pulled back halfway before slamming forward, the force of it shoving you up against the counter, a strangled cry escaping your lips as he set a brutal pace, hips slapping against your ass with every deep, unforgiving thrust.

"Fuck—look at you," he rasped, his grip tightening, dragging you back onto him every time you jolted forward. "Takin’ this cock so good, bunny. Soundin’ so pretty."

The praise made your stomach tighten, heat curling deep in your gut, your mind swimming in the overwhelming sensation of him fucking you open, taking you apart.

Every thrust was hard, precise, brutal, every inch of him forcing you to take more, to feel more, to drown in it.

His body leaned over you, fingers moving between your legs, finding your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the swollen flesh. You squirmed, body shaking as the pleasure ripped through you too fast, too hard, pushing you to the edge so quickly it was almost humiliating.

"There it is, bunny. Wanna feel this sweet, tight cunt come on my cock now," he muttered, his breath hot, ragged, teeth grazing your shoulder. "C’mon now. Give it to me."

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a fucking wrecking ball, pleasure crashing through you in violent, uncontrollable waves as your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, holding him inside you.

His groan was wrecked, almost desperate, his thrusts turning sloppy, frenzied, chasing his own high. But just when you thought you might drown in it, when you thought he might finish just like this, his hands moved again.

His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight at the base of your skull before he yanked you upright, pulling you flush against his chest.

Your breath hitched, your hands flying to the counter for balance.

The mirror loomed in front of you, your reflection raw and ruined, lips parted, sweat-damp hair clinging to your forehead, bruises blooming on your throat.

And behind you—he looked like something primal.

Eyes dark, predatory, hair falling into his face, his skin slick with sweat and streaked with blood. He kept you up against him with his arm snaking around you, the crook of his elbow at your throat, arm smattered with dry blood across your neck.

The sight of him—fucking you, wrecking you, devouring you whole— made your stomach convulse, a fresh wave of arousal pooling low.

His smirk curled against your jaw, his lips dragging against the shell of your ear as he fucked you harder, deeper, forcing you to watch.

"Eyes on the mirror, bunny," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, with possession.

Your pulse thundered, the haze of pleasure still thick, still overwhelming–

But then, his gaze flicked lower.

To the bed. To the body.

His thrusts slowed, just barely, just enough to make you feel the shift.

"Now, tell me somethin'," he muttered, his arm moving back enough to grab your chin with his hand, tilting your head just slightly.

Your eyes followed. The body lay still. Exactly where it had been.

But as you really got a look at the face turned towards you…

Your breath caught.

Your whole body locked up.

He watched you in the mirror, his smirk widening as your expression shifted, as the horror finally settled into your features.

"That’s right," he murmured, mock sympathy laced through his voice. "You know him, don’t you, bunny?"

The realization crashed down like ice water, freezing the lingering heat in your veins, making your stomach twist so violently you thought you might be sick.

A choked sound escaped you, something weak, something small.

Because you did.

The man lying motionless on the bed—

It was the man you had seen earlier.

The one who had been watching you.

The image slammed into you all at once.

That feeling. That thick, crawling awareness. The quiet, animal instinct that had made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, that had tightened your stomach before you even knew why.

You had seen him. Standing under that broken streetlight, just watching you.

Not moving, not speaking, not pretending to be anything other than what he was.

A predator.

And now he was dead.

“Oh my god,” you heard yourself say, somewhere in the distant haze of it all.

The room tilted, spun, a wave of cold terror slamming through you so hard it nearly sent you forward.

But before you could collapse under the weight of it, before you could fall completely into the abyss of fear choking you from the inside out,  the man slammed his cock into you again with a force so hard you cried out, the force of it shoving you forward, his arm back at your throat, keeping you against his chest, forcing you to take him deeper, to feel every brutal, punishing inch of him.

"Oh, that get you goin’, bunny?" His voice was low, mocking, thick with amusement as his grip tightened around your neck, forcing you to look. Your reflection stared back at you, ruined, wrecked, your eyes wide with fear, your body still trembling, still taking every brutal thrust he gave you.

"That why you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight? You like that? Liked knowin’ what I did for you?"

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, forcing you to take it, forcing you to feel it.

"The thing is, bunny," he grunted, his breath ragged, his pace unrelenting, "I saw the way he was watchin’ you. Saw the way he was followin’ you from the second your car pulled in."

His fingers dug into your shoulder as his arm held you tight against him, his grip bruising, possessive as his mouth was hot in your ear.

"I saw the way he looked at you. That sick fuck was plannin’ somethin’. Could see it all over his face. I wanted to rip him apart the moment I saw him."

His thrusts grew rougher, sharper, more desperate, like the memory of it alone was sending something wild through him.

"So I did."

He exhaled against your cheek, his voice dropping so low it barely rose above the sound of skin slapping against skin.

"And then…" His pace never faltered, never softened, rolling his hips slow but deep, letting you feel every inch of him, letting you think about what you’d done. "I didn’t even have to come lookin’ for you."

His arm tightened on your throat, just enough to feel your pulse race beneath his bloodied skin.

"You found me, didn’t you, bunny?”

A soft chuckle, dark and pleased.

"Coulda kept walkin’. Coulda gone right back to your room, pretended you didn’t see a damn thing." His free hand continued the slow, taunting circles over your clit, too much and not enough all at once. It wasn’t just teasing—it was methodical, cruel, meant to keep you exactly where he wanted you, stuck between the horror twisting in your gut and the unbearable pressure building lower. "But you just had to see, didn’t you? Had to come find the monster all by yourself."

The words hit something deep again, because he was right.

You had been running from something all night, but it wasn’t just your family, wasn’t just the life waiting for you back home. You had been searching for something, something dangerous, something that made you feel, something that made your blood rush hot in your veins and your stomach twist in knots.

And when you had heard the body hit the floor, when you saw the blood on the doorstep—when your pulse had spiked, not from terror, but from something else entirely—you had known.

You could have ignored it. Should have locked yourself away in your room. Should have closed your eyes and forced yourself to sleep, but you hadn’t.

You had walked straight to him.

You had found him.

And now, he had you.

Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against the countertop, your lungs locking up like they couldn’t decide whether to gasp for air or hold it in forever. The horror, the pleasure, the realization—it all crashed into you at once, an unbearable, unstoppable wave that swallowed you whole.

It was too much. The fear, the shame, the pleasure—all tangled together until there was no telling where one ended and the other began. The pressure in your stomach wound so tight it ached, so tight it burned, so tight it felt like it might rip you in two.

He kissed the corner of your jaw, slow and taunting, lips curling against your sweat-damp skin.

"You’re all mine now, little bunny." 

The pleasure hit like a shockwave, ripping through you, forcing a cry from your lips so raw you barely recognized it as your own. Your walls clenched down around his fingers, pulsing, spasming, locking onto him like they never wanted to let go.

Your body convulsed, trembling violently in his hold, wrung out so hard it almost hurt. Your head spun, your vision blurred, your pulse pounded between your legs as wave after wave dragged you under, over and over, pulling you deeper until there was nothing left but the aftermath—wreckage and ruin and the undeniable truth settling heavy in your chest.

"And you’re always gonna remember who got to you first."

The words should have felt like a brand, like a claim.

Maybe they did.

Maybe that’s why, when your vision finally cleared, when your gaze lifted to meet his black eyes in the mirror…

Your lips curled into a grin.

[technically-a-kiwi]

I humbly request some core information I must know before I start drawing the cosmic chars for the next 2-9 days

just so I don’t mischaracterize any of them cuz then I would cry and I cry glitter mixed with acid

hum… core info you say ? 🤔

it’s a little hard, there’s no wrong or right way to go with them

in general the cast is a mix of chaos, silliness, otherworldly and MESSED UP. If you keep that in mind you’re already off to a good start

for each character tho hum…

well for starters, C Pep is just regular Peppino really x), stressed out and very impulsive in his emotions and actions. The major difference is that he has a much bigger knowledge about pretty much everything, basically you can bet that if you’re looking for something, he knows what you’re talking about and can give you precise details about it. Oh and of course, he’s basically like a sun here, any strong emotion will make him shift and go up in flames, everything in him is flames, he's just a big ball of flames.

For C Noise, again, it's just The Noise, chaotic, over the top, witty, and INSANE, but with the host attribute very exaggerated, passive agressif with every sentence and not taking his guests too seriously, often destabilizing them for a good laugh. He barely has a moral compass, willing to do anything for a good scoop, for a good program, create a kaiju fight in the middle of a city ? Let's go ! Change the color of the sky just to record people's reaction? Roll the cameras. All there is to know is he's basically a chaos god who records his mischief, always a smile on his face, he loves to mess with people, even with his fellow cosmic entities (to Peppino's displeasure) .

C Noisette is still Noisette, kind, bubbly, head in the clouds. She loves to talk, basically being a chatterbox, a little annoying if you're not into long conversations. She'll talk to anybody but C Noise, why ? Nobody knows, she'll always make the " >:( " face when she sees him, and promptly leaves, even if she's in the middle of a conversation.

C Pepperman is kind of the same as Pepperman, the self absorbed artist, marginal and very peculiar. He just DESPISE Peppino for holding the power of creation, either gaslighting or acting passive agressif toward him. Other than that he just acts like THE scholar of art, always bragging about his work, how his powers allow him to do what is impossible for mortals or talking about random art stuff (like composition, the meaning of colors...) and if you dare think he's annoying, you can bet he'll give you a lecture... Or turn you into a pepper... It depends...

C Vigilante is kind of different, he's just a very chill cheeseslime living in the country side of a cheese village, being the tired old man on the swinging chair, telling stories to younger cheeseslimes about the cosmic realm, legendary creatures, he takes care of his little farm, just living life you know. Although he's VERY paranoid about the cast coming over one day, he's convinced that they want to destroy him or his world, he's chill... But with a hint of stress...

The Ticket booth is very... Strange... It's actions are very aleatory, but it's fairly tamed. What he wants the most is for people to have a ticket, if you don't have a ticket, it won't bother to talk to you, if you want a ticket maybe he'll address you. If it considers you as some kind of threat (scammer, stealer, someone trying to kill a possible clients) that's when he unravels the horrors

C Pizzahead is kind of like Pizzahead, he's wiser than his classic counterpart, keeping the silliness for the stage only, but that doesn't stop him from cracking a joke or two here, a little prank there, he found the right amount of balance to be loved and unravel pure silliness. He's REALLY chaotic on stage (dangerous too...), but kind of a funny clown outside of the stage.

C Mr Stick is not much like og Mr Stick, he's stern, concentrated on his book, not caring much about stuff around him, he's not as interested in money as his counterpart, but he does love collecting more riches "hey, you're gonna use that 5 dollars ?" You see ? He's almost constantly the nose down his book, keeping track of everything and anything, you can ask him about the state of a random graph and he'll tell you ! When he's not counting or keeping track of stuff, he's building some random object, like an automatic spoon or paint thinner brush...

This took some time to write down oh my... I fear it's a little too much for being just the core, but I hope this will help you

[theside-b]

Spoilers for the novel (and my review for the Live Action) ahead :

The boys do get together, but that act ends with their break up when people find out that Tian and Wang are romantically involved, unlike in Unknown where everyone was ok with Qian and Yuan getting together in A Certain Someone the fact that they are 'brothers' plays a huge role at that stage of their relationship and the eventual demise of their first attempt at a romance. Their break up lasts 6/7 years, don't remember exactly, but its a long time...

A lot more happens, but the show made some fundamental changes to both characters. It takes A LONG time for Tian to come to terms with his own feelings, that scene where he sees his father with another man in bed tints his whole worldview from a very young age — he develops quite the internalized homophobia; he is fine with other's queerness but it's his own that he cannot accept since he sees his father sexual orientation as the reason for the destruction of his family.

There is a tense moment between Tian and his father, where his dad says "we are more alike than you care to admit" hinting that he knows of what its happening between the boys and mind you Tian is still trying to sort out what he feels for Wang. The show sugarcoats quite a lot, novel's Tian would never initiate a kiss with Wang or even play along like he did in the show, at least not at that stage of their relationship.

Speaking of which, Wang is also different in the books. In the show he reads as pretty open minded, curious about anything and everything. In the novel he's pretty straight (at first), the journey really begins as a bromance until the feelings start to change. There is a lot of push and shove between the two of them, and is veeery slow.

The show pretty much burns bright the part where Wang tears Tian's emotional walls. Which I don't mind, otherwise it would take 50 episodes to wrap the first act. I honestly thought they were going to draw an original route for the show, but they are slowly adapting elements they left behind so they can follow the book.

Now for the review:

All in all, I think the show did a good job all things considered: production began in mainland China where Liu Dong was cast, but censorship hinders lgbtqia+ productions there so pre-production moved to Taiwan and there the rest of the casting was done. It's hard to tell how much of that interfered in the script but I assume Tian's father core plot was removed in the first draft and got re-integrated once production moved to Taiwan (Chris Lee's casting was one of the last to be announced which probably means he was also one of the last to join filming). Considering that productions like The Spirealm got pulled for much less is understandable that they would avoid the more thorny subjects under China's homophobic gaze.

(Educated guess here: considering all the publicity push, I imagine either Andy Cheng or Stan Huang were the choices for Wang, but since Liu's casting was an order from one of the financial backers they got smaller roles — it's a common move in taiwanese productions — by the way, there is a 'love triangle' later, is a sad thing since there is no-way you can split the main couple, but the show made me wonder who is going to be playing the third party in the live action).

As I always say about taiwanese shows: you have to watch the live play. The On1y One is much like it's local peers, it works wonders in small doses, but as soon as you see the whole picture you start to see the cracks. It reminded me a lot of Kiseki: Dear to Me in the sense that the main couple story is the emotional backbone, with a somber approach with brief moments of humor but everything surrounding it is slightly unhinged.

Everything that happened at that school was insane. The amount of crimes committed in the school grounds was ridiculous, the fact that Qi Jia Hao didn't ended up behind bars after ordering thugs to attack Wang and assault the english teacher is crazy. The whole side-plot involving the teachers was head-scraching by the way, much like everyone else I assumed that Zhao Xi and Benny were married when they were introduced.

Imagine my surprise finding out that not only they were not married but at one point Zhao Xi thought Benny could be interested in the english teacher (speaking of her, why the hell did she sounded dubbed? Is that not her real voice?). This whole story felt so disjointed from everything else, and it came at the tail end of the season(?), so not only it took some much suspension of disbelief for me to buy that these 40-year old gays were that emotionally impaired but also demanded patience since they spent very valuable screen time which could've benefited the main couple.

That is all to say that while I was having a blast while watching, the more I stop and think about it critically the more problems I see in this show. And again, that usually happens with taiwanese productions, experienced the same with Kiseki and Unknown, two shows that I adore, flaws and all, and now the same happens with The On1y One.

[mediacircuspod]

Feeling insane about Lucifer in Hazbin Hotel bc you could read so much into the apple motifs truly everywhere around him. And I will.

Obviously the instances that draw the most attention are the staff and the tophat. But if you look deeper into lore about Hazbin Hotel and the Hellaverse you find lulu world and loo loo land and OTHER Lucifer themed amusement parks/circus shows. All whose mascots are garish, but they are also APPLES. And to have the apple, which is so obviously representative as being THE GIFT he gives to humanity being so prominent in all designs that even allude to Lucifer, is such a strong and loud choice. For it to be so vividly called upon and referenced is so very interesting, because it ties this fallen Angel to one single defining choice that is widely suggested to have doomed the entire earth to suffering.

But those aren’t even close to the most interesting instance by far. Because it has to be the coat, right? It has to be the act of physically cloaking yourself in the symbol, therefore making YOU the gift. But it’s not quite an apple, though, is it? His coat, though the imagery is more subtle than other apple references, is deliberately designed to visually liken itself to an apple CORE.

A physical manifestation of leftovers, the common conclusion to what happens after an apple is given as a gift.

The trash.

To have a character that has the baggage that Lucifer already has; an entity attributed with the fall of first himself and then all of humanity, dress himself as the used and useless part of the apple, is so wildly coded for tragedy. And it works for me. Because Angel or not, Lucifer is a man who is so violently defined by everyone in the context of a single action that he, himself also defines himself by it.

It is a statement, though he may not understand what he’s actually saying—I might even be inclined to believe that this particular claim is entirely unconscious, but even subliminally it is bold.

He’s saying he’s the gift. The gift of knowledge and dreams and free will. He is saying “The snake might be the usual emphasis but what I really am is the apple. I am the gift that was accepted and used and cast aside. I am the thing you regret and repent over. I am the apple core.”

And wow is that such an interesting statement to make about the actual serpent that doomed mankind(I’m not religious in the slightest but I still think this concept goes hard) because it showcases such a level of loathing directed directly at himself, and his choices, and everything he represents. It proves that he looks at his gift to humanity and sees only the pain it’s brought. He doesn’t believe in his cause anymore. He gave humanity knowledge and hope and dreams and joy and pride and the will to strive for all of those wonderful things, and he is regretful. He is downtrodden. He views himself, the king of hell, as the trash leftover after the greatest mistake in all of creation.

That’s so insanely tragic, but it can be looked at in a different light as well.

Because the core of an apple hosts something very important; the potential for great and lasting growth. The thing that makes Lucifer so dangerous to heaven that they had to crush him, and beat him down, to banish him, and to kill his people, and to keep him separated from the good in the world, is that his very being fosters growth. And they wanted him to forget that.

And they almost succeeded. But they made one mistake. They underestimated his daughter. And the second that Lucifer decides to support her dreams, what does he say????

He says “looks like the apple doesn’t fall far”

And well. I just think that’s neat.

[shiraishi-kanade]

On topic of, like, An and mixed events. Allow me to reiterate that I want Mafuyu and An to know each other so much it's kind of insane of me.

Because there's Mafuyu, who doesn't know who she is, who is conflicted of what she wants to do in her life, who doesn't know how to handle it at all; and then there's An Shiraishi, the girl that claims and owns every single part of her identity with stubborn shameless; she is Ken's daughter, she's Nagi's student, she is apple of the Vivid Street's eye, she's reckless and daring and all the thousands of different things and she owns up to being all of them. Growing up on Vivid Street, being a singer, being her father's daughter are all core tenants of An's identity - and her identity is incredibly stable, and she draws her confidence and passion in it, too.

Because there's Mafuyu, her dream of being a nurse seemingly taken away from her, and then there's An, a girl who's taken her dream by the horns, challenging the wall, trying to do the impossible.

Because there's Mafuyu, Mafuyu Asahina, the perfect, helpful, intelligent and eloquent and hard-working honor student, but all of that is fake, a mask, and then there's An Shiraishi, who could not give less of a damn about school but is truly, earnestly endlessly kind and gracious to other people, who treets everyone with open mind and heart-

And you can't tell me An would not take the first step towards Mafuyu. You can't tell me An wouldn't want to be Mafuyu's friend, regardless of who Mafuyu is or isn't, because An can see Mafuyu needs one, and that's all that matters for her to try.

And you can't tell me Mafuyu wouldn't take even a slightest bit of relief in having An as her friend, someone who just... Accepts her the way that she is, someone who genuinely wants her company when she isn't perfect, in fact, someone who would go out of her way to show her that she is okay as she is.

Of course, it's not that Mafuyu doesn't have a solid support group already. But, man. Anmafu.

[1q84]

the studio i'm at has been actively crumbling around me for months so the writing has been on the wall for a while but i just got the dreaded mystery meeting with my supervisor added to my calendar for monday 😭 MAN! ramble ->

have to get it out of my system for my own sake. this is my diary!! i've been doing some cursory job searching and mentally preparing for a while now seeing as we've gotten no new projects and they've laid off DOZENS of ppl the past several months (there are legit like 4 of us left idk how i made it this far) but it's really rough out here... animation industry is in shambles rn (in addition to vfx, gaming, entertainment in general) and tons of extremely talented people i know who have been in the biz for years and years are unable to find work anywhere for months now. sucks!! scrolling thru linkedin rn is insane LOL everyone is holding hands and coping so hard

scared to join their ranks bc we're already pretty paycheck to paycheck over here and while i can probably stretch myself for a couple months, it won't be long before the situation gets rly difficult, so i'm trying to scheme up side hustles too just to tide myself over (if anyone has any suggestions in this realm they are welcome...).

lately i've been thinking about taking the dive and trying to switch gears to art, which is my one true lifelong love, certainly moreso than editorial. but that's scary too - i can draw and think i can learn what i need to, but i'm lacking a lot of fundamentals core to being a professional artist and most importantly the experience to slap on a resume/portfolio. that + the general anxiety around AI swooping in and eliminating a lot of artist jobs in an already highly competitive line of work really sucks. but maybe this is a golden opportunity in disguise - i'm lucky enough to already be in the industry i wanna stay in, and am connected w several storyboard and concept artists as well. the animation network bubble is smaller than you'd think. i know plenty of ppl pivot in the industry since a lot of smaller studios offer flexibility like that. i mean shit, before it got canned, the director of the last big project we had was desperately asking me if i knew how to draw/storyboard since they were stretched a bit thin. (i did not have the skills to storyboard sadly but it goes to show the opportunity may present itself again if i learn). and at that point i was just assisting with animatic editing (which was also fun and i learned a lot!!)

at the end of the day i just wanna stay around animation, even if that means staying in editorial. it really charges me up to see a creative project grow and to be surrounded by concept art. it's like watching something slowly come to life, and when it's done well it's really exciting. if i can be around that as often as possible, i won't have much to complain about

the other silver lining is that i've become closer with my coworkers than ever, especially as our numbers dwindled and we all huddled together for support lol. i see them constantly ofc just bc of having a 40 hour work week, but we've also been hanging out on the weekends and after work all the time and even played hooky last week to go to disney and turn our brains off for the day. i'll still hangout with them after all is said and done and we're all ready and gearing up to move on, but i'm really gonna miss having that dynamic with them

okay i'm typing too much but it's nice to get some thoughts down. anyways i'm gonna start working on finally building a website for myself tonight after planning the design and layout of it for a while, i'm lucky my bf knows what he's doing in that regard and can help me 😤

[skeletood]

PLEASE please please tell us all about your thoughts regarding davesprite. it does NOT HAVE TO BE COHERENT!!

FINALLY THE KIND OF ASKS I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR.

I mean, it's nothing insane or hasn't already been said before. but god damn the knight making the ultimate sacrafice thing and then it never going appreciated fucks me up. plus it's fucking dave so the dude already spent his life under appreciated so this kid cant catch a fucking break. somebody i was talking to the other day said something about the guardian angel going thankless ? yeah dude imagine doing that when ur 13 and just want yourself and your only friends to live. fucks me right up dude dave is such a good fucking person to his core.

SO FUCKING MAD HE DIDN'T GET LIKE. Idk man i felt like he was actually getting set up for a lot more. like yknow, the dude that had to give up everything for the alpha timeline to keep going? he just gets shit on by his best friend for three years, explodes sometimes and then idk fuckin turned into a cat girl? THAT'S how you one let one of the most important daves to go out?? man... ok i guess..... i guess it is something of a reminder of like. the futility and how little the dead players mean to the alpha timeline. like, you were important but you're still just some stepping stone and i cant even imagine how hard that is for the dude who already doubted he could he anything great or heroic. FUCKING DAVES NOT THINKING THEYRE HEROIC AND THEN SACRAFICING THEMSELVES HEROICALLY. I want you dead dave strider im coming to your fucking house to get you man. i love this stupid kid. like most of davesprites reactions are so fucking normal for a kid that's lashing out or throwing a tantrum. and dude deserves to oh my god. not saying that hes infallible but like! he's a person still! and he has big emotions! why cant anybody but jade see the big emotions in this boy :( i mean i get it they technically both share the commonality of being a sprite at some point, in jades case. ok if i keep going down this thought path im its going to turn into a me shaking john around for being the kind of dude he is. which is like. i love him. but holy shit man.

actually. yknow what im one of the johndave guys. this extends itself to johndavesprite. i gotta put the insane ramblings i had in here too. fuck you im taking it as an excuse to talk about john psychology too and you CAN'T STOP ME.

so yeah theres that. apolocheese for the itty bittiest fuckin text ever.

in conclusion, davesprite rules, and john drools because hes dumb. i love him! but hes so special and especially stupid. BUT YEAH DAVESPRITE HES SO COOL. and fuckin fun to draw too actually i have some art to post i'll do that here in a sec

BUT YEAH THANKS FOR THE ASKING OF MY THOUGHTS. glad i dont have to be coherent either, shockingly enough its not really my style lmao. hope any of this made any sense o7

[kamirai-k]

So you're telling me Kang Haesol fell in love with Yeonwoo at first sight, looks at him like she has just found her world during their first encounter, and thought he looked like a girl...

AND EVEN THOUGH SHE DOES NOT like girls, she stated that explicitly, she looked at him and though okay maybe I can switch sides a bit while thinking he was a girl...

She was ready to switch sides

SHE WAS READY TO SWITCH SIDES Y'ALL

bangs hand on table

And her first thought was man she's pretty??? And not in the way girls go oh that girl is pretty and just leave it at that no that girl was plaguing her thoughts. Invading her very core like a madman.

she wasn't able to stop thinking about Yeonwoo, her eyes would just wander to him in class for no reason. Her friends are talking about how cute he is and she's like oh what they're thinking and what I'm thinking is different. Better hide that.

What makes this even better is that in Shoujo when the female lead who's been crossdressing as a boy gets found out to be a girl all along the male lead who was literally having a crisis over the fact he like another man just drops it and is like oh! you were a girl all along! No wonder! Let's not think about this anymore.

With Haesol though she's like... I find that girl right there attractive. Instead of having a mental crisis, she's just like oh well time to repress and ignore. She accepts it. Plus even after finding out Yeonwoo is in fact a guy she STILL finds his feminine characteristics attractive. She doesn't care whether he's and girl or a guy as long as it's Yeonwoo she's SMITTEN.

How crazy that is it that from day one she's willing to forgo morals because she thought oh damn that's a fine woman right there.

NO! That's actually insane!

The level of down horrendous you have to be to find someone THAT attractive from day one? (me too Haesol Me too) OH MY GOD I have never been so gagged in my life 😭

You have to understand how unwell this makes me I'm probably going to go crazy about this because do I need to remind you how amazing the art style for this chapter is? First of all and the way Haesol looks at Yeonwoo???

HELLOO?

I will never get over how she looks at him, the way she looks absolutely just, I can't...

I can see the love of a thousand variations of Haesol and all of them are absolutely infatuated with Yeonwoo.

Do you know how crazy that look makes me as a fanfiction writer? How absolutely insane that is going to have me go like you're giving me so much fuel to the fire Esol like it's not even funny.

The way this woman draws the way Kang Haesol looks at Yeonwoo needs to be studied because I don't know how she's able to capture the devotion, dedication, obsession, absolute admiration, and fascination she has with him!

Keep it up Esol! because I'm eating it up like the absolute slob I am, Like a peasant off the side of the road having finally tasted fresh bread in years 😭

I have never been this entrenched in a couple and I am living.

IM LIVING!!!

Then don't even get me started on how she accepted his confession while he was cross-dressing. Do you know the how unholy I could turn that into (completely out of nowhere I understand) but think about ittt because that goes hard

That goes so hard Yeonwoo cross-dressing one day out of completely nowhere and Haesol comes into their shared apartment and then they have the most ferocious fuck feast of their lives because she remembers when he confessed to her and is like "I'm going to take the opportunity I have now that I didn't have back then...

Just me... okay I'mma to move on.

This is like one of the best manhwas I have ever read in my entire life and I am definitely going to be obsessed with it forever because this is insanity.

And in the end, my girl still couldn't hold back and talked to him when she promised herself not to. LIKE COME OOONNNNN!!!

[loderlied]

gortash 1, 6, 7

zeke 3, 4, 5

<3

(hi! i realised i had this finished but it was rotting in my drafts so i’m gonna queue this for my short absence lol.) i mean. gortash isn’t an oc but sure why not lol. you can always send me asks about him actually <3

1. What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

just sitting still? not a problem. his problem comes with finding something like this to be an utterly wasteful way to spend your time. i think even when he gets done with work for the day earlier than planned (which doesn’t happen often because his plans are so meticulous. usually some incident like someone he was meeting with unexpectedly not being able to attend was the cause here which he. doesn’t like because interruptions in schedule bad lol) he usually finds some other way to be productive. (like spending time in his workshop or drawing for example.)

but uh. how long would he be able to sit still? if a plan of his for some reason required him to sit still and do nothing for a fucking week, he’d gnash his teeth about it but he’d be able to do that and much more—everything that’s necessary will be done. otherwise? you absolutely will not catch him just lounging around lmao.

6. Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable?

definitely immovable 100%. there’s just a teeny tiny problem with this—this applies to his system only, his way of viewing the world, his values and laws for himself and the laws and values he inherently imposes on others. he considers himself a man who does whatever is necessary, and more importantly the only one who is capable of actually deciding on and carrying out order. judge, jury and executioner, y’know. his word is law and his word is what he will stick to until the very end and everyone else better follow suit if they don’t want to be mentally branded as a mistake by him lol. i think he sees it as there being a universal way the world should work, which is the system of the machine with him as the core, it’s just everyone else that doesn’t see this ‘truth’ at the moment & needs fixing.

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

to me, gortash is a man of the future. yes, he does so enjoy taking his trophies from past conquests and yes, he does not forget the past, dissecting and learning is a process that includes his past as well as others’ he so loves to dissect and use in his schemes, but i simply don’t see him as someone who would ever wallow in feelings like nostalgia. it’s not even that he doesn’t want to, he just doesn’t experience it in the first place.

to sort of illustrate what i mean: i think he definitely remembers his coronation to become archduke as a grand stepping stone in his plan and all, but that’s what being a man of the future and baldur’s gate’s saviour means, it’s exactly that—a stepping stone for more. he won’t simply rest on the steps now when he has so many more to climb. and when you’re at the top of the stairs, there is no need to look back either.

3. How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?)

not at all uhhhhhh. only joking. well. only half-joking? zeke, due to his paranoia about everything surrounding gortash, the nightmares that result from that & just his nature as someone who never fucking stops being on his feet, has insane troubles sleeping. with his severe malnutrition and lack of sleep just result in the biggest eye bags known to man. more like eye trenches or whatever.

anyways, the solution is just uhm. going so hard until he eventually passes out and then repeat that process. 😬. later on when he does finally trust his companions enough to eat a bit around them, shadowheart laces his food with a sleeping potion because she hasn’t seen him rest for more than half an hour consecutively and he understandably gets triggered (gortash never put mind-altering drugs into zeke’s food, stuff made him sick for example was what was commonly used instead, because he needs him to be aware of his own suffering to enjoy it, but. still.) because of it. so. not ideal.

4. How easy is it to earn their trust? & 5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

i’m just gonna combine these into one bigger answer hope that’s okay 👍 so, every single thing starts out with lots of mistrust from zeke lmao. and yes, i don’t just mean every person, i mean everything, even objects he has never seen before or shit like that. but there’s still multiple levels of mistrust, there’s again the basic mistrust everyone gets, and then there’s mistrust as in ‘you’ve given me a sign (and this truly might be fucking nothing. it most often is nothing. this boy is insane) that you’re working for gortash and i am now immediately killing you’ 😬 and then there’s of course the ‘AAAAHHHHHH WHAT ARE YOU’ level exclusively reserved for mr gortash himself.

to gain his trust, you have to approach it a little bit like you would with a feral kitten except a lot more careful because this thing can actually kill you before you even know that he went for the killing blow if you do something wrong. you have to essentially let him sniff you out, sometimes metaphorically and sometimes literally, assure him that you’re not a threat to him. no sudden movements, loud noises or other similar actions and you’ll be good. he’ll still be on high alert, but is out of ‘kill once it gets within 10 metres’ mode lmao. and that’s basically it. building trust with him is an extremely slow, hard & painful (most often for the party that isn’t zeke) process and honestly? it’s not worth it considering YOU can never fully trust him not to suddenly feel his entire being scream to hunt & kill you. i’ve made this comparison before but it’s essentially like one of those people on taking an animal like a lynx or a chimpanzee into their home. they’ll probably get used to you and maybe even trust you, but they’re still wild animals at the end of the day. wild animals who can and will, if you’re not careful, severely hurt or even kill you if. zeke is the wild and the wild is zeke and all haha.

the methods to earn his trust and mistrust are both not very complex, but while earning his trust is a slow, never sure and stable thing, earning his mistrust is quick and very, very easy in comparison. once again, just one sign that you’re a threat, one wrong movement at the wrong time and you’re out. and this behaviour is just his base instincts as the apex predator and all. like how i described earlier, zeke also has SO many gortash related triggers on top of all that already. for example, telling him that his eyes are beautiful! they just are objectively extraordinary, so you most likely just want to genuinely compliment him! it’s rough. zeke is awful. end essay.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 18: Ghosts

The streetlights pass in a blur of yellow and orange. All the while, the manila folder screams at her from the passenger seat. Cami resists the urge to reach across and inspect the contents. Maybe this time, she’ll find something she missed, some key element telling her she was wrong and her tired brain was playing a trick on her all the times before. But she knows to her core that there is no mistake, and if she were to run her hands over the soft black-and-white photo for the thousandth time, she would find the same thing:

The 1919 Picayune clipping of Marcel smiling in front of the New Orleans Opera House with none other than Klaus Mikaelson.

It should be impossible, but there’s no mistaking the high cheekbones, the smirking mouth, and even dressed in spats and a tailored jacket. His cocky swagger is the same.

The first time she saw it was rough. Her stomach bounced against her ribcage and her ears rang. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. Yet it made a strange sort of sense --absolutely bat shit insane-- but sense all the same. And for the first time in months, she felt relief buried beneath the confusion and fear. The missing chunks of time, her and Sean’s code on sheets of notebook paper that she never remembered drawing- she isn’t sure how, but it has to connect back to this.

Cami resists the urge to bounce her leg as she waits for the light to turn, fingers drumming against the wheel. Tired of obsessing over this alone, she’d left her Kenner apartment, throwing a coat on over her pajamas, and was on her way into the city before she could think things through. Now, adrenaline fading and making space for reason, she doubts.

What do you say in this kind of situation?

Hey, Lucie. I know it’s 3 am, but remember that British guy from the bar? Well, I’m pretty sure he’s over 100 years old.

She shakes her head, tapping the accelerator when the light turns green. There isn’t time for second thoughts. She isn’t about to spend the rest of the night on her couch in a paranoid stupor. Maybe Lucie will call her a basket-case then they can laugh it off and watch something mindless on TV.

Her breathing is mostly back to normal by the time she pulls up to the curb behind a red sports car she doesn’t recognize. She tucks the folder under her arm and heads for the porch. The air is humid. It makes her shirt cling to her stomach and the dew-damp grass tickles her ankles.

The rough planks of the porch groan when she reaches the top of the stairs. She can hear voices from inside, muffled by the door, and she hesitates. It never occurred to her that Lucie might not be alone. She was too much of an introvert for a party. A silhouette passes in front of the living room window, a blurry shape behind the curtains. It could be a man, but she’d never mentioned she was seeing anyone…

Maybe she should come back in the morning. Uncle Kieran might still be at the church--

A woman shouts, the sound almost drowned out by breaking glass and a thud hard enough to shake the windows.

Every true crime documentary she’s ever seen tells her she should call the police and let them handle it. Instead, she turns the knob and, finding the door unlocked, she throws her weight into it. The hinges groan as it opens wide. There’s no knife-wielding maniac on the other end, no robber in a ski mask, and no amount of crime drama could prepare her for what’s waiting beyond the threshold.

The first thing she sees is Lucie’s face, mouth slack, and eyes round with shock. She follows the curve of her tear-streaked cheeks, the bloody mess of her neck. With a little cry, Cami steps forward, halting when she catches movement behind her.

Broken glass and tattered wallpaper litter the hallway, like someone let a wild bear loose. Instead, she finds Klaus’ sister running faster than any living thing has any business moving. All she can do is stand there stunned as she grabs a man by the collar and slams him into a wall with enough force to break the drywall.

When shifts, Cami gets her first glimpse of Elijah. His eyes are frantic, hair disheveled, but her eyes lock on the bloody mess of his shirt, the red around his mouth, and the gleaming, monstrous fangs within. Something primal in the back of her head screams at her to run, but her knees are shaking and her feet won’t budge.

She staggers sideways, catching the door frame for balance, and chokes out, “What the hell is going on here?”

Three sets of eyes find her. Rebekah throws Elijah to the ground like he’s only a sack of flour, holding him in place with a foot to the chest. Her mussed hair is a ragged halo in the hallway's light.

She rolls her eyes, tossing her head. “Oh, for the love of--“

Elijah seizes her momentary distraction, hand wrapping around her ankle. Before he can pull her over, she plucks up a broken table leg and pierces through his chest in one fluid motion. He goes limp, dead on the floor. This time Cami does scream.

“Keep an eye on this one,” she tells Lucie, unbothered by her brother’s fresh corpse. “I’ll take care of this.”

Cami winces as Rebekah moves towards her, only to be stopped when Lucie grasps her wrist with a frantic, “No! Don’t.” It earns her a withering look. “She should know the truth.”

The house falls quiet as the two women exchange a look that Cami can’t even decipher. Then, Rebekah steps back with a gesture that can only mean ‘Fine, but this is on you,’ before dragging Elijah by the ankle into a back room.

Lucie turns to her and for a long while, neither of them says anything. Cami can’t seem to slow her racing thoughts enough to grasp a coherent thought, and Lucie seems focused on gnawing a hole through her bottom lip.

There’s a loud thump from somewhere toward the back of the house. It breaks the spell.

“Let’s talk in the living room,” Lucie says, tiptoeing around shards of glass to press the front door closed. Her hand trembles when she grasps one of Cami’s, who allows herself to be guided through an archway and onto a rich, patterned couch.

She pulls a pillow to her chest. Something about the warmth or the plush fabric smashes open the dam and she laughs, a breathy, choked noise from deep in her chest. Is this it? Is she about to snap?

The cushions dip as Lucie sits down beside her. She hadn’t even noticed her slip out of the room, but now she has a damp towel pressed to combat the gore on her neck. It does nothing to soothe Cami’s frayed nerves.

Her eyes fix on a landscape painting on the far wall, the oil strokes warping as her vision clouds over. She doesn’t realize she’s hyperventilating until Lucie says, “Take slow breaths like this.”

She demonstrates, sucking a lungful of air through her nose and then releasing it out of her mouth. Cami copies the motion, sloppy at first, and then more steady with each repetition until she feels less like passing out.

“What the fuck just happened? Why are you bleeding? Why is Elijah Mikaelson dead on your floor?—“The words, once free, stop coming, picking up velocity.

“Cami!” Lucie says, voice sharp, as she squeezes her hand. “Breathe.”

So she does.

“I’m going to tell you everything, alright? But I can’t do that if you faint on me.”

She shifts her hands into her lap, remembering the folder under her arm for the first time since she walked through the door. Setting it on the coffee table, she turns to Lucie with an exaggerated breath.

“First things first, Elijah is going to be fine—”

“—But I just watched Rebekah stab him in the chest—”

“—Because he’s a vampire.”

Cami loses her train of thought, jaw slack. Her mouth snaps shut, and she shakes her head. “Vampires? Whatever joke this is, it’s not funny.” But even as she says it, something falls into place, like the last stitch pulling the whole tapestry together. Her eyes dart towards the folder.

“Trust me, I wish I was joking,” Lucie says, playing with her fingers. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, body angled to face her. “There’s a lot you don’t know about New Orleans, Cami.”

----

She watches the servants set the dining table with fine silver and priceless china and all the while, Hayley resists an urge to be sick which has nothing to do with morning sickness. It’s been less than a week since Tyler Lockwood snatched her off the front porch and dragged her out into the bayou in some half-cooked scheme to get back at Klaus --as if he’d ever let any hybrids sired by someone other than himself live. After Klaus had run him off, staying at the manor was off the table.

She doesn’t dislike the Abattoir itself, even though it smells damp and you could hear a pin drop in the courtyard. It’s blessedly cooler here, the stucco walls built to keep out the heat, and she has to admit that the balconies are perfect for watching the sunset over the French Quarter. No, it’s not the compound, but its revolving door of inhabitants that set her teeth on edge.

She reaches for a glass of water, the other hand resting against her expanding belly. All the while, she keeps a sidelong look at the small army of vampires gathered around the table. Two chairs to her right is Marcel and beside him is his newest right-hand man, the one they call Diego. Her eyes narrow when he catches her staring, dark eyes full of calculation. She isn’t sure how much Klaus has told them about her and their miracle baby, but, then again, she doubts it matters.

Diego breaks the stand-off first when Klaus taps his fork against his wineglass. It’s not until she sees the back of his curly head that she turns to him as well. At the other end of the table, Klaus is on his feet with that smug ‘I have something important to say’ face that Hayley hopes their daughter doesn’t inherit.

“Let us begin with a toast to our shared gift: immortality,” he says, glass held high. “After a thousand years, one might expect life to be less keenly felt, for its beauties and its sorrows do diminish with time. But, as vampires, we feel more deeply than humans could possibly imagine.”

With a gesture, a handful of wait staff step forward, hovering just over the shoulders of the gathered guests. It only takes one look at their identical glassy expressions to know they’ve been compelled. He continues, “Insatiable need, exquisite pain…,” She holds back a wince when each cuts their wrists filling the empty glasses with blood. “Our victories, and our defeats.”

When all the glasses are filled, he lifts his higher. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes lock on Marcel as he says, “To my city, my home again. May the blood never cease to flow…”

Marcel raises his glass with a wide smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “…and the party never end!”

Her eyes drift to Diego. It’s no secret that he resents Klaus’ takeover of the vampire faction, only following orders out of some misguided loyalty to Marcel. She waits to see if he’ll make a scene. Maybe that would liven things up around here, only to be disappointed when he raises his glass and murmurs, “To New Orleans.”

“To New Orleans,” they all refrain, drinking deeply. Hayley sips at her water, wanting nothing more than to shut herself in her room away from all the male posturing. But she knows Klaus well enough to understand that whatever he’s building to, he expects her to be present. She just wishes he’d hurry it up.

“I understand that some of you may have questions regarding the recent change in leadership.” An interesting way to refer to a failed assassination attempt staged by Marcel that led them all under Klaus’ subjugation. “And I invited you here tonight to assure you that you are not defeated. No, my intentions moving forward are to celebrate what we have. What Marcel, in fact, took and built for this community of vampires--

“And what about her?” Diego interrupts, ignoring Klaus’ veiled irritation. “The wolf.”

It’s a fair question, one that Hayley has asked herself more than once. Her own place in Klaus’ best-laid plans is still a mystery, even to her. She turns her head, watching Klaus warily.

“Had you’d let me finish, Diego, you would know that there is, of course, one further matter I would like to address.” Then he’s moving around the table, her stomach doing a backflip as he heads right for her. “As many of you know, the girl is carrying my child. Consequently, I trust you will all pay her the appropriate respect.” Which, to a vampire, is none. “However, I understand that some of you are concerned by this vicious rumor that I intend to use the blood of our child to create hybrids. I assure you, I do not.”

She can’t help the bitter curl of her lips. “Father of the year.”

If he was expecting elation or even relief, he finds none. The vampires spare the odd glance at Marcel before fixing him with a dozen blank, unsettled expressions.

With a dull satisfaction, she notes the way his eyes tighten at the corners and some of the sheen disappears from his grin. “It appears that I will have to earn your trust,” he says with a finality that makes her uneasy. “Very well. We’ll eliminate the root of your anxiety. You see, how can I sire any hybrids if there are no more werewolves alive in the bayou to turn?”

And Hayley’s heart crashes through the floor. “What?” she chokes in horrified disbelief. “Klaus, no!”

She’s only just gotten used to the idea of having family out there and now, to soothe the fears of some motley group of vampires, it’s all slipping through her fingers.

“So eat, drink and be merry,” he commands over the ringing in her ears. “And tomorrow, I suggest you have yourselves a little wolf hunt. Go ahead, have fun. Kill them all!”

The chair screeches in protest as she rises to her feet. She’s heard more than enough. Without a backward glance, she storms out of the room. Not that Klaus notices, he’s far too wrapped up in Marcel and his own blood lust to care.

Her feet lead her up the stairs to the second level, ignoring the exultations coming from below. When she reaches her room, she slams the door behind her hard enough to make the lamp on the dresser shiver. She doesn’t notice, she already has her phone in hand.

If she wants to stop this, she needs someone on the outside. But Elijah doesn’t answer, and neither does Lucie. And so she tries her one last lifeline and almost cries with relief when she hears Rebekah’s voice on the other line.

___

“So let me get this straight, not only are the Mikaelsons vampires but they’re the first ones in existence,” Cami says, once Lucie finishes giving her the thousand-foot overview of all things supernatural in New Orleans.

She’s sitting with her legs crossed beneath her. Across from her, Lucie mirrors her position. “Right, the Originals.”

“And while Marcel and Klaus are playing tug of war with the city, the witches,” That’s going to take some getting used to, “are also angling for control. And the werewolves…?” she trails, pinching her nose to ease some of the pressure building behind her eyes.

“Were banished from the city by Marcel decades ago.”

She groans in frustration, leaning sideways against the couch.

“You’ll catch on. It just takes some time.”

“It would be a lot if I could just remember.” She is still foggy on the details, but she knows enough to understand that what she had been experiencing wasn’t a slow descent into madness, but the effects of mind compulsion--another fun vampire trick. “You’re a witch. Are you sure you can’t just…I don’t know…wiggle your fingers and fix me?”

“Not a very good one.” Lucie’s lips pull into a frown. “I wish it was that easy.”

“When is anything in this town ever simple?” she asks with a laugh, but even she can hear the bitterness creeping in at the edges.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this. By the time I realized you were in the middle of it all, Klaus already had his hooks in you.”

Klaus. The arrogant son of a bitch that toyed with her for his own gain and made a smoothie of her brain. His name alone is enough to make her want to break something. “I’m more sorry that no one thought to tell me,” she snaps, regretting it the second she sees the pained look in Lucie’s eyes. She sighs. “I get it, but just tell me one thing; if you suspected what was going on, why didn’t you do something?”

“What makes you so sure I didn’t?” Lucie says, loaded with meaning.

“What are you—” She gasps when it clicks, fingers tracing the space around her wrist. “You mean the bracelet? How?”

“My great-great grandmother spelled it with vervain, to protect from compulsion.”

She’s quiet for a minute, taking in the new information as she swallows a fresh lump in her throat. “Well,” she starts with a shaky puff of laughter, “Now I really wish I hadn’t lost it.”

Lucie doesn’t respond, only gives her a long look before disappearing into one of the back rooms. She’s back in moments, dropping something cold into Cami’s palm as she sinks back down on the couch.

She uncurls her fingers and finds herself staring at the familiar sun and moon charms. “Where did you find this?”

“Let’s just say I stole it back from the person who stole it.”

“Stolen? But I thought I—fucking Klaus,” she swears. “I’m going to kill that asshole if I ever see him again.”

Lucie laughs, hands resting over her knees. “There might be a line.” It wrangles a chuck from Cami even as her expression turns serious. “I really am sorry you had to find out the way you did.”

She sighs before placing a hand over Lucie’s. “Help me with Klaus and we can call it even. Just keep me in the loop from now on. Deal?”

Her lips curve up in a small smile. “Deal.” Then her face falls once more. “Cami, there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Sean.”

---

The pounding in his head is the first thing Elijah is aware of, a persistent thrumming behind the eyes that beats in time with his pulse. His limbs are granite slabs as he raises shaking fingers to his temple. While he works up the courage to open his eyes, he notes the softness of the mattress beneath him, the familiar scent of wisteria, and the faint padding of footsteps somewhere beyond.

Steeling himself, he opens his eyelids. It’s just a crack, but enough for the pale moonlight to slip between the blinds and burn into his retinas with the full force of the sun. He groans, shielding them with the side of his hand. Forcing them wider, he blinks until it doesn’t hurt so much and the surrounding room takes shape. A gray coverlet frames him, and a pile of pillows behind his head props him up. Straight ahead, garments in various shades of black and gray hang from the open closest, the wall around the doors plastered with band posters.

Suddenly, the floral smell makes sense. And if this is the LeMarche home, then he must be in Lucie’s room.

Lucie.

He jolts upright, memories of last night flooding back to him in hazy flashes. Her wide, worried eyes when she found him in the alley. Her fingers had been cool against his burning skin. He remembers the tremor in her voice, the warmth of her presence at his bedside. The events warp and waver, take a darker turn as he recalls her heart pounding beneath her breastbone. The hot, heady elation as her blood pooled in his mouth and overwhelmed his senses.

Shame crashes over him in a tidal wave, remorse as sharp as the stake Rebekah drove through his chest before he could do something he couldn’t take back. He wants to sleep, maybe for a decade, until he’s ready to face her. Instead, he kicks off the covers, staggering to the side like a drunkard when his feet hit the floor. He grasps the edge of the dresser and pauses, glimpsing himself in the mirror.

The creature blinks back at him with red-rimmed eyes. Stubble is a dark shadow around his jaw while the hair at his head sticks up in every direction. He rakes a hand through the errant strands with an absent precision, unable to tear his eyes away from the damning rust-colored stain on his shirt.

He pulls away, following the sounds of life to the front entryway where he finds Lucie, sweeping glass into a dustpan. She does not notice his presence. It’s a chance to watch her undisturbed. As his eyes rake over her slight form, he notes the tired slump of her shoulders, the shadows beneath her eyes, and wonders if she’s been awake this whole time. But any worry over her exhaustion is eclipsed when he sees her neck. Identical bite marks taunt him, red and angry against her skin. His stomach lurches and guilt trickles in, hotter than the fever that had ravaged his system the last two days.

Before he can vanish from her life forever, before he can even begin to make amends, she turns. Whirling around in a flash of russet, she jumps when she spots him, free hand clutching her chest.

“Shit. I didn’t know you were awake,” she whispers. Then, before he can answer, she presses a lip to her finger and, with a glance down the hall, adds, “Cami is asleep in the other room. We can talk outside.”

She leads him back down the hallway and, abandoning the dustpan on the kitchen table, slips out into the backyard. The moon is only a day or two shy of full, so bright that even behind the clouds, its glow casts the withered garden in shades of silver and blue.

Neither of them speaks until they’re down the steps, hovering near the overgrown path that weaves around the garden, the spot where she’d once accepted his deal.

When she turns to him, the moonlight draws the bite mark into sharp relief again. Elijah’s shoulders tense and he shoves his hands into his pockets to curb any misguided attempt to brush his fingers against it. With an exhale, he opens his mouth to speak, but Lucretia beats him to it.

“Before you start whatever ‘I’m a monster speech’ you have on deck, it’s been a long night,” she says, arms folding over her chest. “Yes, you were a dick and scary and it also wasn’t your fault - don’t give me that look, it wasn’t. So can we just skip to the part where I forgive you and you agree to stop looking at me like a kicked puppy?”

For a moment, he says nothing, only watches her carefully. His guilt will not be so easy to abate, neither will the conviction that somehow his entrance into each other’s lives has only made things more complicated than they should be. But there’s no missing the resolve in her stare.

“Very well,” he says. “But in the spirit of negotiation, I’d like to make a counteroffer.” When she raises her eyebrows, he adds, “I will agree to your terms if you allow me to heal you with my blood.”

This time, it’s her turn to regard him silently. Her eyes scan his face and, not for the first time, he wonders what is going on behind those large, guileless eyes.

Her jaw sets in determination. “Alright, fine.”

It’s a quick thing, giving her his blood. He opts to give it to her in a mug retrieved from the kitchen. After his attack, anything more intimate than that seems a step too far. When he returns, it’s with his hand wrapped around the handle and a blanket draped over her arm. He hands her the former, ignoring the skeptical look his way when he tucks the latter over her shoulders.

Her nose wrinkles as she examines the macabre contents. And then, with a deep inhale, she chokes it down in a few quick gulps. To her credit, she doesn’t wince, only wipes at her mouth with her sleeve. And Elijah watches as the wound at her neck fades until it’s as if it never happened, almost. Though it dulls some of the sharper edges of his shame, the bulk of it remains.

“Lucretia, I know I do not have a right to ask any more of you,” he says, unable to endure any more silence. “But in my…state…last night, did I say alarming?”

Her hesitation gives him his answer, but, kind as she is, she does not make him ask for details. “There was a moment you thought I was someone else. You called me ‘Celeste’…” She must catch the way his cheeks heat because she adds, “Nothing too scandalous, I promise.”

He doesn’t miss the waver in her smile, the anxiety lurking in her dark eyes. So he gently prompts, “What else?”

“When I touched you, I saw one of your memories.”

With a catalog of ten centuries at her disposal, he doesn’t guess, only waits in growing apprehension for her to tell him which horrible act of brutality she’d witnessed firsthand.

“A ball at the governor’s mansion. Niklaus was there,” she says. “And Melodia.”

“I see.”

She shifts the knit fabric over her shoulders, pulling around herself and holding it closed with one hand. “I guess it only makes sense you knew each other.”

His head tips up to where the moon is still beaming down from a velvet field of stars. “She was a gifted witch, your progenitor. And good woman.” When he turns his attention earthward, he finds a strange expression on her face. “What’s on your mind?”

Though it’s dark, he swears he spots a flush on her cheeks. “I know it was a long time ago, but were you two…close?”

He furrows his brow, confused. And then, catching her meaning, he can’t help a small bark of laughter. “No, at least not in the way you’re thinking. …It was an alliance built on mutual respect and a common goal.”

She snorts. “Sounds familiar.”

“Perhaps,” he says with a wry smile. “With some notable differences.”

The breeze bats playfully at a loose curl. Elijah watches it flutter about her face as she bites her lip, deep in thought, and resists the urge to tuck it behind her ear. Soon, the impulse fades.

“Elijah,” she starts, so uncertain that he knows beyond a doubt what will follow. That does not stop his breath from hitching when she asks, “Who was he, the boy she mentioned?”

Silence ensues as Elijah debates over how much he wants to tell her. “His name was Cyrus,” he says, adjusting his cuffs. “A member of the Dupin family.”

Her lips pull into a frown, a line forming between her brows. “Dupin? I don’t know that name.”

“That is unsurprising. The Dupins were an ancient magical lineage from the Old World, powerful as they were proud. The boy was the last of their line,” he explains. “He was an orphan when we came to the city, with a vast inheritance and little sense.” Over his shoulder, he gives Lucie a half smile. “Of course, he took a shine to Niklaus.”

“Of course.”

“With his name and connections, he was vital to our integration into New Orleans society, and it was a fact he used to his advantage once he understood who we were. I believe Cyrus always veered toward ambition, but it was under my brother’s tutelage that the truth of his character began to take shape. From Niklaus, he learned to manipulate, to embrace his lust for power, and, in turn, my brother not only benefited from his status and deep pockets, but I believe the boy amused him.”

“Meanwhile, his powers grew with each passing year, until they were such that the elders of the nine covens feared his potential. I soon found myself equally troubled. You see, Cyrus had become obsessed with the immortality that my siblings and I possess, and I soon understood that he meant to obtain it by any means necessary.”

“But Klaus never meant to turn him.”

“No,” he concedes. “He did not. Niklaus strung the boy along with empty promises of siring him. After all, a powerful warlock beholden to no natural tenets or compunctions about morality was a valuable asset. And when the young Dupin heir finally realized that his master would not give him what he wanted, he endeavored to take it for himself. It was New Orleans that paid the price.”

“What happened?”

“I still do not understand the full extent of what he discovered or how he came upon it, only that it was an unnatural magic, the likes of which I’ve only experienced once, when my mother turned us into vampires. But a darkness fell upon the city as an eclipse blotted out the sun for days on end and it was then that Niklaus realized the true extent of his folly. Thankfully, we were not the only ones seeking a way to end his quest for power.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, for once in their storied history, my family and the witches of New Orleans worked together. Melodia LeMarche was the one to perform the rite that separated him from the Ancestral Well.”

“And Cyrus?”

“Severed from the font of his power, he was just as mortal as any human. Niklaus’ retribution was swift. And buried in unconsecrated ground, Melodia banished his spirit to isolation, in a place where he could never join the Ancestors.”

When Lucie shivers, he takes her hands in his. “There’s nothing to fear, Lucretia. Three centuries later, Cyrus is little more than a ghost story, even in my own mind. The ghosts of the past cannot harm anyone now.”

Seemingly placated, she only nods, her attention diverting upward. He follows her line of sight and watches a shadow pass over her features as a cloud covers the moon.

---

It had been an hour since she’d gotten off the phone with Rebekah. And though Hayley had solicited a promise from her she would come soon, she hadn’t specified when that meant. Waiting was an exposed nerve, one that flared up and gave her a nasty shock with each minute that passed.

Hayley Marshall is sick to death of waiting. Waiting for the end of her pregnancy, waiting to learn what fate Klaus has in store for her, and always, always waiting for someone else to come to her aid. It’s enough to drive a weaker person to insanity, but she’s made of steel and fangs and tougher things. And if it means saving the family she never knew she had, she’ll take on every vampire in Louisiana if she has to.

Besides the occasional peel of raucous laughter wafting up from the courtyard, the compound is quiet. Though bedecked with modern electricity, the light that bounces off the deep gray stucco is just enough to see by. A fact that she uses to her advantage as she slips down the stairs, hugging close to the shadows.

It’s a short walk to the side door, her heart hammering in her chest all the while. She doubts Klaus will inflict any serious punishment if she’s caught, at least not to her personally. And with a death sentence hanging over the wolves, there’s not much else he can do to her that matters.

She hazards a glance over her shoulder. When she finds the hallway empty, she steels herself, ready to bolt out the door and into the night. Before she can take a single step, a figure bars her path.

“Going somewhere?” Diego drawls, amused.

Her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches. Even as her hands ball into fists, she knows she’s no match for one of Marcel’s inner circle. Not for the first time since that fateful positive drugstore pregnancy test, she wishes she could shift into her stronger form. The one that would allow her to run away from this mess or at least maul the next person who tries to fuck with her or her baby.

Hayley doesn’t notice so much as a shadow before Diego’s head wrenches to the side at an unnatural angle and he goes limp.

She fights a smile when she glimpses a familiar form. “Took you long enough,” she says as Rebekah Mikaelson throws her victim into a nearby wall.

“Yeah, well, you might have warned me about the guard.”

She manages a huff before spinning around to strike down two more vampires lurking nearby.

“Alright,” she says, circling back over to Hayley. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

When she reaches out for her, Hayley steps back, ignoring Rebekah’s exasperated look. “About that,” she starts, feeling a bit guilty about her lack of transparency on the phone. “That’s not actually the help I had in mind. I’ve been deemed under protection by the almighty Klaus. It’s the werewolves who need help,” she powers through before Rebekah can so much as groan, “He ordered a wolf hunt as some jacked-up peace offering to Marcel’s crew. You have to help them.”

“Out in the Bayou?” Rebekah balks, looking at her like she has two heads. “Do I look like a bloody vampire rescue squad? I think you should be grateful I came to save you.”

And she is grateful, more than she expected. But she needs this and her people need her.

“Listen, Rebekah. All my life, I’ve wanted to know who my real family was, and just as I find out they’re out there in the Bayou, Klaus orders them killed. You want to help me? Help my people. Please.”

And maybe it’s the quaver of earnestness in her voice or maybe just Rebekah’s vulnerabilities where family is concerned, but somehow it works. She spots the moment her words break through, the way Rebekah sighs when she’s about to fold.

“Fine, but you owe me a new pair of boots this time.”

___

Only when Rebekah leaves, the fate of Hayley’s pack in her hands, does Hayley return to the calm oppression of the compound. She travels the winding halls with purpose, unsure of what she’s moving toward until she finds Klaus in the study. Pouring over a book from his spot in an armchair, he doesn’t acknowledge her presence, though she knows he heard her enter. His obvious dismissal stokes the embers of rage that have been roiling all evening, threatening to ignite.

She takes a step forward, fists clenched. “Those werewolves you ordered killed, that’s my family.”

Slowly, he turns his head to look at her. The directness of his gaze is unnerving, as if he’s not just immortal by omniscient. “Not for long, love. I mean, this so-called family of yours, they haven’t done you much good, have they?” She turns away from his stare and the sharp daggers of truth behind his intent to hurt her. “You said it yourself — they abandoned you and left you on your own. Now it’s simply your turn to do the same.”

“Maybe they had their reasons,” she fires back, hearing the undercurrent of doubt.

The book slams closed, punctuating his attempts at nonchalance as he rises to his feet. “Yes, well, I have reasons too, little wolf. If the werewolves are dead, then the vampires have less desire to kill you. I am trying to keep you safe.” And she hears it, the force of conviction in his words. “Not that you appreciate the effort.”

A thought returns to her then, like a bucket of ice water dropped over her head. “And as soon as I have this baby, what happens to me then?”

His silence is damning, amplified only by the flicker of guilt that flashes behind his eyes. She swallows hard, rage tempered only by her growing fear.

“Right... Well, lucky for me, I have a little while before I find out,” she says with a bitter smile. “And in the meantime, I will find a way to pay you back for this. As long as I’m in the family, you can’t do a damn thing about it.”

She doesn’t turn around to watch her words land, but she feels the heat of his eyes on her back until she rounds the corner and disappears from his view.

___

Cami sleeps through the morning and halfway into the afternoon. More than once, Lucie toys with the idea of waking her, but when she remembers breaking the news about Sean’s hex and holding her, helpless as she sobbed in her arms, she can’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, Lucie occupies herself with cleaning up the rest of the evidence of last night’s disaster. And when that’s finished, she plants roots in the kitchen and turns her hand to dinner, hoping that maybe a home-cooked meal with bring some semblance of normalcy back to her life.

She attacks the potato in her hand with short flicks of the wrist that send little chips of peel fluttering, collecting in a pile on the cutting board. All the while, she taps her toes, hums, tries to remember the words to a poem she recited in fourth-grade English. Anything to keep her mind distracted. But try as she might, the events of last evening creep back in, present as a hand on her shoulder - or wrapped around her fingers.

It’s both astounding and irritating how long after he’s gone, Elijah’s presence always seems to linger. Like fragments of his aura make their home in the walls and burrow deep into the floorboards. She’d watched him leave just as dawn was cresting over the neat rows of shingled roofs. And as his retreating form disappeared from view, she felt the same strange desolation that came with his departure. Was this how it would always be between them; one always left behind while the other chased down their demons?

The shuffling of feet against the tile breaks her out of her thoughts. She sets the vegetable down while there’s still something left of it, the little pile of shreddings has doubled in size, and finds Cami standing bleary-eyed in the doorway.

She groans, stretching her arms over her head. “Smells amazing in here.”

Picking up a knife, she dices the potato with deft precision before adding it to the stockpot. “Thought a stew seemed fitting with the chill. Should be ready in a half hour.”

Cami nods, raking a hand through her hair and stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”

Lucie glances towards the green numbers on the microwave. “Just a few minutes before four.”

The information must kick-start some life into her because her eyes go wide with panic. “Shit,” Cami exclaims, casting around for her phone. “I had a lunch shift today. Paulette is going to kill me—”

“It’s all good,” Lucie interjects, stirring the broth with a wooden spoon. “I called and let them know you weren’t feeling well. If your boss asks, you had a migraine. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh.” She seems to relax a little. “No, no. Thanks for doing that.”

Lucie nods as Cami settles in at the kitchen table, occasionally helping with chopping or peeling, but mostly content to pass the time in friendly conversation. Every now and then, she manages a smile and it's a tight, fragile thing as she makes sense of all she's learned. They’ve settled into a comfortable lull when the doorbell rings.

She sets down the knife with a frown, her eyes meeting Cami’s over her shoulder who shrugs. “Keep an eye on this, will you? I should go see who that is.”

It isn’t that strange for someone to be at the door in the middle of the day. In all honesty, it’s likely a solicitor or maybe a neighbor kid looking to make a quick buck moving lawns. Maybe it’s the lingering memory of vampires outside her door, but she feels a flicker of trepidation when she turns the knob.

But as the door pulls free, it isn’t Rebekah’s haughty expression or Elijah’s steady demeanor that greets her but a pair of big blue eyes.

“Davina?”

“I’m sorry to turn up here unannounced but I need your help.” She doesn’t wait for an invitation, brushing past Lucie and into the living room. “Marcel’s been lying to me. I can’t trust him anymore.”

There’s nothing to do but follow. Davina drops her back onto the floor near the couch, craning her head to peek around the doorway that leads into the kitchen.

“Oh, hi Cami,” she says with a wave before turning back to Lucie. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

Lucie blinks owlishly, her brain trying to catch up with the teenage witch in her living room. Meanwhile, Cami sets down the spoon and wiping her hand on a dish towel, pads into the living room with a confused expression. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

Davina’s brows scrunch together, and then, all at once, understanding seems to dawn. “Oh, you’ve been compelled.”

She closes the distance, and as she leans forward to inspect Cami, Cami leans away. “What are you doing?”

All at once, Lucie’s sluggish thoughts catch up and she feels a surge of apprehension at the look on the girl’s face. “Davina, wait—”

“It’s okay,” she says to Lucie, and then to Cami, she adds with a reassuring smile, “I can fix you. I’m really sorry, but this is gonna hurt.”

[nvrcmplt]

"You don't scream like the rest, tell me, darling. Are you not scared of what I can do?? I could easily rip you into pieces like I did with the others when I fed your insides to my pets."

The creature leans in, hot breath to the nape of their neck as he gleefully watched his captive, the shadow tendrils bounding them, in case they're likely to do something foolish.

The talon fingers roughly grabbed at their chin, raising them up so they're looking at him only. "What would you do if I carve my name in your skin??" The pointy tip draws blood against their skin, watching it blossom like a flower.

"Do you wish to be mine? Or should I eat you from the inside??" (Shadow @ tyler)

It wasn't a lie, though he wasn't screaming at seeing what he was, it wasn't the worse, which was odd to say. It was terrifying, really was, to point Tyler was sure his bladder would of emptied itself here and now if he had anything left in the tank. Instead, he was trying to keep focused, a practice most Witches go through. Working with blood, guts, gore was a common sight - to bury hands into the heart of buck chests, to dismantle bones and muscle, sometimes it was just draining rodents for their blood into pots and things. It was a odd profession being a Witch and yet - sights like these still unsettle the heart.

As his nape was breathed on, fear tickled his skin in goosebumps, his lungs seized in an inhale but his lashes flutter to keep them low. To keep his mind cantered, chanting within his mind, silent and steady - to not stop because he knew the moment he did would be the moment he vomits. Wrists snagged, body bound and heart pounding in his ears, the Candlewitch couldn't understand how the fuck he came to be here? Was it a drink? A blink in the shadows? Something triggered him being here with these other unsavable folks but he had a feeling, this guy - the man that was closing in on him, talking and even touching his face…

Didn't know he was a Witch.

As his cheek was pierced with a sharp gentleness that warmed over with his old blood, Tyler felt his throat dry out. Ah, shit. This guy was insane, completely and yet, Tyler felt the fear cool his fingertips and toes, inhale through his nose and looking down to try and not succumb to their stare, even reply - not until he finished his mantra in mind. It was hard, since he winced at the pain of his cheek soon triggering an itch, stringing from the clear bacteria on that talon. Shit, shit, shit… Slow, steady - slow and steady, slow… Inhaling once more, Tyler lifted his gaze - the sea greens shimmering with a new found answer.

"Sorry… but no thanks." As his lips part, smoke wisps as if a drake was to breathe flame, but it was just a part of Tyler's core, a part of who and what he was. As his old blood ignited, the droplets on those talons began to ignite with its freedom, weeping the pricked cut close in a burn. "Salamander." An utter of a clever beast, a quick thing, a creature that near enough crawled out of Tyler's throat - rested upon his tongue only to open it's slimy maw and expel a flame thick enough to cover the close fuckers face. As his skin took on a sheen that mimicked the small beast, Tyler twisted his wrists, hoping the slick would allow him to slip free of the tendrils that held him so easily - but it wasn't so he could run.

He had no idea where he was, so he was going to do what Witches did best… Protect themselves with any means necessary - after all, Tyler only needed one hand to slip free to swipe at his own blood and mark it over his chest in a sigil of Celtic protection. Swift and at ease, did it turn into a blinding veil, a curtain of morning dawn in the dark place as he held the Salamander from his mouth upon palm now. "Burn it down, Salamander. Let these people rest in peace." Ah - yeah, Tyler wasn't thinking that he'll make it out alive, but he would take this bastard down with him if he had too.

"Svarog Flame." Uttered as the Salamander once more began to inhale deep, vomiting heavier flames, thicker flames, hotter and hotter and hotter flames…

[airabuhan]

COSO IM SCREMAIGN PLEAAASEE HIIAI IS MY LIFEBLOOD I LOVE THEM SO MUCH < INSANE HIIAI FAN I WILL GO ABSOLUTELY CRAZY OVER UR HIIAI ART IF U POST IT BTW 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 PLS PLS PLS TELL ME ABT UR HIIAI BRAINROTS PLEASE THEY ARE SO UAURGHRHGGH (no pressure tho ofc <33) anyway stan hiiai foreve r

WAAAAHHHH THANK YOU… if i ever cook hiiai now i’ll post it onto here at least i think? my old hiiais have my older art style and it embarrasses me a little cuz i don’t really like my old art so hghfhhh

OH MAN THE HIIAI BRAINROTS… where do i even begin?!?! hiiro and aira are just VITAL to each other, it’s incredibly hard to talk about either of their characters without describing how much the other’s influence has impacted them, or how much they’ve supported each other and grown together… for aira, hiiro is one of the few people he’s able to lower his guard around without falling back to his people-pleasing habits or forcing himself to be nicer to people because he places so much trust and care onto hiiro… the relationship between the two of them is special because of the time they’ve spent with each other… it’s just, the relationship they share with each other is unique to them

in a sense, they’re also opposites in that the very thing that the other naturally excels in is what they wish they had. like for aira, he really envies hiiro’s natural talent and ability to pick up things easily as someone who’s not naturally gifted in that sense… and for hiiro, he admires aira’s enthusiasm and love for idols, his never-ending creativity… in a sense, it’s this mutual jealousy that eats them up at the core of their character but because they parallel each other in that way, they’re also just. that much stronger together? because they truly love each other and want to support each other… it’s sweet, seeing their relationship blossom into something more akin to a friendly rivalry as they’ve been through so much together that they trust each other wholeheartedly

i’m not wording this well & there’s so much more i could say about them but my phone battery is about to die uhm I LOVE THEM… a lot….. always have since i learned about them basically hghfhh nowadays it’s more like a brainrot that wakes up at the most unexpected times like right now

man i really should draw them

[wishforged]

although I'm a big fan of joseimuke media I haven't really played a lot of otome games despite the fact that I have several installed and I like keeping up with new releases and reading about classic ones. I kind of regret playing collar x malice as my first full length otome game bc it's so good that it sets the bar too high rip but that's a topic for another day

I was looking forward to playing tengoku struggle even before its release bc I really loved the art style and the setting/premise. in modern japan, everyone knows that hell exists and "model prisoners" from hell are permitted to work in asakusa in the human world, where the gate to hell is located. you play as the daughter of the king of hell who has been tasked with managing a team of 4 dead guys from hell to re-capture a group of escapees, also originally from hell, who are now living in the human world. so you all live in a house together in the human world until you complete your mission. I thought this went hard so I was excited to check it out.

spoilers under cut

one of the core themes of this game is that the MC hates men LMFAO which also was a draw for me. and the LIs are anime versions of real historical figures as per a classic otome formula so they have weird outdated views about women and the MC whips them into shape etc etc. though tbh this conflict gets resolved pretty quickly as the plot goes on. neither side keeps their resentment of the opposite gender for long which on one hand is good bc I don't really want to romance misogynists but on the other hand felt sort of unnatural especially on the MC's side like you got over your misandry quick I guess damn

the MC Rin is the adopted daughter of the king of hell, king enma. she's a very competent if inexperienced hell guardian who has been tasked with managing this team of 5 assholes to capture the escapees. she doesn't remember anything about her life before she died. I liked rin!! she can hold her own with her whip and her design is cute too. and she has glasses which she wears during her downtime which I love.

shout out to her cat also. I usually am not charmed by cocky mascot characters but tama is so cute and his devotion to rin is so sweet ❤�� little kitty from hell. the LIs and side characters had some great moments with him too.

I must mention that the localization left much to be desired because of the rampant typos and grammatical mistakes omfg. I think it's worst in the common route and the rest is better but good lord. aksys really doesn't give a fuck about quality checking their games which is insane considering I bought this game for FIFTY DOLLARS. I was actually so annoyed I sent them an email about this but ofc I didn't hear back bc they're probably too understaffed to have someone employed who responds to complaint emails

let's talk about the real highlight of this game which was ONO NO TAKAMURA ❤️ rin's teacher who she calls sensei nono and king enma's right hand man, feared by all the prisoners in hell for his power and ferocity which is always lurking under a veneer of elegance and refinement. so basically my exact type of character. he is not even a romanceable character but ended up being my favorite in the entire game due to his delightfully creepy personality....... sensei nono route when.

seriously i love him.

so there are two entry type routes, yona (redhead samurai) and kikunosuke (tiny gamer who turns into a wolf). they were both cute and fun I don't have too much to say about them bc I played them a million years ago. I def enjoyed yona's more even though he pissed me off sometimes lol but I'm always a sucker for the hotheaded stubborn tsundere guy route bc they always fall for the MCs in such a passionate but pure way and rin falling in love with him was sweet even though it happened fast.

kikunosuke has a sister who is one of the escapees from hell and a lot of his route was sibling drama stuff which I always enjoy so that was a plus. also I LOVED his sister she's so adorable and her relationship with rin is so cute, because despite hating her brother she wants rin to be her friend lol. the siblings' backstory is very tragic and I felt for them a lot.

then there was sharaku who had an interesting route lol. I kind of guessed he was going to have a male courtesan backstory but it was interesting how far they took it. he's always talking about trying to sleep with rin which didn't really bother me I guess bc it was kinda funny and I'm desensitized to asshole anime men tbh, plus there was a reason for it. though it would be fair to dislike him because of this lmao. I feel like this route could have been better they were trying to do way too many things... I really liked the core concepts of his character-- having broken attitudes about sex due to sexual trauma, being a famous artist, disliking samurai, etc-- but I don't feel like they were executed super smoothly. anyway his design is nice and I do find him very charming and cute so I kept him as my homescreen character lol. he is very much Guy Who Negs You which is another fav otome archetype of mine... he has some great lines too

JaCK's route... he's a mysterious human working with the escapees and also he is an idol singer or something I guess although that barely comes up. he's kind of a chuuni which is funny af considering he's in his 20s. it is eventually revealed that his name is tetsunojo imai. he was alive during the same time as goemon and has been cursed by nono sensei so that he can't die. as a result he hates everything and everyone having to do with hell and wants to seek revenge. he's kind of horrible to rin for a bit but then has his arc where he repents and it's actually quite emotional and sweet.

all the other guys kinda give him a hard time which is funny lol. there's a lot of nono sensei in this route so obviously it was one of my favs 🙂‍↕️ he has some cool asf badass moments at the end of his route which felt very vindicating bc he spends a lot of it being a coward tbh. I kinda had a problem with rin in this route bc she falls for him so quickly despite him being awful in the beginning like girl get up..... I really liked imai as a character though he had a cool concept with not being able to die and all.

the true route is ishikawa goemon which you find out very early on. the game doesn't hide at all that he's rin's long lost love (who she doesn't remember) from her past life lol. but you can't play his route until you finish the other ones so you basically have to watch him sit in the cuck chair for the entire rest of the game which is kind of depressing bc hes been pining for her for a billion years. Anyway he has a mischievous side bc he's famous thief ishikawa goemon but he's mostly the responsible kind type who helps take care of the other guys. it was sweet how he carried a torch for rin all this time and their story was quite beautiful.

there was a lot of shit happening in his route obviously to resolve everything going on and a lot of reveals that genuinely had me shocked bc I was not expecting them.... but it was a good way to wrap up the game I would say and I feel satisfied about how things ended.

what else... sexual assault and rape are referenced and brought up and incorporated into a couple of characters backstories. it wasn't handled super irresponsibly I would say, just maybe not as sensitively as I would have liked.

apparently this game was not very popular in japan which is sad bc we will likely not get a fan disc. I only really want one for the sensei nono route that I am trying to manifest through sheer force of will

ultimately I thought this was a really fun lighthearted visual novel and otoge!! I wish the villains had been more developed bc that part of the story kind of fell flat and I also wish rin had more of a natural progression from misandrist --> head over heels for whatever dude. but I enjoyed it regardless 👍🏼