#perhaps at some point ill color these but likely not i do not like coloring akjsf

[coco-chip]

i recently made a little animatic on tiktok for welcome home which you can check out here!

i wanted to show off and store all the actual drawings i did for it since it was actually a lot and most of the pics ended up getting cut off because of the music timing and such

[melminli]

Cold Coffee

pairing: young coriolanus snow x fem. reader

summery - you liked working, and someone else liked you working for them.

word count: 2k+

contains: young president coryo, crack, fluff, secretary reader, coryo being lovesick and shy

You had a routine. A routine that you strictly followed every day and it started with your alarm clock waking you up at 5 o'clock in the morning. The first thing you did was get up and go to the bathroom to wash the sleep off your face, otherwise you couldn't get anything done. After you had finished everything else concerning your hygiene, you continued with your outfit of the day.

You liked to play around a bit when it came to your fashion choices. After all, you were living in the Capitol. Your job still demanded a certain formality and professionalism, which is why you were perhaps not as free in your choice as others, but that wasn't a problem for you. You always managed to find something elegant to wear since you had all kinds of clothing in different colors and fabrics that were perfect for combining with various other items. Whether vests, suit jackets, skirts, trousers or everything all together, it was entirely up to your mood. (Even though combining everything together was something you hadn't done since your school days at the academy.).

Then the last thing left missing was your hair and maybe some make-up, before you could step out of the house with your pre-packed bag. After a 15-minute drive in your car, you would arrive a few minutes early and were able to go about your duties as planned until it was time to leave at around 4 pm (if you were lucky).

You've been doing this every day for three years. Every day. That may sound exhausting (because it is), but you were also kind of happy about it since missing work would just mean that you had more to do on the following one. You rarely got sick, but when you did it was usually nothing serious so you came to work anyway. On the two rare occasions when you were really seriously ill, you were once off work and once you were lucky (or unlucky) that it was at the time of several public holidays. So yes, you haven't missed a single day of work - until today.

Your alarm clock died in the middle of the night.

"...huh - what's happening?" You asked, slightly drowsy, and it felt like you'd been asleep for far too long, a suspicious amount of long. Your eyes glanced at the clock on your wall, and you had to concentrate to keep the image from blurring. "...It's a quarter past seven." You finally realized, before widening your eyes and jumping out of bed. "It's a quarter past seven! I'm going to be late!"

In your stress to get ready quickly, you decided to get dressed first and quickly picked something out before scurrying to the bathroom to get ready. That was your mistake because while being a bit too hectic when brushing your teeth, you were clumsy enough to get toothpaste on your shirt. "No, no, no - ugh. I can't believe this." You whined and hurried so you could change again.

Hair? fine, make-up? Fuck it - okay, just go out and get in the car. At this point, you were already a whole hour late. When you arrived at the place where your car was supposed to be and couldn't see it, you started to panic and it didn't stop when you realized why. It's in the repair shop! Why, does this have to happen to me?!

"Okay, let's calm down for a minute." You said to yourself and took a deep breath of the cold morning air. It was quiet, only the chirping of the birds could be heard, it was still early in the morning. "That's just the way it is now. I'll just let someone know I'll be late and - " You said and took out your phone, only to realize that it was dead. This all was probably due to a power cut in the night, which also explained why your alarm clock wasn't working this morning. " - alright, I won't do that then. It's cool. Everything's cool."

Your day was off to a pretty bad start already. It would take you at least half an hour to get to work with the train, and you'd have to wait another half an hour since the last one left five minutes ago according to your watch. Yes, the morning commute wasn't exactly popular in the Capitol - the people here usually preferred to sleep in.

"You know what? I'm just going to treat myself to my favorite drink in my favorite café. I really can't do this right now." You finally decide and set off a little more relaxed. "I would argue that I don't get paid enough for this, but I actually get paid pretty well." You admitted but didn't care any more than to laugh about it.

Of course, no one would assume that the secretary to the president of Panem would get a bad wage.

Hm. Coriolanus looked at his watch again. His eyes had been darting there strangely often since this morning. Well, he didn't see you at all today, and normally you would greet him on the way to his office, and he would greet you back. After a while, you would come through the door and ask if he wanted coffee while you were already carrying it to him in your hand. This was followed by a little summary from you about what appointments he had today, who he was meeting and so on - it's not that important, the point is that he hasn't seen you yet and he didn't know why.

He got up from his seat and opened the door of his office to look out, but like before, you weren't sitting in your seat at the reception desk.

He then decided to look for his nearest employee. "Excuse me, Mr. Pox. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. " He announced his presence as he knocked lightly on the open door with his knuckles.

The man immediately stood up slightly nervously in order to appear respectful. He was older than Coriolanus, but he also wasn't the president. "You're not interrupting anything, sir! How can I help you?" He asked, a little confused. Oh no, he never asks me anything personally, I hope it's nothing serious. I'm not in trouble, am I?

Coriolanus reassured him as he subtly asked his question. "Well, I was just wondering where my secretary was. You wouldn't happen to know anything about her whereabouts?" He said, thinking it was a little stupid of him for not wanting to appear conspicuous. She works for me. I have the right to know where she is. This is not in any way inappropriate.

Pox was relieved when it turned out that this wasn't about him, but immediately felt a little guilty because you seemed to be in trouble. You were his nicest colleague, he liked you a lot. But I can't just lie to the president either. He's literally the president! He'll certainly find out if I do. "No, sir. Unfortunately not, she didn't tell me anything." He replied and just watched as the man in front of him hummed absently, which is why he quickly added. "Maybe she's just late?"

If that were the case, you'd already be three hours late. That was not like you, and Coriolanus began to subconsciously worry a little. She would let me know if she was going to be late. He thought to himself until he realized that you had never been late before, so he couldn't be too sure of his theory. Because that was what it was - just a theory. "Hm. All right, thanks for your time, see you then." He said goodbye to Pox and decided to go back to his office.

There wasn't really anything else he could do - well, except maybe call you. He stopped his steps for a moment at the thought. That feels wrong. Usually, you were the one who called him regularly or barged into his office so he didn't really have to. Well, sometimes he wanted to, but he doubted you would appreciate it if he contacted you after your working hours. He sometimes wished that his thoughts of you would end with your departure, but he hadn't really been successful yet, and for god's sake, he didn't know why. Well, I do - but it's complicated. She's my secretary and this isn't a stupid rom com.

He saw you all day. That is enough. It should be enough. It wasn't like he was looking forward to monday or anything since you started working for him - well, he was, but that was because of other things, for sure. It could be because of other things, he could find joy in other things.

"Oh, Mr. Snow. There you are." Your voice surprised him as he opened the door to his own office and was greated with your face in front of his. "I wanted to talk to you, but then you weren't here. I'm sorry I got in without your permission." You apologized sincerely and took a step to the side so he could enter.

"It's all good. You don't need to apologize." Coriolanus said calmly and sat down in his seat, subtly watching you move in front of his desk. "What is it?" He asked, appearing unaffected - as if he hadn't been thinking about you and what you were doing since this morning.

You looked slightly confused. "Well, I'm three hours late for work." You announced, sure that he would have noticed. "I know this can't be excused, and I'll get straight to work to make up for it, I promise. It's just that my car has a few issues and, well..." You assured him and placed a paper cup on his table. "I know I usually bring you coffee, and this is not the expensive one from here, but from my favorite café around the corner, but well..." You started rambling a bit and were a little more talkative than usual, which didn't go unnoticed. "...It also got cold on the way, and I spilled half of it because someone ran into me on the train." You added when you noticed how his gaze shifted to the stain at your side.

"Sounds like you had a pretty exciting morning. It's all right, don't worry, I'll turn a blind eye since it's the first time." Coriolanus replied with his slightly charming smile. You usually told him so little about your personal life that he unconsciously began to appreciate the little things he got to hear from you.

Like no, he didn't want to hear another stupid story about Mr. Aliose and his fucking hamsters. He almost felt sorry for the guys patheticness, maybe he could live a happier life if he put more effort into finding a wife than getting his pet to do a roll. Or from his other employees who tried to entertain him with uninteresting personal stories he didn't care about - because he didn't care about them.

And the one person he did actually want to hear from, kept their personal and work life very separate. He hated that it wasn't the other way around.

You nodded. "You don't even know. I don't expect you to drink this, by the way. As a matter of fact, I'll make you another one right now. It's just that - I worked really hard to get this to you, and it felt wrong to just throw it in the trash in the end." You let that bit out before returning to your professional self. "I just wanted that at least one thing would go right today."

Stay cool, Coriolanus. Don't freak out, and also, stop romanticizing this. "It's all good. I'm honored that you thought of me." He said, hoping he sounded natural.

A smile graced your face. "Of course, Mr. Snow. I'll be right back." You promised him as you stepped out of his office and made your way to the coffee machine.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Coriolanus let out the breath he had been holding. His hand reached for the coffee cup and turned it in his hand only to discover a small note on it. "For my boss and the boss of Panem :)" He read out loud and smiled as his thumb ran over the drawing of the snowflake. He couldn't help but take the little gesture to heart. "That's so sweet."

I should send out a car to pick her up tomorrow - for business reasons, of course.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 8

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or; A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

Happy birthday to our darling Rhys!! I got him everything he wanted 😏

CW: Smut, Mild dubcon/CNC elements, mind control, and other dubious, wicked things

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

Feyre was eleven years old the first time she was desperate enough to steal.

Like any ordinary child, she'd been taught that stealing under any circumstance was wrong. Her father was a merchant, which meant that thieves posed a direct threat to his livelihood, particularly when piracy was so common along the trade routes to the continent.

He'd built his legacy, the Prince of Merchants, on his willingness to sail those trade routes, navigating pirate-ridden seas because the higher risk equated to higher reward.

But a name wasn't won through gambling alone. Any merchant with a rookie crew could luck their way to the continent and back. What made him the best—the Prince—was his expertise in the art of bargaining. He was renowned for having deals so detailed, so craftily constructed, they needed to be written and signed in advance of each journey.

Feyre had been present for a few of those meetings, watching as ink bled from paper to skin. Sometimes, she'd even been present for the aftermath, listening to crewmen grumble about underhanded terms.

I am a man of my word, Father once said, rolling a contract over his desk and stabbing a finger to its contents. And my word was stated plainly. Do not impute your failure to read the terms on my good name. I am no liar, and I am certainly no thief.

He always used that word like it was filthy.

Feyre once mirrored that belief.

As a child, she would delight in sitting atop storage crates on the docks, monitoring the gangways as her father's crew unloaded cargo from his ship. If there were any wayward thieves, she was determined to catch them.

After all, Father didn't trust the folk along the docks. He barely trusted his own crew.

They don't have any passion for the exploration or the trade, he once grumbled. All they want is a bed and a meal.

Feyre remembered being shocked to hear that some people didn't have those things. Until that point, she'd always relied on having her basic needs met, and then some.

What's so bad about that?

When all a person cares about is surviving, it means they're willing to blur lines. They'll cheat, lie, and steal if it helps them get ahead.

Father shook his head like those three things were truly abominable. Little did he know that one day, Feyre would become a master of all three.

But she started with mastering one.

Two years after her father's vessel sank on the route to Bharat, Feyre's mother had fallen ill. Humans had weak constitutions, and grief could take a heavy toll. So could debt—of which, they'd learned the famed Prince of Merchants had many.

So Mother sold the house, then the jewels, then, eventually, her own body.

It was barely enough.

By the time she was too ill to work, there was nothing left to get by. No silver candlesticks or golden rings they could pawn at the market for medicine.

When Feyre wandered into the apothecary's shop, her intentions had been pure. If she knew the price of the medicine, then perhaps she and her sisters could find a way to scratch together the amount needed. They could scrub floors, or pull weeds in someone's garden, or maybe Elain could use her big brown eyes to draw sympathy begging in the streets.

The shop was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on every wall, filled to the brim with glass vials of varying colors and consistencies. Each sported a white label Feyre couldn't discern, though she was happy to pick out the colors that she found most interesting: a flask of swirling violet flecked with silver granules, another of bright, bubbling pink, and one which she swore housed a slithering creature.

"Can I help you?" The apothecary asked.

She sounded concerned, which any adult rightly would be at the sight of Feyre's tattered clothes.

It sparked hope that Feyre could appeal to the elderly female's empathy. That was all she'd been trying to do when she stared into the apothecary's eyes. Please help me, she thought. I know you want to help me.

The female's concern was so potent that Feyre could feel it, a rope tethering two strangers, built on kindness, on compassion. Her mind was as wide open as her heart.

Feyre didn't know she was digging into it until she felt something give. Like fingers clawing into wet sand.

I need a cure for a human fever, Feyre said.

She thought she said it out loud. She must have, because the apothecary started moving toward the shelf on the back wall.

Acting troupes occasionally put on puppet shows in the market squares near The Rainbow. Feyre felt like she was watching one of those shows as the female jerked open a drawer, her movements erratic. Unnatural. Like she was being controlled by an inexperienced puppeteer.

But the oddity was forgotten the second the woman produced a vial of shimmering liquid and handed it to Feyre without a word of the price. Her eyes were unnervingly vacant as Feyre took the vial, thanked the apothecary, and fled back to her mother.

She didn't realize until years later what happened; she didn't realize that was the moment she'd become a thief.

-

Daemati magic came in many different forms.

Suspended in the space between the High Lord of the Night Court's foyer and study, it took the shape of madness and indulgence.

Over the years, Feyre had progressed from accidentally breaking into people's minds into doing so with intention. It was a gradual process, one she likened to painting. A child used their fingers, but an artist used a brush.

And she was learning her mental bowstring was as rudimentary as finger painting to Rhysand.

Last time, he'd shown her brutal talons that allowed him to play ventriloquist, and she'd thought that was the extent of it. Pure, unyielding power.

But of course, it could be soft, too. Gentle, like a feather's touch ghosting over her mind. Almost… ticklish. Playful.

Like the fingers landing on her bare stomach. He splayed them out carefully, the way one might handle ruptured glass. They might have both been holding their breath as the challenge became real.

Their eyes met, waiting for the other to fracture. This was a ridiculous, dangerous game; they both knew it.

He was lowering himself to his knees before her, for Cauldron's sake. The most powerful male in Prythian bowing like a supplicant. It all seemed so backward to her.

But those strong, capable hands spread wider, undeterred by the constraints of social hierarchy. What did a High Lord care, when he could simply rewrite the rules with his fingertips? He stretched them until his palms landed flat, scalding her on either side of her abdomen. She tried not to focus on how long his fingers were, spanning over the curve of her waist while the tips of his forefingers skimmed her ribs.

"This," Rhys breathed, tracing one of his thumbs along the golden chain adorning her midriff, "was an excellent wardrobe choice."

"You can thank one of the mountain nymphs in the Palace of Thread and Jewels," Feyre said. As if this were a perfectly normal conversation. "She sold it to me."

"I'll make note of that," Rhys murmured, still toying with that gods-damned chain. Feyre fought the urge to squirm. "I owe her my heartfelt gratitude."

"I bought it with your money," she added.

Rhys shut his eyes. She watched him take a deep breath, and she couldn't tell if that knowledge irritated or excited him. When those violet eyes flashed open, bright and burning with hunger, Feyre thought she had her answer.

"Then it was arguably the best money I've ever spent."

"Arguably?"

It was meant to come off as teasing, but with his fingers drifting up her stomach, everything was coming out a little bit strained. And maybe… a little hurt. Not that it mattered if the High Lord regretted spending his money on her.

When Rhysand laughed, his breath danced over her skin, as light a caress as his presence at her mental shields.

"I would claim it with more conviction, but you weren't here for the ass-chewing I received from my second."

"Your—" she broke off with a little gasp as Rhysand's hands slid upwards, dipping beneath the golden band that cinched her top over her breasts. She adjusted her grip on the rope, holding tighter. "Your second in command?"

"Amren," he supplied. "She's a vicious firedrake trapped in a tiny female's body."

"Amren," Feyre echoed, squeezing her eyes tight as those curious fingers began running along the beads hanging beneath her breasts. They made a soft, metallic tink as they swung and collided with each other. "Amren like… like from the children's stories?

Nesta used to tease her with cautionary tales of the bloodthirsty Amren, who lurked in the shadows and sucked on the bones of naughty children. It wasn't the first she'd heard of Rhysand being in cohorts with Amren, but she'd always assumed it was figurative. The way a Priestess was associated with the Mother.

"She doesn't devour misbehaving children, if that's what you're wondering." Rhysand paused, drawing back for a moment with a horrifyingly considerate expression. "Anymore," he clarified.

"Anymore?" Feyre squeaked.

"There's no need to be afraid, Feyre." He grinned, leaning in closer. "Unless, of course, you've been misbehaving. Is there something you'd like to confess?"

Cauldron boil her. Feyre couldn't tell if he was being serious.

"Last I checked, stealing and gambling aren't exactly the traits of a priestess."

"It's a good thing Amren isn't the Mother, then. I think she would find those things amusing," Rhys said, a curious warmth to his voice. One she might even dare to label as affection. "In fact, I think she'd be quite impressed with you."

Feyre repeated, incredulous, "With me?"

"I certainly am."

And before she could digest that statement, Rhys circled a hand to the small of her back, untying the golden band that kept the fabric over her breast secured. It dropped to the floor in a clatter of beading, marking the descent of Feyre's resolve.

Her arms were starting to tremble, and she was grateful she could blame it on the exertion of holding them up. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to focus on the stinging in her palms from how tightly she gripped the rope. It was far better to focus on her chafing skin than the kiss of cool air against the underside of her breasts.

There was nothing preventing Rhys from slipping his hands beneath the newly loosened fabric and discovering her hardened nipples—not that they weren't already visible, peeking through the thin layer of fabric.

Rhys drew back to observe her, holding his advance for the moment.

"Are you getting nervous, Feyre?" The lapping presence at her mind became a little pushier, more of a prod than a stroke. "Your shield's still holding up nicely."

"Because I'm not nervous," she insisted.

"No?" Rhys leaned in, pressing the tip of his regal nose just beneath her navel. "Is that something else I smell, then?"

"Is it the stench of your own ego?"

"So sharp with me," he chided, momentarily abandoning his conquest near the top of her ribs to guide his nose lower, down to her hip bone, then across the low dip of her skirt. "What will it take to make you soft? Is it just a matter of finding the right spot to stroke?"

Feyre snorted. "I don't think soft is what appeals to you, High Lord."

"Oh?" His eyes flickered up to hers, only briefly, before he resumed his slow exploration. "What is it you think appeals to me?"

Feyre didn't answer. She didn't know how—not once he found the knot that kept her skirt in place. He bit into it, tugging with his teeth despite having two perfectly good hands placed just below her breasts.

Feyre nearly let go. She considered it, at least, as she watched Rhys unravel the knot with his mouth. She had time to stop it from plummeting to the ground in a waterfall of blue cloth. But she didn't.

As it pooled at her feet, Rhys drew away again, taking her in with riveted interest. With her hands occupied, there was nothing she could use to hide from his stare, though she twitched with the urge. She felt like a creature trapped in a frame, laid bare under his assessment.

It wasn't the clothes, or lack thereof. Though, he looked delighted to discover the pair of lacy underthings she'd selected that morning. It wasn't the lust, either. Not when she felt it in equal measure, and had walked into this house fully intending to slate their shared desire.

No, what caught her off guard. What stripped her raw, worse than the rope squeezed between her fingers, was the way that smug smile faded into something… something Feyre didn't know how to name.

His eyes captivated her. Blazing and intent, no different from the moment they met. She couldn't look away from them—and she wanted to, if only to glance over her shoulder and ensure the Mother hadn't materialized behind her back. That was the only way Feyre could have explained the awe creeping over his expression.

His fingers flexed at their place over her ribs, as though restraining the urge to drag them lower.

"You," he said, answering the question she couldn't. On his knees, in that voice… It sounded oddly like a prayer. "I want you however you come, Feyre. Soft or sharp, you're equally exquisite."

Her heart was beating in her throat. "What if I only know sharp?"

"Then be as sharp as you want with me." He was leaning towards her again, less as if driven by hunger and more as if he simply couldn't resist. Like she was the puppeteer, pulling him forward. "Cut me, make me bleed. Just—don't make me stop."

Feyre didn't plan on it. That rope was her lifeline, and she held tight as Rhys dived back against her stomach, his mouth open this time, tasting and nipping at her skin. There would be marks there tomorrow. A trail of love bites across her hips, just beneath the golden chain he seemed so obsessed with.

When she tried to wriggle away, growing impatient, Rhys slid his hands to her hips, locking her in place.

"Stay still for me." She found his orders lost some of their impact when muffled into her stomach. "I told you I intend to taste every inch."

It was a shame she couldn't dive her hands into his hair. If she could, she would have taken hold and pushed his mouth where she actually wanted him—needed him.

"Rhys."

His name was half gasp, half complaint.

"You know." He slid his tongue around the curve of her navel, before mouthing his way to the valley of her breasts. His hands followed in a slow, scraping caress. "I don't think I've ever heard you call me that before."

"Would you—" Feyre's breath hitched as he brushed the back of his knuckles against one of her nipples. "Prefer to be called High Lord?"

That seemed to amuse him. "My bedmates aren't usually so formal."

"What do you prefer then? Master? Milord? Your Great Exaltedness?"

Rhys hummed dismissively. "If you can say that many words, then I'm not doing my job right."

"Well, I've been speaking this whole time. So what does that tell you about how you're doing?"

Feyre knew she was in trouble when Rhys stilled. She didn't know why she always felt the need to provoke him. Maybe it was because she still couldn't figure out why he tolerated it.

This was the same male who threatened to cut off someone's tongue for speaking too casually in his presence. The same male who slaughtered one of his captains without blinking. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, and she'd witnessed firsthand how he'd earned it.

And yet, he always seemed to hold back the breadth of his cruelty around her.

Even now, as he thumbed at her nipple through the loose fabric over her chest, he exuded patience. Musing, "Have you ever tried Illyian tea?"

Tea? Not following where he was going with the question, Feyre answered with a hesitant, "No?"

"It's cold in the Illyrian Mountains," Rhys said, emphasizing his point by ducking to blow a gust of cold breath over her collarbone. Feyre shivered. "The tea keeps us warm, and doubles as treatment for the wounded. It's strong stuff. The kind that burns down your throat and will land you on your ass after too many cups."

"What's your point?"

"You don't savor Illyrian tea. You down it as quickly as possible and wait for the warming to start."

"Okay?"

"I spent most of my youth in the Illyrian Mountains," Rhys went on. "And the first time I attended a High Lord's summit with my father, he smacked me upside the head when I tried to down a thimble of Day Court Mead. He told me I looked barbaric. Day Court Mead is one of the finest wines in Prythian, you see. You're meant to sip it, holding the flavors on your tongue."

"So I'm the mead, then," Feyre said, guessing where he was going with the analogy. "Am I supposed to be flattered that you're comparing me to a drink?"

Rhys didn't answer immediately. He only grinned to himself, before pulling away and rising from his knees. An unsettling response—almost as unsettling as his cryptic, "Stay here."

Then he headed back into the dining room. Feyre leaned through the doorway as best she could to follow what he was up to, but from her vantage point, all she could see was the end of the dining table and the abandoned chairs. She didn't dare let go of the rope to inspect any further.

It could be a trick, after all.

"I swear to the Cauldron, Rhysand, if you intend to leave me hanging from the doorway for the rest of the bargain—"

"You'll what, exactly?" He asked, sauntering back into view with a bottle in his hands, his face the picture of smug amusement.

"You'll owe me anything by the end of this," Feyre reminded him. "If you decide to be cruel, I'll endure it. And then I'll ensure it's repaid in full."

"Such a feisty creature you are." The words sounded gratingly affectionate, the way one would speak to a kitten batting at their leg. "And, pray tell, how will I be repaid if I decide to be kind? Might I expect more warmth from you?"

Feyre narrowed her eyes at the bottle in his hand. "What's that?"

He displayed it proudly before her. "Day Court mead, of course."

That was where he lost her. And it made Feyre nervous, seeing his large hands braced around the bottle, watching as he drew his thumb suggestively around the rim of the cork…

Her voice wobbled a bit as she asked, "W-what are you planning to do with it?"

All it needed was a small push of his thumb and then—pop.

"I want you to try it," Rhysand said, closing the distance between them.

His fingers lodged under her chin, burning where they touched. She was burning in so many places, now. Her hands, raw from the rope. Her chin, warm from his touch. Her cunt, aching with need. And her cheeks, embarrassed from it all.

"Be good for me." Rhys tilted her chin up, until her eyes were level with the sight of her trembling arms, growing white and numb, but still holding fast.

When he raised the bottle, he dragged his thumb across her lower lip, prompting with a single, firm, "Open."

Feyre parted her lips, allowing him to pour the mead into her mouth.

The first drop was like sunlight. Honeycomb drenched sunlight. Sweet, but not like sugar. Sugar was sharp, quick, and over too soon. This was slow, like a sun-warmed nap in a swaying field, rich and indulgent. The longer she tasted, the more depth she discovered, luring her in, somersaulting her towards a golden abyss.

"Don't swallow," Rhys whispered, his voice wending around her, coupled by strokes of dark tendrils that forced her awareness to return to her other senses. On her tongue, a drop had become a flood, filling her mouth until it pooled, then overflowed, streaming down her chin, her neck, her breasts.

She could already feel the sugar sticking to her, but her focus was on remembering to breathe through her nose, trying desperately not to choke while Rhys continued pouring, his other hand cradling her skull as he murmured, "That's it, Feyre. Good girl."

Eventually, the bottle ran dry.

"Not yet," Rhysand said. "You're meant to hold it on your tongue, remember?"

Feyre's throat bobbed uncomfortably. That was another place she was beginning to burn.

"Stay still," he coaxed, leaning in. Their eyes met as his lips fell over hers. Those damn, discerning eyes that saw everything, including the desire she was trying so hard to fight.

He saw it, and smiled, all wicked and taunting. His tongue flicked across her lower lip, tasting the wine. But he didn't stop there.

His fingers curled in her hair, urging her head upright so the mead could flow from her open mouth to his. It wasn't clean by any means. Honeyed wine spilled from the seam of their lips, dripping onto her skin and his clothes, making a mess of them both. She swallowed what was left—it was the only way she could kiss him back, and Rhys didn't seem to have any complaints.

With a groan, he dashed the empty bottle to the floor, bearing no mind to the resulting crash and scattering fragments. He seemed to have much more pressing concerns, which involved scooping Feyre against him to deepen the kiss. His tongue traced her lower lip again, and she opened her mouth, inviting him to taste at the source.

His tongue swept in, tasting of honey, and she wanted so badly to let go of the rope so she could hold him there, to suck at his tongue and bite at his lips. Rhys was in full control, positioning her just as he wanted so he could taste.

Feyre hissed when he pulled away to lick a trail of mead from her chin.

A rasping chuckle was her response. "I've made a mess, Feyre. It's my duty to clean it up."

A hand fisted in her hair and tugged, angling her neck back so he had full license to lick the column of her throat.

Feyre was panting, squirming against his hold and furious that he would stop kissing her. "Rhys—"

"What happened to Your Great Exaltedness?"

He kept her arrested in that position, taking his time to suck and nip at her skin, then pull away with an audible pop. Over and over, he ignored her groans of frustration, creating a path of red welts that were soon interrupted by her sullied top.

"Oh dear, this has been ruined, hasn't it?" He didn't sound the least bit concerned as he ripped at it, casting the garment away as if it were mere cobwebs. "Don't worry, I'll get you a replacement."

And then the heat of his mouth surrounded one of her breasts, his tongue circling her nipple. Feyre gasped, bucking into the air. This was going to be impossible if she didn't have something to ground her, something to—

Rhys, as if sensing what she needed, wedged his thigh between her legs. The pressure against her clit relieved some of the ache, but introduced the new, humiliating urge to drive her hips forward.

She bit her lip, determined to resist.

"Is this what you needed, Feyre?" Rhys coaxed, palming her hip to create the movement for her. She fought a whimper as her clit ground against his hard muscle. "Does that feel better?"

She refused to answer him. But she also didn't stop moving her hips when he let go.

"That's it," he murmured, returning his attention to her breasts. One was cradled in his palm, while the other endured the countless lashes from his tongue, teasing her so mercilessly that she thought she might die if she didn't touch him.

When his teeth clamped down, Feyre screamed, driving her hips against his thigh harder. Her head was beginning to spin, a mixture of exhaustion and pleasure and pain.

As she writhed against him, Feyre started plotting all the ways she would get her revenge once her hands were free. Maybe she'd fish another bottle of mead from his cellar and sip it from his abs. Maybe she'd tie him up and ride his face until he couldn't breathe.

Maybe she'd���

My, don't you have the most delicious thoughts about me.

Feyre froze. Rhysand's mouth was still latched to her breast. Those words hadn't come from his mouth. Which meant that voice…

It was in her mind.

You should pay more attention to your mental shields, Feyre. A lesser male could walk right in and decide to take you up on those filthy thoughts of yours.

Feyre's fingers flexed with the urge to lash out in front of her, as if she could physically push him out. What are you doing?

Did you forget? This was a daemati exercise. And it looks like your shield dropped as soon as you started enjoying yourself.

A familiar sensation crept over her—awareness, like a cold breath cascading down her spine, that her body was yielding to a foreign presence. Her veins became a latticework of strings, and she felt his talons pluck at them, transforming her into a marionette of his will.

Now, now, he tutted. Don't stop on my account, Feyre.

Captive in her own mind, Feyre could do nothing to prevent her hips from rolling forward. Her head tipped back, and without restraint over her body, there was nothing to smother the moan rising in her throat.

There you are, Feyre. Give in to it.

He was everywhere, physical and otherwise. His magic swarmed through the crack in her mental shields, blanketing her mind in a fog of endless starlight. She treaded through it the same way she'd learned how to swim, thrashing and kicking blindly in an attempt to reach the surface. But that assumed there was a surface, an ending to the vastness of power that twined and twisted around her.

Rhys clicked his tongue. Must you always fight me?

Outside their minds, she felt cool air sting her puckered nipple, exacerbated by the saliva glinting there, and the trail of it that led to Rhysand's cat-like grin. She watched him lick his lips as he admired his work: From her flushed skin, covered in love bites and rivulets of golden wine, to her trembling arms, waning in strength. Finally, his attention dipped to his thigh, where the fabric of his trousers had become damp from each consecutive pass of Feyre's hips.

He took a deep, pointed inhale. You can admit you want this. There's no sense hiding what we both already know.

I want—even her mental voice sounded shaky—the money and the favor. Not you.

Immune to her lies, her body continued helplessly rubbing against him. Her breathing quickened as that pressure began to build, winding hot and tight.

Why not me, Feyre? Rhys pushed, almost taunting. He could feel she was close to the edge. Is it because it frightens you?

Because it's not real!

That's not the game we're playing right now.

His tongue snaked along her throat, licking away more of the mead.

Inside, she was grappling against his hold. They thrashed and rolled through the darkness, her claws scraping his, pushing and pulling, ebbing and flowing until they were a tangled mass of magic, so deeply intertwined that Feyre lost all sense of where she ended and he began.

Meanwhile, Rhysand held her, enveloped her, worshiped her with his mouth and hands and talons, and she thought it wouldn't be the worst thing to surrender to this.

Why was she holding herself back?

This is all just a distraction, she reasoned. It doesn't mean anything

Do you want it to mean something, Feyre?

Feyre wanted to scream. Though, from frustration or pleasure she wasn't certain. Everything was becoming muddled, colors bleeding together like water over paint. There wasn't room in her mind to think, and outside her body was being driven to a pinnacle that she couldn't hold back.

Get out of my head!

Rhysand's voice was full of faux sympathy. If it's too much for you, darling, then let go of the rope.

Fuck you.

Oh, I intend to. His voice was starting to sound a little breathless, too. A large hand palmed her backside, moving her faster against him. She watched through half-lidded eyes as his head tipped back with a low, guttural sound. Fuck. Feyre—

The world fractured. Erupted, like dropping into the ocean and feeling the water rush past. She delved deep into that darkness, feeling her own magic rupture and scatter into stars, washing her soul against the shore of his, their very essence seeping through the cracks of the other, becoming a tapestry of magic threaded so tightly she could feel it pulling in her chest.

Feyre let go of the rope.

She didn't know she still had enough control over her body to do so, not until she was already moving, threading her arms behind his neck to crash her mouth to his. It wasn't gentle. He didn't deserve gentle.

Bed, she demanded.

Rhys obeyed without question, not breaking their kiss as darkness folded and unspooled around them, depositing Rhys on his back atop his bed. Feyre straddled him, clawing at his clothes with shaking, rope-burned hands.

Until Rhys caught both wrists, bringing them to his lips one at a time to kiss away the raw flesh.

There's no rush, he soothed, running his thumb across her newly healed palms. We'll have an extra six hours together, after all.

For that comment alone, Feyre tore straight through his jacket and undershirt, coming away with strips of cloth. The High Lord didn't seem to mourn his clothes in the least. She would have taken more time to admire him, to admire the tattoos that she discovered on his chest and shoulders, so strikingly similar to her own.

Except, he was staring up at her, raw delight on his face. So feral—

Shut up.

I'll need to subtract that from your—

I said. Feyre crawled up his body, tearing off her soaked underthings. Shut. Up.

Unfortunately, sitting on a male's face was only an effective silencing technique when that male wasn't a daemati.

What a pretty view, Rhys purred, craning his neck before she'd even finished lowering herself down. The second she was steady, her hands balanced on the headboard, he hooked his arms around her thighs to bring her closer. Here I thought you planned to punish me.

Congratulations, you've proved you can run your mouth. Do you actually know how to use it?

Rhys arched a brow. Even Feyre couldn't believe her own boldness. One of these days, she was going to overstep and find herself on the receiving end of that boundless power, and it wouldn't be teasing and caressing her the way it was doing now.

Don't be so certain. I like that you're not afraid of me.

The purr in his voice heated her blood, nearly as much as that first, filthy kiss he pressed against her cunt. He went slow, using the broad flat of his tongue to part her folds in a long path ending at her clit. That was where he focused his attention, sucking and lashing while he kept her hostage in his grip.

But if you're going to mouth off, he continued without faltering in his expert torture. Be prepared for the consequences.

This, Feyre gasped, doesn't feel like a consequence.

Yet, he said smugly. I have all night with you. And I intend to 'put my mouth to use' until I've had my fill.

She knew he was bluffing. Feyre could count on her hand the number of males who had put their heads between her thighs, and all of them disengaged after a few minutes into the act.

With a growl, Rhys redoubled his efforts. A word to the wise when fucking a daemati: try not to think of other males unless you want them dead.

Jealous?

Insufferably. He nuzzled his face lower, dragging his tongue to her entrance. Do you still remember their names?

No. Even if she did, she wouldn't have told him. On the chance that he wasn't joking when he said they'd end up dead.

Good.

His tongue slid inside her, and the headboard creaked from how tightly Feyre clutched to it, convinced she would topple over when his fingers slid between her legs to supplement his tongue, rubbing tight, delicious circles. Her hips bucked, her climax shattering through her at incredible speed, causing light to dot her vision.

Rhys didn't slow his movements, continuing to lick and stroke her as he crooned, There's only one name you need to remember.

They were still mind-to-mind, completely entangled. Paired with her mind-numbing pleasure, it made the task of searching through her memory rather tedious. It was like trying to navigate a familiar place in the dark, she knew the information was somewhere around here…

Cassian? She said, recalling the name she'd heard from the rumor mill with a great deal of effort.

Rhys growled. Very funny.

Her thighs, clamped tightly around his head, were beginning to twitch as he worked her towards another rapidly approaching edge. Feyre didn't think she could survive this all night.

Wh-what was it you said? If I can say this many words, then you must not be doing a very good—

Those hands at her thighs grabbed her roughly, pushing her off his face and flipping her onto her back in a single, fluid movement. Feyre yelped as one of those hands grabbed her throat, pinning her to the mattress.

You can't help yourself, can you, Feyre?

Not any more than you!

An exasperated laugh rasped out of him, making her think she had just proved his point.

What happened to having your mouth on me all night? She challenged.

I'm thinking I need to tire you out first. Get you a little more… subdued.

He withdrew his hand, then his body entirely. Feyre's mouth went dry as she watched him unbutton his trousers, finally freeing his erection. He had no right to be as big as he was. To be as beautiful and powerful and arrogant as he was and to still have a cock like that…

Feyre hated him a little bit for it. Hated how difficult it would be to walk away from him by the end of this.

Rhys sauntered forward, expression as satisfied as it ought to be with a cock like that swinging between his legs and unfiltered access to each of the filthy thoughts she was having about it.

There'll be time for more play later, he said, pressing a knee into the bed.

He crawled over to her, and she watched his eyes fall over her naked body, parted in invitation for his. The hunger on his face curbed into something softer, something she didn't know what to do with.

You're beautiful, he murmured, seconds before his mouth found hers in a deep, open kiss. He tasted of honey wine and her own arousal, an unexpectedly pleasant combination. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It struck me the moment I first saw you.

His bare skin was so warm against her own, each contact point jolting her with a feeling of rightness. They slotted so perfectly together, his cock nudging at her entrance as she wrapped her legs around his waist, their tongues moving together and their fingers locking so that there wasn't a single part of their bodies and souls that wasn't entwined as Rhys pushed himself in.

Then paused.

Feyre fought a snarl.

Tell me you want this, he said. Forget about the bargain. Tell me this is about more than the money.

I want this. Feyre pulled at him, clashing their noses together from how fiercely she clutched at his face. She pushed her heels into his muscular backside, trying to urge his hips deeper. I want you, Rhys.

He groaned, pushing his hips forward.

The stretch of him was exquisite. Feyre had never felt anything quite like it—the decadent pleasure made sharper by the slight burn as he pushed in further, slowly, ensuring she felt every inch, every delicious place they were joined.

But that was just one layer of the overlapping sensations. There was also the cradle of his body, surrounding her in warmth. The soft lips against her neck, panting sweet, reverent breaths of, Feyre—oh, Feyre.

And then their minds. One seamless, blended entity of magic, of starlight. She could feel him everywhere, no piece of her soul untouched, but she could see all of him, too. Like gazing upon the very fabric of his life, woven from the moment he was born—maybe even before then.

If she plucked at one of the threads, she wondered what she'd find. A memory? A vital fragment of his being?

She wouldn't dare, not when she could feel him staring back so… openly. Like he wouldn't stop her if she tried. It was vulnerable in a way she didn't know how to honor. In a way that made her wary.

You are… Feyre trailed off, failing to find a word that articulated what she saw, what she felt.

Perfect.

That snapped Feyre out of her awe. She blinked, refocusing on her physical body, where he was shaking as he held himself still, letting her adjust and…

And just staring at her. His lips parted open, mouthing a word she couldn't make out as his wild eyes darted over her, studying every detail.

Adequate, Feyre said, narrowing her eyes at him. I was going to go with 'adequate'.

For a moment, Rhys said nothing, his brows pinching together in confusion. And then he seemed to snap out of it, barking a laugh that echoed through the starry cavern of their minds.

I was talking about you, smartass. He leaned down, licking a stripe up her throat that sent ripples of pleasure down her spine. But allow me to demonstrate just how 'adequate' I can be.

He withdrew his hips, just slightly, then plunged them forward, grinding deep as Feyre clawed at his back, panting.

Rhys let out a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. In their minds, it became a clap of thunder, his magic roiling, surrounding her in zapping, crackling power. Her hair stood on end, her pulse quickening from the thrill, like standing at sea during a storm.

She dug her nails harder, certain she was peeling back skin, and he snarled in encouragement, withdrawing and snapping his hips. Again.

I've thought about this, he rasped, punctuating his words with another hard thrust. Every damn day since our last bargain, Feyre.

He drove into her harder, relentless. Grunting, I haven't been able to get your scent out of my nose.

I haven't been able to get you out of my gods damned mind.

Those words rippled through the space between their minds, echoing his confession. Feyre rolled her hips up, begging him to go harder, faster. Trying to say, in her own way, that she couldn't stop thinking about him, either.

I thought—

His teeth grazed over her pulse, making it jump. Her breath hitched.

Go on, he said, voice molten velvet.

I thought I was supposed to be the one practicing my shields. But it's your mind that can't keep me out.

His laugh was rich, warming her bones. If you think I'm the one with all the power here, Feyre, you are mistaken.

Then, as if to disprove that very statement, he let go. Every restraint, every glamour, every attempt he made to act the average fae—it all disappeared in that moment.

Great, membranous wings unfurled behind his back, blanketing them in the scent of citrus and sea salt. With a splintering crack, his magic untethered, spilling darkness into the room.

Without her sight, it became impossible to differentiate between the mental and physical worlds. As if they existed in a liminal space between, where slapping skin became the thunderous collision of souls, crashing and merging together.

Feyre was certain she was screaming. She thought, distantly, he might have been too. Somewhere, her mortal body clenched around him, hot and fever-bright.

She heard her name, over and over, Feyre, Feyre, Feyre—

And then he shattered, too, shooting every star out of orbit, his magic flooding over her in wave upon wave. She should have been frightened, surrounded by so much unyielding power, but it felt oddly peaceful. Like diving into the sea from her dreams.

She floated through that presence, Rhys buried inside her, both of them panting.

When he withdrew, so did the magic.

It was too bright. Feyre cringed, burying her face into his heaving chest, not caring the least that he was covered in sweat and shaking. They both were.

When she finally pulled away, blinking into the light, she found a pair of stunned violet eyes blinking back. For the first time since meeting him, he looked dumbstruck, mouth opening and closing like he was floundering for words. Like maybe all daemati sex didn't feel that… world ending.

For a long moment, they only stared, catching their breath.

Feyre took the time to reconstruct her mental walls, finding it oddly empty inside her mind without his presence.

Meanwhile, Rhys rubbed a hand down his face, then his chest, feeling absently at his ribs. She wondered if she'd accidentally hit him there when everything went dark.

She felt a bit battered herself. Sticky and sweaty and sore in far too many places. Tomorrow he'd probably take pleasure in laying her out to count each of his bite marks.

"Was that adequate enough for you?" Rhys asked, finally breaking the silence.

Smug bastard.

Feyre shrugged. "You're the High Lord who's supposedly so difficult to please. You tell me."

He smirked. "Lay back, Feyre."

Her mouth popped open. Surely he wasn't serious.

"Already?"

Rhys crawled toward her, wedging his massive body between her thighs. "I told you I wouldn't stop until I've had my fill." He flashed her a wicked smile as he lowered his mouth to her cunt, licking at their shared spend like it was a delicacy.

And I'm not nearly close to finished with you.

-

At some point, they did stop fucking long enough to eat and bathe—just barely.

Rhysand was ravenous. And Feyre didn't know what had gotten into her, but she was, too. They couldn't stop. Even long after they were exhausted, they kept touching and kissing until they collapsed completely tangled in each other.

Feyre had gotten maybe an hour of sleep, if that, when she woke up to pee.

She took her time on the way back to bed, marveling first at the sleeping form of the most powerful High Lord. He didn't look nearly so intimidating when he was naked and snoring, the blankets strewn haphazardly over his muscular legs.

If she had the time, she would have liked to draw him like this. No one else in the world got to see this version of him.

Except the other females he bedded.

That… was a sobering thought. The reminder that this wasn't some sacred, meaningful tryst. He was paying to fuck her, no different from any other whore in the upscale pleasure house she heard he frequented often.

With burning cheeks, Feyre turned away from his sleeping form, refocusing on why she was here to begin with.

His personal bedroom was larger than the one she'd stayed in last time, though only slightly. He had a worktable, scattered with paperwork and curious trinkets. Star charts and models of planets and books upon books of topics she couldn't discern.

That was another scalding reminder of how far apart their worlds were.

She was really only good at one thing.

Feyre tiptoed to his bedside table, silently pulling the drawer open to inspect its contents. More books, a pair of reading glasses, a velvet box, and a dark crown that she assumed had wound up in here after a late night at some formal gathering.

She imagined Rhys winnowing directly to his bedroom, flinging the crown into the bedside drawer, and collapsing atop the mattress.

It couldn't be easy, this life.

Feyre lifted the crown, measuring its weight in her hands, before she indulged the childlike impulse to place it on her head.

It couldn't be hard, either. Better than starving. Better than whoring yourself to survive.

She rose from his bedside table, searching for a mirror to admire how she looked in a crown, but a hand at her wrist stopped her.

Rhys was reclined across his bed, wings splayed beneath him, a lazy smile stretched across his lips.

"Find something you like?"

Panic seized her chest, squeezing like a fist as she scrambled to think of an excuse. "I—"

His eyes darkened. "Come back to bed."

"Rhys, I'm—"

"Keep the crown on," he said, tugging at her wrist with urgency.

She followed his pull, uncharacteristically pliant as he positioned her thighs over his face, groaning, "Gods, look at you," as he dived his mouth between her legs.

-

The final six hours of their bargain passed much the same.

There wasn't any noticeable shift to the way Rhys touched her, still slow and indolent, like he had all the time in the world.

It was nearly dusk and they were still in bed, still kissing though too exhausted to do much else. Even so, his kiss was gentle and thorough and maddening.

Feyre missed it when he pulled away.

"Your bargain's fulfilled," he said, breathing heavy. "I can take you home now."

It was a bad sign that it was dread coursing through her instead of relief.

Rather than untangle her alarming mix of feelings, Feyre fisted her hands in his hair, urging his mouth back to hers. Just one more kiss. To remember him by.

Rhys made a low, pleased sound in the back of his throat. He returned the kiss open-mouthed, cradling the back of her head to bring her closer. When she felt him harden against her thigh, they both groaned.

Rhys withdrew again, something achingly hopeful in his expression. "There's nothing preventing you from staying," he added. "If you want to."

That was what scared her—that fact that she wanted to.

Feyre kissed him again. Kissing him was easier than answering. Only, Rhys seemed to take kissing as an answer. He shifted closer, wrapping his wing around them so that she was cocooned in his heat, his scent, his touch.

And as the kissing grew more fervid, she didn't stop him from flipping her onto her stomach. He used his knees to wedge her thighs apart, spreading her open as those strong hands found her hips, urging them up, up, up.

She buried her face in the mattress, already clutching tightly to the sheets in anticipation of that first, perfect thrust.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Rhysand." The voice was female—crisp and edged, entirely undaunted by the High Lord's responding snarl. "You're late."

"Leave us."

It was a direct, uncompromising order, and yet the knocking came again. Louder.

"We are not rescheduling this meeting again. I'm sure your playmate can survive without your cock for an hour."

Feyre was still pressed into the mattress, gaping at him over her shoulder at the way the female was speaking to him. At the way Rhysand was letting her speak to him.

And more so that he listened, turning to Feyre with an apologetic wince. "I need to go. But you can stay here." He paused, hesitating for a moment before adding, "I'd like for you to stay. I'll be back within the hour."

A cough on the other side caused him to blow out a long breath.

"Maybe two hours."

Feyre nodded, slumping into the mattress. Rhys pressed an apologetic kiss into a notch at the top of her spine, then the next. The next. He nearly made it to her ass before the door rattled with an irritated thump.

With a long-suffering sigh, Rhys lifted himself from Feyre's body. It was no easier than trying to lift a boat from the sea; they both felt heavier once they were separated.

"Rest," Rhysand said. "You'll need it when I'm back."

After less than an hour of sleep, the stack of pillows at the headboard was practically calling her name. Feyre made a show of nuzzling into them, wrapping the blankets around her as a surrogate for Rhysand's warmth.

She felt him staring at her. Heard the soft little hmph he made in the back of his throat. A pleased sound, like he enjoyed the sight of her nestled in his bed.

Then, with a wave of his hands, he was dressed, closing the door behind him. She heard him speak to the female on the other side, their voices too muffled to discern, but she could tell he was grumbling about something.

Feyre listened intently as those voices faded down the hall. She waited until she was certain they were gone.

Quietly, she crawled to the edge of the mattress and opened the bedside drawer. The crown had been tossed to the floor some time in the night, but the rest of the objects were still there.

Including that velvet box.

Feyre reached for it, parting it open with her fingers to confirm its contents.

From there, it took all of five minutes to slip on her clothes and bolt out of the town house without looking back.

[thevirginwitch]

City Magic: Painted Rock Wards

This post was released a week early over on my Patreon! You can subscribe for free to be notified of important projects announcements, or subscribe for as little as $2 a month to gain early access to my content, exclusive access to research/reading notes, and free digital goodies! Your support means the world to me and helps me to continue doing what I love.

We’ve all seen those pretty painted rocks over on Pinterest, right? These bad boys? Or perhaps you’ve even seen them around your neighborhood/public parks.

Traditionally, these are meant to be painted (sometimes with words of encouragement) and left in public spaces for people to take home, as an act of kindness. Some others paint them for their garden, either to deter pests with vibrant colors, or they’re used to label whatever’s in their garden.

Now, if you live in a big city, you probably have felt a disconnect from your craft or your practice. It’s difficult to connect with a nature-oriented spirituality, such as witchcraft, when you live in a concrete jungle! But there are many, many ways to feel connected to your craft, even if you don’t live in the middle of the woods or have a lot of nature around you. One of these ways is to connect with your neighborhood.

Your neighborhood has mass significance to your life, whether you realize it or not: this is where you live, where you work, where you breathe, where you practice your craft – you must make yourself known, and make the neighborhood known to yourself as well. One of the best ways to do this is to take walks!

Whenever you’re ready, take a walk through your neighborhood and bring a map, notebook, and a pen. As you walk, observe the behaviors of the residents around you. Do they seem to be struggling with anything? What kind of people are they like? Write these characteristics down. If you notice any parts of your neighborhood that evoke any specific emotions (such as unease, happiness, peace, or anxiety), mark them on your map. You might also notice some “problem areas” – perhaps some patches of the road or sidewalk are horribly paved and need to be repaired, or there’s a lot of loud dogs constantly barking at the end of your block. Mark these areas on your map as well, and report back to your home when you are ready.

Picking Your Purpose

Now that we’ve identified a few “problems” and made observations within your neighborhood, we can decide what we want to do. Do you want to protect against thieves? Ward against illness for one of your elderly neighbors? This is the time to select the primary purpose for your ward.

Picking The Area

Take the map that you marked up during your walk. Connect any common points you see (for example, connect up the "peaceful" areas you marked on your map, or connect any points that have a common theme). What kind of shape does it have? Does it remind you of any popular symbols? Can you use the general shape of the area to generate a sigil or symbol that represents the area? What area(s) would most benefit from your rock wards?

Here is an example of how I created a sigil from a fictional city map I found! Obviously, play around with this idea until it makes sense to you. You can connect up different routes, or perhaps create a border around the areas that feel safest to you.

Now is the time you also want to pick where you want to place your wards - you can use your neighborhood sigil to influence where you place them, or, place them based on intuition or based on need. For example, placing a rock ward at the end of the noisiest block, or in the middle of the block that has the most number of children in the area.

Creating and Using Your Sigils/Symbols

Now, you want to develop symbols or sigils for your purpose. You can use any method you’d like! You may wish to incorporate your neighborhood sigil into each one you create, but ultimately the design is up to you. This is also the point where you would “charge” your sigil, with whatever method you see fit - as long as the design, intention, and charging method makes sense to you, that’s all that matters!

Painting Your Rocks

Finally, onto the fun part!

Now, you could simply paint your sigils on your rock and call it a day. Or, you could paint your sigil, and layer a more “mundane” piece of artwork on top of the sigil, leaving the sigil hidden underneath. This technique works best if the “mundane” artwork connects with the ward’s purpose in some way (for example, if your ward is for protection against nosy neighbors, you could paint eyes; or if your ward is for health, you could paint green colors, or even a red cross). I definitely recommend this “layering” method of painting your rocks so no one in your neighborhood ends up reporting any “suspicious looking rocks” with “satanic symbols” on them to your local Facebook groups!

Materials

acrylic paint

rocks

paint brushes

toothpicks (optional)

paint markers

outdoor/water-proof sealant such as Mod Podge: Outdoor

Instructions

Lay out your rocks and other materials

Seal your rocks with a coat or two of your sealant before you begin painting. This is an important step, since rocks are porous and will suck up any paint you try to apply!

Paint your rocks to your heart's content! If you are layering paint on your rocks, please make sure each layer is dry before painting the next.

Once your rocks are completely dry, seal them up with your outdoor/water-proof sealant so they don't get damaged in the elements.

Lastly, take another trip through your neighborhood to place your rocks. Converse with the neighbors if you feel inclined, and make double-sure of the locations you chose for your wards. I recommend taking regular walks throughout your neighborhood to check on these wards, and make sure they’re doing their job. You may wish to refresh the wards with a new coat of paint, or replace them with something new if the situations within the neighborhood change.

Ultimately, magic is what you make it, especially when you live in a big city. Warding your neighborhood and showing care for the people that live there is one of the many ways you can connect to your neighborhood on a deeper level and feel more connected to your practice locally.

Recommended further reading: Urban Magick by Diana Rajchel

[stellocchia]

I absolutely adore the fanon Nightmare Gang found family stuff but... If one of these suckers gets sick they're gonna struggle.

Like, okay, I don't think Nightmare can reasonably get sick. It would make no sense for any virus, bacteria, or parasite to have evolved to survive and thrive in a goop that literally only he posses. He's fine.

But he's also gonna be completely useless when it comes to looking after his team. He would fall for the good old paranoia-inducing mistake of googling the symptoms and finding only death-sentences. And then he's just gonna be miserable and mope until his boys are better.

Killer meanwhile, would logically get sick, but also he would definitely hide it. Like, he was still conditioned by Chara to be a killing machine, no way my guy would just share such a big vulnerability. The others would only find out once he's already in really bad shape and most of the time they wouldn't find out at all.

On the other hand, while I imagine he'd be adept at setting broken bones and the general basic field medicine (again, because of his past he probably had to learn the basics to survive and remain functional), his solution to deal with any actual illness would be "just ignore it until it goes away".

I'm pretty sure Horror is technically already dead, so I don't know if he can get sick... Though I'd say probably? I mean, his body doesn't seem all too different from that of other monsters. Regardless, when sick I say he'd go in full survival mode, build a nest somewhere and be completely unapproachable unless you want your hand chewed off.

On the other hand, being the only one with a living brother and with both of them living in really harsh conditions, he probably has had to handle sickness rather often. Of course, with the lack of resources back in his universe, he mostly had to go for the basics, so his solution is a warm broth and some wet pieces of cloth. At most hot water to disinfect wounds. He's still at least doing something.

Cross is basically like Killer. He doesn't want to appear weak (with a father like his I highly doubt weakness was allowed) so he hides any minor sickness. Though I do think he'd tell, like, Horror if things are getting really bad. If anything, ao he doesn't become a burden for the others during missions.

And, again, much like Killer, I think he definitely would know field medicine. He was trained as a Royal Guard after all, they must have taught him things like that. But actual sickness? Yeah, they probably had medics that handled it when it got too severe. He doesn't know jack shit. His solution is just going to Horror and hoping he's got it handled.

Dust would straight up gaslight himself into thinking he's not sick and that's just his body punishing him for his sins. He literally would not believe it's anything else until someone (again, most likely Horror) pointed it out to him.

And the worst part is that, once he knows, there's no fucking way he'd let anyone treat him for it. That self-loathing fucker would rather suffer through it in some pointless attempt at receiving some form of redemption. He's cooked. Horror would need to tie him to the bed just to force him to get some rest.

So, anyway, this is my propaganda to say let's get at least one Sans who is mentally healthy enough and knowledgeable enough to keep these guys from dying in here.

My vote is for Lust Sans. Just because I love him.

Though someone like Color could also unlock some very fun dynamics. And he may actually get Killer to stop hiding his symptoms like an idiot. And perhaps Cross too. Literally, those guys would lie about getting bit in a zombie apocalypse

[old-daemon-farts]

Is daemonism safe?

Daemonism, when broken down to the bare minimum, is a mental and imaginative exercise. It's not meant to push yourself into anything potentially unhealthy. You are not forcing hallucinations and there shouldn't be any dissociation of identity or losing control of yourself.

Let's Start With Projection

Projection is applying mental images overlaid on your surroundings. It is using your imagination and relying on your ability to visualize outward what is being produced by your mind's eye. With practice, you can make your projections quite vivid, and after a while you may not even register that you are still seeing right through them. The apple exercise is a good example. Lets say you picture an apple on a plate in front of you, but the apple is fleeting and inconsistent. Its shape, colors, and size flickers rapidly or fizzles out entirely. You *know* it's not there. There's little presence or weight to it. If this was glass, it would be described as crystal clear. But, with practice, it becomes more consistent. You can now see one shade of red and the size remains the same. Perhaps you have even added details like a shadow. Now, if this was to be compared to glass it would be glass with a light tint added. You can still see right through it, but you also know something is there. You don't have to be a daemian to be able to project. Concept designers, artists, architects, althetes... projection is a type of visualization. It's a creative tool. It's not a hallucination, nor is it intended to be one.

Extreme vividness can be from hyperphantasia, but if you worry projecting may trigger or influence hallucinations then you are welcome to avoid it! Projection is fun, but not a requirement, and you should do what is most comfortable, healthy, and safest for you. Daemians who experience projection as hallucinations already have a history of them from what I have seen within the community.

Fronting and Dissociation

These are experiences usually seen within DID and other plural spaces. Daemonism doesn't focus on switching with your daemon, and you likely won't find resources specifically about it. Of course, you can switch who's in front, and some plural daemians may have advice for how to accomplish that, but again, that's not the point or focus of daemonism at large. They are usually hands off within our lives. We are the ones in the driver's seat while they are the backseat drivers giving us direction. They aren't expected to take the wheel from us. There isn't anything wrong with wanting to or being able to switch with your daemon, just to be clear. I'm only pointing out that getting daemons to front is not a priority like it is in other plural spaces. This is another reason daemonism is very easy to get into and something I consider much safer and easier to manage for the average Joe.

Dissociation isn't something that is associated with the daemon experience either. Dissociation *can* occur, but there are likely other reasons you would be experiencing these things and not just because you have a daemon. Dissociation from ADHD, stress, illness, or DID are just a few examples. Switching with your daemon could just be masking, or perhaps your mind is already comfortable sliding your daemon into front because you have DID. Again, if you are worried having a daemon could trigger dissociation or a loss of control then please do what is in the best interest for you. You know your health and history best. But, there a *many* daemians who are systems and quite happy and comfortable having daemons. Daemons have even been known to help with dissociation and sense of identity!

Talking to Yourself

Is 100% a normal, human experience. There's been a surge of exploration in self-talk and how it affects us, and talking to yourself in 2nd person even has proven benefits. You also don't *have* to talk out loud to your daemon; you can keep it all internal. Just know that splitting your own mental monologue into a dialogue isn't unhealthy and it's something many of you already do even without a daemon.

TLDR

You do only what you are comfortable with here. If something sounds risky, then don't do it. Daemonism is meant to be a healthy and fun activity.

You want to form find but not separate your daemon from yourself? Awesome.

You want to only talk to your daemon and avoid projection? Neato.

You want to project but not talk to your daemon? Perfect.

You want to learn how to switch with your daemon? We ain't really the community for that but you are free to if you are comfortable!

You do what's best for you. It's meant to fill whatever you need. Healthy mindset, growth, or just straight-up something fun to do.

Topic spawned from a question on Discord over the difference of imposition and projection as well as some differences between us and other techniques out there for headmate creation. Cleaned up and formatted better for Tumblr.

[stnkiconverse]

you're going to do it, and you're getting away with it. you know that.

Ch.7 - Thrill

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genre: psychological horror (in a way), creepypasta, supernatural thriller (in a way)

pairing: none. (yet ;) )

WC: 2.1k

content warnings: echoes in the static contains scenes and themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: graphic violence and murder, mental illness and psychological distress, suicide and self-harm, domestic abuse, cannibalism and strong language.

Reader discretion is advised.

Yes this has to do with Creepypastas. Yes, Creepypastas will pop up and make appearances, it's basically a reader insert into the Creepypasta word.

do not repost my work anywhere, I only post in Tumblr.

A/N: CHAT IM SO SORRY FOR NOG POSTING FOR SO LONG😭😭

The morning sun barely touches the horizon when you stir from your sleep, the remnants of dreams dark and twisted lingering in the corners of your mind. But these dreams aren't disturbing-they're a source of comfort, a reminder of the power you hold, the power you crave. Frank's disappearance, reported by Mary the day before, should concern you, but it doesn't. Instead, it fuels a fire within, a relentless hunger that demands to be fed. The thrill of your past kills lingers like a scent in the air, intoxicating and sweet, yet leaving you craving more.

Rising from your bed, you move with purpose, each step calculated, each action a ritual in your transformation.

The oversized hoodie you slip on is worn, its fabric soft and familiar against your skin, a comforting shield that conceals your form. The old Converse, scuffed and frayed, are next, grounding you in the reality of your intentions. Finally, the black medical mask covers your face, hiding the smile that curves your lips —a smile that speaks of the darkness within, the predator lurking just beneath the surface.

You sit before the mirror, your reflection staring back at you with eyes that are no longer your own.

With deliberate care, you begin the transformation, your hands moving with the precision of an artist. You darken the shadows around your eyes, sharpening the contours of your face until the person in the mirror is a stranger—a hunter ready to stalk the night. The colored contacts slide in last, their unnatural hue completing the disguise. The person staring back at you isn't you —it's the predator you've become.

Today, there is no plan, no carefully selected target. The hunger within you is a living thing, a beast that drives your every step as you leave your apartment and slip into the early morning streets. The city is quiet, the world still bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. You walk unnoticed, a ghost among the living, your presence nothing more than a shadow on the periphery of their awareness. You find yourself drawn to a small flower shop, one that you've never visited before, its windows filled with the vibrant colors of fresh blooms.

Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of flowers, their fragrance cloying and sweet. You choose your bouquets carefully, selecting delicate pink hyacinths, representing fun and playfulness, their petals soft and fragile beneath your gloved fingers. The florist wraps them with care, her hands trembling slightly as she works.

Perhaps she senses something off about you, perhaps not- but it doesn't matter. You pay in cash, ensuring no trace of you is left behind, and leave the shop with the flowers tucked safely under your arm.

The walk home is one of anticipation, each step bringing you closer to the satisfaction you crave. The city blurs around you, your focus narrowing to a single point-the next kill. And then you see it—a house with a window wide open, the sounds of domestic bliss spilling out onto the street. A husband and wife, setting the table for breakfast, their voices light and carefree. It's a scene so ordinary, so mundane, that it shouldn't catch your attention. But today, it does.

A powerful urge grips you, one that is impossible to resist. This is it. This is the moment you've been waiting for. Without hesitation, you cross the street, your movements smooth and silent. You move with the grace of a predator, slipping into the shadows beside the house, your presence unnoticed. You listen to the couple's conversation, their words a backdrop to the beating of your heart, which quickens with anticipation.

The couple finishes their task and heads upstairs, their voices fading as they leave the room. This is your chance. You climb through the open kitchen window, your movements fluid and practiced. The flowers are placed delicately on the counter, their beauty a stark contrast to the violence you are about to unleash.

Your eyes catch the glint of a knife on the kitchen counter, its blade sharp and ready. You pick it up, feeling its weight in your hand, the cold steel a perfect extension of your will.

The wife's footsteps approach, and you retreat into the shadows, your heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. The air is thick with tension, the moment of the kill drawing nearer with each passing second.

You wait, the anticipation building to a crescendo, your breath shallow as you prepare to strike.

A gentle stomp of your foot is all it takes to catch her attention. The sound is subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to make her pause. She looks around, her brow furrowing in confusion as she searches for the source of the noise.

You step back further into the darkness, watching as she moves closer, her curiosity drawing her toward you. She steps into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room, but before she can see you, you strike.

Your hand is over her mouth in an instant, cutting off any chance of a scream. The knife slices through her throat in one smooth, practiced motion, the blade meeting little resistance as it severs flesh and sinew. Blood pours out, warm and thick, a beautiful cascade of crimson that stains her blouse and pools on the floor. The sight of it is mesmerizing, the deep red contrasting sharply with the pale pink of her blouse. The thrill of the kill washes over you, a wave of euphoria that makes your hands tremble with excitement. You let her body drop with a dull thud, your eyes already seeking your next victim.

"Sarah?" The husband's voice calls from the dining room, tinged with concern. You hear his footsteps as he approaches, each step heavy with the weight of unknowing. You smile, the anticipation bubbling up inside you, your pulse quickening with the thrill of the chase.

He enters the room, his back to you, unaware of the horror that awaits him. You move silently behind him, the knife poised to strike. "Sorry..." you say, your voice a whisper laced with malice. The husband spins around at the sound, his eyes wide with shock and confusion.

"Sarah's a little busy, hope you don't mind." Before he can react, you lunge, driving the knife into his chest. The blade sinks deep, meeting bone and muscle, but you don't stop.

You stab him over and over, each thrust bringing with it a surge of adrenaline. His blood splatters across your face, warm and sticky, a stark contrast to the cool air around you. The thrill of watching the life drain from his eyes is intoxicating, and you can't stop yourself from smiling. You continue until he's barely breathing, choking on his own blood, his body twitching with the last vestiges of life.

Reaching into his back pocket, you pull out his phone, your gloved hand smearing blood across the screen.

"Call the police, and have a good dinner!" you say with a laugh, pushing yourself off him and walking back into the kitchen. The flowers you bought earlier sit untouched on the counter, a quiet witness to the carnage you've unleashed.

You rip two petals from the pink hyacinth bouquet, representing the fact that you did this for fun, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the brutality you've just inflicted. One petal is placed gently beside the woman's lifeless body, the other beside her husband, who still clings to the last threads of life. But you don't care to watch him die. The thrill of the kill has already begun to fade, and you have no interest in staying longer. With the knife still embedded in his chest, you climb back out the window, leaving the scene as quietly as you entered.

The morning air is cool against your skin as you disappear into the forest, taking a familiar shortcut home. The buzz from the kill lingers, making your legs feel slightly unsteady, but it's a sensation you've come to savor.

The leaves and sticks crunch underfoot, the dry, earthy scent of the forest filling your lungs. The thrill of the hunt still burns in your mind, a fire that refuses to be extinguished.

But as you walk deeper into the forest, the sense of peace you felt begins to slip away. Your smile fades as you hear a crack—a sound like bones popping, like when you crack your neck or knuckles. You freeze, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, your senses suddenly on high alert.

Footsteps follow, soft but deliberate, echoing through the trees. Your heart races, the sound almost drowning out the rustling of the leaves beneath your feet.

Panic starts to creep in, your mind racing as you try to figure out what's making the noise. You quicken your pace, moving faster through the forest, your thoughts clouded by the memory of the man you saw outside the flower shop.

The static begins to creep in, faint at first but growing louder and more insistent as you move. It's a familiar sound, one that you've come to expect, but this time it's different— more invasive, more intense. The closer you get to home, the louder the static becomes, until it's almost deafening. It fills your ears, your head, drowning out all other sounds, until it's the only thing you can hear.

You reach the back door of your apartment, your hand trembling as you push it open. The static is nearly unbearable now, a constant, overwhelming presence that refuses to be ignored. You step inside, closing the door behind you, and the noise crescendos to a fever pitch.

You glance back at the way you came, and for a fleeting moment, you see him-the man with the gash on his cheek, the one who's been haunting your steps. He stands there, watching you, his dark eyes filled with something you can't quite place. Your own eyes begin to water, the intensity of the moment almost too much to bear. You blink, and when your eyes open, he’s gone.

The static fades as quickly as it came, leaving you in a deafening silence that is almost worse. You take a long, hot shower, the water washing away the blood, the dirt, the memories of today. The warmth soothes your nerves, calming the adrenaline that still pulses through your veins. You feel good—better than you have in a long time. The thrill of the kill, the power you felt as you took those lives, lingers in your mind like a drug, and you know you’ll need more.

The next day, you wake up with a sense of peace that is unfamiliar, yet welcome. The darkness that has clung to you for so long has lifted, replaced by a strange calm. The world seems brighter, clearer, and you feel lighter than you have in weeks. You dress quickly, eager to start the day, and head to work with a spring in your step.

The hours pass quickly, the routine of work grounding you in a way that is both comforting and necessary. But as you move through the day, your thoughts drift back to the man you saw outside the flower shop. The memory of his smirk, the gash on his cheek, sends a thrill of excitement through you. And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you see him again.

He stands outside the front window of the shop, his eyes locked on you, the same smirk playing on his lips. But this time, he’s not alone. A second figure stands beside him, taller, more imposing. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a stained white hoodie, his arms naturally long, his long black hair greasy, his posture relaxed yet menacing. Your heart skips a beat as you take in the sight of them, the realization dawning on you that this is no ordinary encounter.

The second figure turns to look at you, and your breath catches in your throat. His face is a grotesque mask of horror—a smile carved into his flesh, the edges raw and jagged. It’s a sight that should terrify you, but instead, it excites you. Your eyes flick back to the man with the gash, and his smirk is still there, as if he knows something you don’t. You feel a connection to him, a pull that you can’t explain.

You smile at him, a full, teeth-baring grin, as the realization hits you. He’s your next victim. The thrill, the power, the rush—it’s all-consuming, and you crave more. But before you can act, they’re gone—vanished into thin air, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The rest of the day passes in a haze, your mind consumed by the image of the two men. You replay the encounter over and over in your head, analyzing every detail, every nuance. The thrill, the excitement, the hunger—it all builds within you, a storm that refuses to be calmed. By the time you leave work, the urge to kill has become unbearable.

As you walk home, the darkness within you swells, and you know that tonight, the hunt will begin again.

Chat, who’s gonna tell Y/N that she can’t kill Toby?

banners by @drizztdohurtin

🏷️: @mimmickmouse @stranger-of-the-internet @akashic06072007

[starshower1215]

Blitzen and Hearthstone Headcanons: Homeless Version (with some Magnus)

I missed them a little bit.

Since Blitzen never wanted to go too far from Magnus, he would go to a very specific store, shop, or mall that played Taylor Swift's music so he could listen. He's a demigod, so using a cellphone is a bit difficult. Thus, access to Taylor Swift's music is difficult, and he really misses hearing the albums that never play on the radio, like Folklore, Red, Evermore, etc.

Hearth has come to terms with his own disability, but sometimes, this would give him the slightest bit of sadness, because he would love to listen to whatever it is Blitzen loves so much and, perhaps, even sing it for him to comfort him.

The uncleanliness of living on the streets really messed with Hearth's head. He would be very fastidious about the things he touched and did, because getting his clothing dirty would result in a lot of anxiety. He has a very deep appreciation for any shops that have products such as Lysol wipes or hand sanitizer available to the public.

The pale color of his hair and skin does not help either, as it makes it much easier to see how filthy he is.

Blitzen's tendency to indulge in the free things in life helped pull Hearth out of his own mind, though. On the occasions when they'd be together, and not a day-mother-elf and night-father-dwarf, Blitzen would take Hearth to explore the town. They loved checking the community notice board to see what's going on, and they made sure to invite Magnus with them to the community festivals, events, all the little things. This was a small light in Magnus' life after his mom died.

Blitzen, who was isolated from his home and therefore, all his designing materials, loved to window shop. He dragged Hearth around the malls and outlets and just imagined what it would be like to style the clothes, how he would adjust them and improve them. They'd play dress-up, too, probably with Magnus, too, much to the dismay of the shopkeepers.

Blitz's games of dress-up often evolved into games of pretend and playing House, which affected Hearth emotionally sometimes. They would mess around together at the empty checkout counters, pretending to make each other dinner and chatting about how their day went, making up details about the mundane lives they could only wish for.

I had previous head canons that Hearth was already in poor health due to his lack of proper eating habits, so he probably fell ill even more in the bad sanitary conditions. This might've triggered him to feel really guilty, and Blitz would do his best to help Hearth.

This goes both ways. Anyone would get sick in unsanitary conditions, and both of them have issues with this concept of "taking up space." Blitz would feel guilty or discomforted by the fact that he's taking up more attention than necessary. It seems contradictory, since he would love more attention towards himself and his talents, but desire can clash with trauma.

Blitzen always let Hearth wear some of his clothes to sleep, as Hearth is used to a much warmer environment, being from Alfheim. It was awkward at first, since Blitz was much smaller, but Hearth eventually got used to simply wrapping his clothes around his shoulders.

With Blitzen being with Magnus at night and Hearth there during the day, they missed each other a lot.

Since Magnus never used to see them much together, he was shocked when he found out that they knew each other.

Hearth learned to read very late, since he was always busy surviving in an abusive household. But the library is a prime shelter for homeless people, so he would often spend days with Magnus, matching signs up to words. At first, they had a lot of trouble communicating, but one day, Magnus pointed at a book, then pointed to the word "book," and it went on from there.

Blitzen is very weak, I believe this is specified in the books, but I imagine at night, when it is more dangerous, Hearth lets him take his leather jacket. It makes him look broader, more tough, and it helps him scare people away despite his height in order to protect Magnus.

[paperstarwriters]

Hey, do you take requests? I loved your Modern Roomate Muriel X Reader fic and I would love a part 2 if you ever felt like writing it <3

Yes I take requests! But it does take a while for me to finish them cause I'm slow and this was no exception lol

thank you for waiting though! and I'm glad you like my writing enough to want more!

For this one I've tried to keep descriptions vague but also I tried to be accurate with Muriel's colors. Though if you can't tell I'm still not exactly confident with makeup lmao. Tbh i can't use it much since I'm prone to rashes, so I don't have much experience lol. Still I hope you enjoy <3

Pairing: Modern Roommates Muriel x Reader

Warnings: Lots of fluff & Author knows little about Makeup 😅.

Summary: Muriel admits that he has worn makeup before, but under such bad circumstances, you can't help but want to give him a better experience.  More important than the colours, more important than the fine lines, you want this to feel... Nice for Muriel. Like he's being pampered. He deserves that you think.

Word Count: 3, 640

Part 1 | Masterlists | The Arcana Masterlist

Painting

"So have you worn make up before?" 

Muriel pauses in making breakfast, turning to face you as you sip at your glass of water at the table. Had he not noticed you come in? He's typically very (annoyingly) good at that. Any chance of preening at your sudden ability to sneak up on your roommate falls flat as he makes a scrunched expression. Disgust perhaps? Or discomfort? You can't tell as he quickly turns back to his cooking, too soon to let you see what exactly he might have felt. 

Thankfully, he graces you with a reply. 

"I... Did before..... For a bit.... For a.... Job." 

Your stomach sinks. 

It's funny how much there is to notice. What you can pick up and understand when you live so closely with a quiet roommate. How a hum can mean a number of things, ranging from a simple yes to, "I think that's kinda dumb but you know what, you do you." or "I appreciate you too much to disagree." And for all that Muriel did not talk to you about his past, he only ever reserves the word "Job" for one job he's had in the past. Everything else is called work. This, you're sure, is better called torture. 

Asra mentioned it once to you before, when you were new roommates and he was far grouchier and colder. Muriel worked a job under some toxic super wealthy frat boy manager doing something violent and unsavory. A boxing ring you sometimes imagined, an assassination job it sometimes sounded like. In desperate need of money he had to do a lot of terrible things. It's a wonder he ever got out without someone chasing him to drag him back in, but well, thanks to the r3d outbreak getting away is way easier when your employers get sick, or when you can feign an illness and leave as the higher ups fear for their lives.

What kind of make up would that kind of job need? Maybe something black around the eyes like they do for the military with their masks? Or was it make up to appear more sick in order to escape?

Muriel sighs as he pushes your plate closer to you, startling you as you hadn't even noticed it was there. You mutter your thanks before you start eating the eggs and rice he's prepared for you, still trying to chew over what his possible past experience might have been with makeup while you try to chew your food at the same time. The result is tenuous of at best as you run very close to choking on your food a handful of times and miss your mouth once or twice when particularly deep in thought. 

What kind of makeup did Muriel even use?

...What would he look like in makeup?

On that point, what would suit him best? Something dramatic and edgy or emo? Or maybe a pop of colour? Green around his eyes might draw lovely attention to the green within, but a dark eyeliner might as well. What about contrast? Red against green? Wouldn't he look lovely in red? A lingering stain of red on his cheeks, and a bright red stain of red on his lips... Ah how kissable they would be then?

...well, anyone would consider his lips kissable if such plush things were stained a vibrant red...

"Are... Are you done?" Muriel mumbles, eyes diverted to tracing the scuffmarks at the bottom of the wall beside him.

It takes you a moment to realize that your plate is already empty, and a moment longer to realize you had been staring at Muriel for the last few minutes as you daydreamed about makeup. You're quick to rectify your mistake as you redirect your attention to your empty plate, though it takes you another moment to remember that it's your turn to wash them, plucking your plate and his from the table to go and wash.

It's silent for awhile. An anxious little silence wrought with a familiar lighthearted tension. It's more awkward than anything, but someone needs to break the silence, someone needed to say something. If you could just—

"Do you wanna try wearing makeup?" you blurt out. You don't even need to turn to look behind you to see his shocked expression at your offer, maybe even a little bit of hurt or betrayal that you just cannot bear to see. So you keep your eyes on the dishes before you, quickly scrubbing away rice with a sponge as the used pan sits below soaking in the water. "Not any battle make-up or anything, but just something... I don't know... Artsy or something? Something colourful? Something that would compliment your eyes..... Uhm not that your eyes aren't pretty or something—or that you're not pretty without makeup—or that you even need to do this at all haha!" 

Above you the light from the small kitchen's lightbulb is eclipsed by a familiar figure behind you. With a gentle touch of your shoulder, Muriel brings your attention up towards him though he still looks away, avoiding your eyes, as the corner of his lips twitches. You can't tell if he's fighting a smile or fighting a frown. 

"You don't have to, Muriel. It's just an idea..." 

And finally he meets your gaze. "I... No. I... I'd like that. It sounds...nice." 

His eyes wander away from you again, as if ashamed to confess that he'd like to wear make up—though maybe, considering what you've heard about that shitty old job, he is. Maybe his old job was the type to argue that pretty makeup was for the weak and spineless, or maybe he was convinced that pretty makeup was only for the rich and wealthy who came to watch or hire him to fight for them, all while they'd sit so far away and safe and cozy in some plush lounge seat, so far away from the danger and the violence, but getting the chance to watch, and delight in the wretched outcome.

Either case is so awfully sad. Either case only makes you want to doll him up in makeup even more.

Furiously you scrub at the pan, and within a matter of seconds you've scraped off anything that had ever threatened to stick, thoroughly scrubbed at it with soap and set it aside to dry with the plates as you wipe your hands on your shirt and nearly bolt off to your room to search for your materials. Hopefully you had colours that would work well with him. 

It takes you a moment to realize that you're alone in your room, turning with a handful of tools to find no one there behind you, and as you peek out of your door and down the hallway, you find Muriel still standing in front of the sink, staring at you with wide confused and slightly worried eyes. 

"Do you not wanna do it anymore?"

His eyes seem to go even wider for a moment, before he replies, "right now?" 

"Did you want to do it later?"

"I—no....okay!"

And back in to your room you go, this time with the added assurance that Muriel would follow, marked by the faint thud of his feet against the hallway floors.

You dig around for your cleanest brushes, and grab your most trustworthy (and thus most used) brushes alongside it, grabbing something to clean the brushes as you bolt off to the bathroom  to wash your tools, before you return to searching your assortment of tools in search for items that would suit him. The red of one lipstick would look lovely in contrast to his eyes, but a muted dusty pink might look just as pretty wouldn't it? Perhaps a bold black eyeliner, would be a bit much—and maybe a bit too similar to whatever black eye paint they used in the military if he used that stuff, so maybe a brown eyeliner would work a bit better? If you even had one of those... Though maybe brown eyeshadow would be effective enough? Ah but maybe brown wouldn't be as noticeable...

You zip back and forth between the washroom and your tools, between cleaning and searching for colours and palettes rummaging through your rather limited assortment of makeup tools. Having only ever bought stuff for yourself, you didn't really have much outside of your favourite colours or in tones that would suit your skin, but a few older products that you tried and didn't like, or a few palettes with sparsely used colours were surely somewhere within the mix. 

You only pause in your searching as you're pulling your brushes out from the washroom, having dried them off loosely with a towel to go further air dry them beside a nearby fan or in the sun by the window or something, you had been in the middle of deciding when you realized you had forgotten a crucial component. 

"Hey Muriel?" 

He sits up straight at the sound of his name, head snapping away to look out the door, as his hands ball into fists as if bracing for the touch of your brush. 

You can't help but hesitate a bit at the sight. 

"What.....?"

"Oh, uh, you should probably go wash your face, and use some cream on your skin as well. The one in the flat container should be pretty good for most skin I think?"

Muriel nods, still not looking your way as you return to your make up drawers in search for odd colours you only maybe, hopefully had for him.

When the sound of the sink finally shuts off, you take it as your cue to give up. It's an odd assortment of colors—you doubt you'd use that neon shade of green on him, even if green is his colour the brightness might be a bit...off-putting right away, but you have a general colour scheme you can follow using some of the colours on hand. 

Face ever so slightly damp and shiny from the cream, Muriel returns, looking... Anxious to say the least really.

He fiddles with his hands a bit, touching his face almost just as much, trying to wipe away invisible droplets of water, or trying to smooth down the thicker patches of the lotion you let him borrow. 

And again, you find yourself hesitant.

"Are you sure you wanna try this? No shame in backing out. It's easy to put this stuff away." 

Muriel nods, following his silence with a half whispered reply. "No, I'm ..... I'm okay. I want to try...."

You nod, and pulling your first brush from it's little cup, you settle down, and begin to get to work. 

It's a lot of careful maneuvering, carefully dabbing colours onto some places with a brush, rubbing other places with your fingers, before you lean away to check how you're doing. Were the colours too bright? Was that line off? There are a few things that you end up having to scrub off with a makeup wipe, but even with that you're careful of his skin. More important than the colours, more important than the fine lines, you want this to feel... Nice for Muriel. Like he's being pampered. Muriel barely moves through the entirety of it all, but for what little he does it means all the world to you. Silent and unmoving, eyes and mouth closed, Muriel serves as the perfect canvas, only difficult in the fact that it keeps you from seeing whether he likes it or not, if he feels pampered or not. At the very least, you hope it feels nothing like whatever his old job used to do for him. 

Ah, but you can only really hope. 

An orange-red lipstick is the final touch, but your limited supply of brushes are already all packed with colours, and you'd like to —if all possible—keep the things that touched your eyes from going towards anyone—including your own—mouth. 

So you elected a far simpler method instead. You rub your finger against the lipstick bullet, and with your finger to his lips you smudge the colour against his skin. And with a simple touch to his lips, you make him jolt, breaking his statuesque composure, for just a moment before he's still all over again, albeit maybe leaning a little more foreword than before. If he has, it's barely noticeable, and probably caused by that one jolt of movement. His lips are a bit chapped and dry, so it takes a few attempts, but you manage to stain his lips with a suitable amount of colour in your eyes. 

You take a step back to see what you've done, and smile, satisfied at your work. It's nothing special, nothing on the level of some professional in a studio with all the makeup options in the world at their fingertips, but you think that it suits him, and you're proud of that much at least.

"You can open your eyes now." 

You offer him a hand mirror, and let him examine your, admittedly shoddy work. It's not perfect, but the colours look nice you think, though you can't help but wince at the selection a little. You just didn't have a shade of green that would fit him well in your opinion, so you leaned instead into the red colours that you did have. You used the only greens you could find to add a little colour to the inner and outer corners of his eyes, and used a warm orange-y-red lipstick on his lips that turned out pretty dark against his skin, you also smudged the colour a bit along his cheeks as well, as a sort of blush really though if you could you'd like to try to capture that shade of red his face so often blooms. It really isn't your best work, limited as your colour palette was, but....

Well, the way his eyes seem to glitter more at seeing it.... Well, it would make any make up look pretty on him really.

"Can I... Ask for one thing?" 

You blink, surprised for a moment before you're immediately grabbing the makeup wipes again. 

"Sure! Do you not like the colours? Is there a colour that you'd rather wear?" 

His cheeks tint red, and you almost curse yourself for the smudge of dark red on his cheeks, making it harder to decipher that exact shade. Surely you had lipstick in that colour at least...?

"What.... What was the colour of lipstick you were wearing last night....?" 

You pause for a moment, dropping the attempt of colour matching to grab the tube of lipstick from it's place on your table. It was a dark red shade, almost like the colour of blood, a shade you specifically aimed to avoid, hoping that it wouldn't make him uncomfortable. 

"This one? You wanna try it on?" He barely even looks at it before he nods, making you sigh as you bring it closer to him to let him inspect it. "It might look different on your skin than it does on mine just an fyi, so don't be surprised if it looks different okay?" 

Muriel nods again, this time having looked at the lipstick a little more thoroughly. He doesn't react to the colour at all no trace of hesitance or weariness, so perhaps they didn't try to paint him in "blood" or anything dramatic like that. 

With your fingers once again, you press the red colour against his lips, as Muriel leans into your touch this time, eyes closed as he lets you work. The sight of it startles you for just a moment, looking as if he were leaning in for a kiss. 

Your finger slips from it's path, and a smudge of red, streaks away from his lips, but even that looks so.... Pretty against his skin. Like he's been kissed, like whatever lipstick he had been wearing had been smudged by another pair of lips eager to express their affection. 

You hesitate, staring at his lips for a moment before you finally turn away to grab more makeup wipes. When you turn back, Muriel's eyes are already open, already staring at your sloppy job with his lipstick. 

"Sorry I'll fix it. Do you like the colour though?" 

Muriel's eyes flicker to yours for a moment before he looks away, but a grin curls his painted lips, as more colour takes to his cheeks. A resounding yes, then, confirmed by a faint hum. A job well done in your books then, and thus a debt well repaid, for his gentle hand at helping you wash your own makeup off. 

You dab at his lip to wipe away the smudged lipstick, before you begin to pack up your supplies. "Feel free to wear that for however long you'd like, I...." you cut yourself off. The offer to help wash the make up from his face tucked away along with your makeup containers. Muriel helped you to clean off the makeup only because you needed his help exhausted and maybe a little drunk from your night out, but Muriel can surely handle himself. 

When you turn back around, Muriel is staring at himself in the mirror. It's the most you've seen him look in a mirror to be honest. Not including the bathroom, your room seems to be the only one in the apartment with a mirror, and though you've offered to let Muriel borrow your mirror if he needs to, or to help him buy his own, he's staunchly refused your offers. It was a small thing though, nothing that you'd feel the need to press him about. He's covered in scars after all, and you know full well how he feels about those—the whole reason why you let him use a handheld mirror than your full sized one. 

But now, as he holds your little handheld mirror up, to look at his face, you can't help but notice how he traces his own lips with a newfound reverence, fingers dancing along the flesh with the barest touch as if he were worried it would smudge, or wipe away with a mere touch. Yet even then, the corners of his lips are pulled up. Did he like it that much? You make a mental note to buy extra of that colour the next chance you get alongside some green eyeshadow perhaps, though by the looks of if, Muriel seemed to much prefer the lipstick that stained his lips than any of the other colours you've splattered on his face. 

It takes him a few moments, but when his eyes finally flicker up to you, he does so with a smile, that promptly fades into a blushy pout as he realizes your attention. It's a tragedy to see it go, but seeing his lip jut out at the attention is nearly as good. 

"Do you like it?" 

You're startled at his question, for a moment, scrambling for coherent thought to best reply to him. The reply you give in the end makes your own face grow warm, though earnest and true. 

"You look lovely." Even your expression softens a little, as your eyes flit back down to his lips.  Once more, Muriel's face picks up colour again, but try as he might, he can't quite keep the smile from curling up the corners of his mouth at his words. 

"Thank you."

Standing, Muriel fidgets with the mirror for a moment before handing it to you, mouth parting for a moment before he thinks better of it and closes it again. It continues for a moment or two, making him stay longer than you'd expect him to, as he stares anywhere but you. Familiar with the gesture, you wait for him to get his words in order, even as he looms above you while you're half sitting against the ledge of your drawers.

If anything, you take the moment to re-assess your work, recalling all the improvements you fully intended to make if he let you do this again. If you could, you'd use a shade closer to his eye colour as his eyeshadow next time, to bring more attention to the colour there. Or maybe even some sparkles next time? If he didn't mind them that is, it could be a bit irritating to try to clean off sometimes. And maybe next time you'd choose a better shade of blush that would match the actual red to rise in his cheeks. 

And the red of his lips... You're tempted to reach up, to press a finger to his lips once more, if only to feel how plush they were again, if only to give him more of that pretty red that he seemed to like so much despite his past.

And you watch as those pretty painted lips part, as those lovely emerald eyes finally dart your way. You watch as his attention finally turns to you, mouth parted as if ready to speak before he pauses, just for a breath, eyes searching your face for... Something. 

And maybe he finds it. Maybe he doesn't. But in reaction to whatever he sees, just a little bit of that tension escapes his face, shoulders sagging and the faintest curl of his lips gracing his expression. 

"Next time," the spell breaks as he speaks, mouth corralled into a pout once more as his eyes dart away from you, "Next time let me put your make up on for you."

And with that he turns away fingers just brushing against yours as he leaves your room, leaving you to blink and wonder what sort of makeup he knew to apply. 

If anything, at least he seemed to like it.

If anything, you had another reason to feel his fingers against your skin...

[asamiontop]

The mark of an excellent engineer is predicting the unpredictable. Anticipating how a user might misuse or abuse a product before they’ve ever laid eyes on it. Preempt the mistakes and the fringe use cases and design them into insignificance with failsafes and redundancies.

Lena is, by all accounts and conferred degrees, an excellent engineer. She designed the anti-kryptonite suit to withstand, well, everything. It’s built to handle abuse ranging from unplanned space flight to close contact with a nuclear warhead.

Most engineers don’t exactly take into account how their product might inadvertently abuse them, however. And in that respect, Lena is no better than the rest.

She watches Supergirl peel off that technically perfect helmet, not a splash of sickly green on her golden skin, and Lena expects to feel triumphant. Proud. Accomplished.

Instead, she feels affronted. There’s no other way to describe the physically oppressive tightening in her chest when the hero shakes out her hay-colored hair, helmet in hand. The headpiece comes off, gorgeously windswept curls tumble out of it, and Lena gapes as her last remaining brain cell goes up in smoke.

It’s like a goddamned motion picture. Down to the way Lena’s jaw hinges open, slack and completely outside of her control. Blonde waves cascade over the armor Lena hand-built for those broad shoulders and all her insides collectively squeeze. A wayward strand catches on a passing breeze and alights on a delicately flushed cheek, framing Supergirl’s handsome jaw. Lena huffs—at this point it’s just offensive.

She’s bordering on furious with herself for not considering the obvious danger in her design (irritatingly perfect hair, an ill-advised sapphic crush, and a glorified motorcycle helmet do not a productive match make). Unintentional harm or distraction to anyone—wearer or not—is simply an unacceptable failure mode in battle. Of course her irritation isn’t enough to keep her from raking her eyes appreciatively over everything that her suit emphasizes on National City’s beloved Kryptonian.

Lena’s debating alternative head coverings in her mind—throat still dry, eyes still roving, fingertips still itching to learn how soft those golden waves truly are—when Supergirl glances her way. She smiles and it’s like the sun catches on all of her at once. Light glints off her suit (Lena’s suit, that she made for her), illuminates her hair, dances in her smile and suddenly Lena understands why people worship her as a god.

The super is radiant as she walks over. “Lena,” she breathes, tucking the helmet under one arm. Lena’s sheer disgust with this entire cliché is the only thing that keeps her from moaning outright at the way her name sounds from that mouth. “You saved me.” Supergirl’s blonde head ducks bashfully and—oh, she gets to be cute now too? How dare she. A chuckle rumbles through the crest that Lena placed on her chest. “Again. You saved me again.”

Crystal eyes lock on hers and Lena’s awareness of anything outside those deep, searching blue flees her entirely. Struck dumb, Lena holds Supergirl’s gaze, chin lifted, until the hero finds whatever she’s looking for.

An irresponsibly cocky smirk curls at the corner of Supergirl’s mouth. It pushes her a step closer and the proximity shoots a wave of instability through Lena’s knees.

“Is there any way I can repay you?” The super says, voice low. Lena wonders briefly if she’s been transported to the set of a low-budget porno. As if on cue, her brain fires off three filthy responses in rapid succession. This cannot be happening. She swallows hard to keep those thoughts sequestered in her head where they belong.

Possessed by some force greater than herself (perhaps Luthor composure, roaring through her veins from a family she normally loathes to emulate), Lena straightens. One of her eyebrows arches and Supergirl’s smile grows.

She bites the inside of her lip thoughtfully and watches in delight as the Kryptonian stands up a little taller, expectant.

“There’s no need, Supergirl,” Lena purrs, right on script, reaching out to swipe her thumb over a smudge on the suit’s chest plate. Keen eyes track the movement, so Lena allows her touch to linger. She retracts her hand slowly and meets the hero’s eyes once more. They are eager, focused entirely on her, and a shiver of satisfaction bolts through Lena at the attention.

With a heavy flutter of her lashes, she drops her voice. “But now that you mention it, I would love to get my hands on that suit of yours.” She pauses, allowing the implication to swell in the air. “I have several ideas…” she casts her gaze down the Kryptonian’s front and up again, “for improvements I’d like to make. If you’d allow me, of course.”

Supergirl’s eyebrows near her hairline as she stutters, “Y-yeah, totally,” her voice a whoosh. Then she shakes her head, sloughing off her apparent stupor, and her grin is back in full force—sexy and blinding at once. “Seeing as this is your creation, I’d say I’m all yours.”

She pierces Lena with that clear-eyed stare. “Actually. Are you free right now, Miss Luthor?”

Lena bites down a smirk and savors the goosebumps that tickle the back of her neck. She nods once, quick and to the point. Supergirl’s smile blooms across her face, replacing the self-assured swagger with such genuine delight that Lena is battered twice with attraction and endearment. She mirrors the hero’s expression and loops her arm around the elbow offered to her.

They turn to leave at a leisurely pace, ignoring the long-suffering voice of Agent Danvers yelling after them.

“Hey. Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?! Ka—Supergirl! That suit is DEO property! Hey! Hey! Don’t you walk away from me!”

Supergirl laughs, eyes never leaving Lena’s as an agitated “motherfucker” echoes in their wake.

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

Poe’s Annabel Lee in TLT #2

You thought I'd never post it huh? Well about a month later, here is the beast. Enjoy!

We have already delved into the most obvious parallel that the TLT books create, between John and Alecto and the heroes of Poe’s Annabel Lee. I would like to now draw some comparisons between Gideon and Harrow and Annabel Lee. This might seem a bit far-fetched, because how can John and Alecto AND Gideon and Harrow exist in the same premise within Poe’s lines?

The answer is simple. They don’t. Contradictory, I know, but a lot of that comparison and many of those parallels stem from the fact that those two pairings themselves are reflections of one another. Or perhaps picture negatives. After all, what John and Alecto had, stems from love, and it is plainly stated – as plainly as all things in Muir’s writing are, at least – whereas the beginning of Gideon and Harrow’s relationship sprouts from unadulterated loathing. We learn afterward of course that this is not really the case, what with Gideon sacrificing herself in an act she perceived as the only act of Love, she could offer to Harrow and whatnot. But the parallels are there. And it is deliberate, for John and Alecto broke the world, and Gideon and Harrow will remake it – or die trying. Muir has a wonderful way of interweaving elements in the plot and creating comparisons, parallels, and antitheses between the countless colorful dynamics in the books. So, I feel where John and Alecto broke the world, and are going to -probably – die, Gideon and Harrow will step up and mirror them, bringing hope back to the world. As @local-selkie said, the series probably won’t end without hope. Hope for reconciliation, for fixing what has been irrevocably broken, hope for breaking circles and hope for a better tomorrow. (Yeah well, I may be a cynic, but I am human above all, and if there is one thing that humans yearn for, live for and fight for, it’s hope. Naïve, childish, hope. It’s what makes us better, I think)

Onto drawing a few parallels now,

It was many and many a year ago

In a kingdom by the sea

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

by the name of Annabel Lee

Not really much to say about this one. Our story for these two starts about twenty years ago, in far off Pluto – well, the Ninth – with the salty ass underground (might point to there having been saltwater there at some point) where Wake collapsed dead, and a wailing Gideon was found. Harrow had not yet been born, and frankly neither of them would be what one would call a fair maiden.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

than to love and be loved by me

I was a child and she was a child

In this Kingdom by the Sea

Here I feel we could consider this a reference to the shared childhoods of our heroines. The lonely, shared childhood of our heroines. For there were no other children on the Ninth, and they bitterly clung to each other with all they had. Even if it means beating each other into a pulp within an inch of their lives. Because Harrow was a child, and Gideon was a child on the far off Ninth, where there were no other children, and all they had was each other and their rivalry. So, I can see the whole “she lived with no other thought” than finding a way to make each other’s life hell. And as we see going forward in the books, that was all they could do to love each other, the only way they knew how.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— 

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven  

Coveted her and me.

We loved with a love that was more than love, we loved with a love that felt like hatred, with a devotion that felt like abandonment, because Gideon could think of no greater act of love than sacrificing herself for Harrow, than letting Harrow consume her, and Harrow could think of no fate worse than that. Harrow loved Gideon so much the greatest act of service, of devotion, of love she could think to offer to her ill-matched cavalier was to spare her, to let her live. And they both failed spectacularly at that, but oh well. Angst.

As for the analogue to the seraphs, this is a bit trickier than John and Alecto. Because for them it’s obvious it’s the rest of the Lyctors, the Lyctors that couldn’t compete with John’s monster cavalier, the Lyctors that could never achieve their perfect connection. But who could it be that covets the connection between Harrow and Gideon? I think to be able to imagine an answer to that we should take a step away from the narrative and look at them from everyone else’s perspective. For the Niners it’s a no brainer. They know Gideon, they know Harrow, they would never think of a worthy connection between the two as highlighted by Crux’s words in NtN (and goodness if that didn’t hurt). But what about the Canaan House? Contrary to Harrow’s insecurities and paranoia, to the external observer they do present a united front. The two black clad nuns of the Ninth, with their veils and their disconcerting face paint, with their creepy/ damning/ borderline heretical prayer, the tiny unhinged necro, and the huge, silent Cav that disarmed Magnus in three moves, that seem so in sync it’s almost uncanny (“Death first to vultures and scavengers - AN ICON). So, I could see, the rest of the people in Canaan House at least envying their connection a bit, (if they haven’t already figured them out – like Pal and Ianthe), at least at first glance. And then there is ofc SYLAS OCTAKISERON, (I hate him, I am sorry, but if I could stick him headfirst to the ground I would). The Eighth generally isn’t that fond of the Ninth so no surprise there.  I am rly not sure how the OG Lyctors would feel abt them but if you have any ideas feel free to share.

 And this was the reason that, long ago,

 In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came  

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre 

 In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

Alright, so as I mentioned before, this is where the tone shifts to something more chilly, if you will. No more fairytale notions – as much as Gideon and Harrow can be perceived as a fairytale. But if we want to be particular abt Gideon and Harrow’s timeline this is the exact point where Harrow makes herself a mausoleum for one more soul, Gideon. (The pain though). I know that at first, I interpreted kingdom by the sea as the Ninth, for Gideon and Harrow, but here I think it is safe to assume that it is referencing earth again, aka the First, where the final showdown for GtN is taking place. The highborn kingsman, I think again references the Lyctors only this time we are talking Cytherea, that forced Gideon’s hand, in sacrificing herself and Harrow partly consuming her. And now Gideon is a part of Harrow, locked away in her - soon to be lobotomized - temporal lobe.

And obviously Harrow aches for Gideon, for she never wanted this to be her fate. She consumed her out of necessity, not out of want. It is the process of Lyctorhood itself that comes and takes Gideon from Harrow, that causes this painful sacrifice, and has her clutching at whatever remnants of Gideon she has, as hard as possibly, with no plan whatsoever, but to preserve her, thus rendering Gideon’s sacrifice pointless.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  

Of those who were older than we—  

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

 Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

And this is Lyctorhood ala Harrow. Aka rendering the whole procedure useless, because you love your cavalier so much you cannot bear the thought of killing and consuming them. (Or well, Lyctorhood ala Ninth House, because Anastasia attempted preserving Samael first. I mean we can see that the Ninth Necros love their cavs too much – They literally both went, Immortality and immense power? No, thanks, I don’t want it without my cav by my side. They’re both ambitious enough to try, however, and we saw what that cost them).  I think that this part works as a foreshadow for Gideon and Harrow in the future, (for a hopeful future) as well as it is the part with the closest parallel to Alecto and John. Because part of Alecto is in Harrow and part of Gideon is John, and their love is enough that Gideon kills herself for Harrow, no regrets, and the stubborn, little, malnourished nunlet lobotomizes herself to spare Gideon being consumed into nothingness. So yes, their love transcended that of the other Lyctors and their cavs, because they refused to make the sacrifice, because they loved each other so much they found a way to at least stop the procedure, instead of just ling down and taking it (well Harrow did, Gideon was ready to die for her. And again. How Gideon thinks so little of herself she thinks she is better off as a sacrificial lamb, and Harrow in her endless guilt just refuses to let her – masterful and painful in equal measure. They both feel betrayed, because the other didn’t let them die, but wanted them to live.

As for the never severing the souls, I have two words for you. Perfect Lyctorhood. (Just an idea, but we’ll see)

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 

 In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

            Dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, like the coffee-shop au dream/hallucination Harrow has? Like the constant nightmares where her brain glitches replacing Gideon with Ortus?

            I must admit that this part to me also highlights the connection between Harrow – Anastasia’s Line – and Alecto. Because we meet Alecto through the dreams, because Harrow sees Alecto in her sleeping and wakeful hours, because in the dream Harrow is Alecto and Alecto is Harrow.

The bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto’s golden eyes, Gideon’s  golden eyes, and Harrow’s own dark ones, that while not bottomless pits are pretty dark in their own measure. Now the lying down next to my beautiful Anabel Lee part, is… tricky for those two. I honestly don’t have many ideas abt it. I can picture it as Kiriona and Harrow sitting next to one another in the Tomb, and together undoing what has been done, and then having their happy ending, but that’s as far as it goes.  If we take the idea that Harrow is the mausoleum in which Gideon’s soul is preserved, I can imagine that the whole thing will happen in the River. Perhaps from an access point on the Ninth, but literally this part is the one I most struggle to interpret.

Of course, we also need to take the biblical connections into account, and those biblical connections are in large why there are so many parallels between the two pairings. You have God and his offspring, that sacrifices herself, you have Harrow, who in a sense is also Christ going down in Hades in the days before the resurrection, and you have Alecto. John is Gideon and Harrow is Alecto and it’s a glorious mess.  We have parallels in a love that transcends all that was known before, we have it starting from what is perceived as hate but in reality, is the last strings of their sanity sticking together, with a few sprinkles of codependence. And again, is that love truly as beautiful as it appears?

We do tend to romanticize it a lot in the fandom, but ultimately, it’s a story about grief and loss. Harrow’s story is abt grief and loss and guilt. The future of the ninth was sacrificed for her to be born, her whole planet will be lost if she doesn’t find some way to help it, she has already lost so much and sacrificed so much to be where she is, and the last straw is Gideon’s death and coming back as Kiriona. And Gideon, Gideon that was born alone on the ninth that no one wanted, no one paid attention to but Harrow – Harrow who made her life a living hell yes, but Harrow who talked to her, even if it was just to exchange insults. Gideon abandoned by the world, that loved Harrow and harrow abandoned her too, in choosing not to utilize her sacrifice. Their stories are so interwoven with themes of love, loss, and grief, that the parallels are hard not to draw.

Anyhow, I am beat. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to add your own thoughts and comments, and don’t forget to take care of yourselves.

Till next time!

PS check out @katakaluptastrophy's post abt the descent of Christ/Harrow in Hades here.

It's spectacular, as usual (The articulation is so on point I cannot. I feel like a mad scientist reading a scholar's work every time). And perhaps with the Orthodox Easter approaching I might take the chance to revisit the scriptures myself.

And @fkapommel's post abt the duality of the Christ symbolism in Gideon and Harrow here.

I enjoyed this too much not to recommend it.

[wireheadbird]

Late

(DC) Lena Luthor x reader

Warnings: Mentions of death, mentions of gun, terminal illness, mentions of alcohol, angst, not proofread yet.

Summary: Y/N has a terminal illness, Lena offers to make a cure. 1258

______________________________________________________________

You called in sick for yet another day, allowing yourself to sulk in your despair. What else is a person meant to do once informed they have little time in their pathetic mortal life?

You and Lena weren’t that close anyway it was more of an employer and employee type of relationship. Perhaps with a few game nights with her friends here and there but that barely happened. Lena had tried calling you a few times but you let it ring. You watched it ring. What would you say if you picked it up anyway, ‘Hey I’m dying hope you don't mind me missing a few days’. 

For days on end Lena would call every few hours, along with concerned friends of hers. She was surrounded and loved by so many people, what difference would it make if it were one less. 

Nonetheless, Lena rummaged through her employee files till she found yours, scanning through it for your address and writing it down. She’s quick to gather her stuff and speed out the company building to your place with a casserole in hand. Once she arrives she knocks on the door only for it to open, seemingly unlocked, she double checks the sticky note for the apartment number in concern. A-401.

 You were a very cautious person, there's no way you would leave your apartment unlocked. She knocks once more before letting herself in and calling out your name, shutting the door behind her. Looking around at the dark apartment she notices how bottles of different colors and sizes littered the living room.

Her attention instantly spikes when she sees movement out of the corner of her eye, you stand there. Your disheveled figure leaning against the wall lit up by the light from the hallway you just came out from. Just as she was about to step towards you, concern etched on her face, you raise pointing your gun at her shakily with a bottle of something in your other hand. With the pungent scent in the air she could tell it was some sort of alcohol. 

“Woah there y/n, it's me, Lena.” she raises her hand in surrender. “Miss Luthor..?” your voice came out hoarse and shaky. “Yes, that's me” Lena was evidently more anxious now. You slide down the wall dropping your gun and taking a long swig of your beverage. She comes closer and realizes you were sweating and shivering at the same time, she takes the bottle from you and you don’t argue.

She places a hand on your forehead checking for a fever but you swat away her hand, Lena’s face contorts in confusion. “You have no fever…what’s wrong then?” she asks as she helps you up and onto your living room couch, pulling away the now empty bottle. You couldn’t think of a better way to break it to her, not like there was one in the first place. 

“I’m dying.” your voice doesn’t even quiver, making her think you were probably just exaggerating the feeling of being sick and she nervously chuckles “it can’t be that bad”. But it was. It is. “Lena. Look at me” You look into her eyes, “I’m dying Lena…”. You explain how you haven't been feeling well for a while, thinking it was probably from stress or sleep deprivation. But once the pain stopped being mental and became physical you had no option but to visit a doctor to get relief from the pain. Only to be diagnosed with a terminal illness you’ve never heard of. 

Once you finished explaining, Lena seemed completely out of it, her eyes wide and teary. So you reach for another bottle from the coffee table, next thing you know you were pressed back into the couch by a hug from a sobbing Lena. “You’ll be fine. You’ll live. I’ll find the cure myself” ______________________________________________________________

It's been days since Lena last visited. She shot you a few texts a couple times to check in on you, sending you words of encouragement and comfort. You couldn’t find it within you to spare any energy to make yourself any food and didn’t bother ordering takeout either which was out of character for you, you’d usually jump at the chance to order takeout. But you weren’t feeling up to it. And it seemed as if Lena had the same train of thoughts, because the day after she saw you in this state for the first time she sent you pre-prepped meals with delivery guys or sometimes takeout.

‘Hang in tight, I’m working on it.’ - Ms. Luthor 02:13 AM

A pang of guilt strikes through you. You hated how she pulled all-nighters to work on a slim to none chance of your survival. You tried ringing her to call it off and come up with some excuse but only wallowed deeper in your guilt after it went straight to voicemail.  ______________________________________________________________

It’s been almost a week since you last saw or spoke to Lena, she still sent food everyday so you knew she was okay. You however, not so much. You could feel yourself getting weaker, and on the fifth day you fell bed ridden. The delivery guys gave up on ringing the doorbell and just started leaving the food outside the apartment door. Which earned you knocks and complaints from the neighbors from the smell of the molding food. 

But you could no longer move, no longer speak, no longer stay awake to deal with the issue. Your phone seemed so close yet so far away, you couldn’t reach for it from how weak and pathetic you felt. All you did was sleep in an attempt to replenish your energy that way, all you wanted was to sleep. 

‘Hang on y/n…I’m almost there’ Lena thought to herself as she bottled the blue liquid packing a syringe with it, finally making a breakthrough after trapping herself in her lab in search of any sort of cure or treatment. She didn’t want to waste any time looking for her phone and quickly rushed out the company door wanting to get to you as soon as possible.

Once she arrives at the apartment building she’s met with the stinging scent of rotting food, she covers her nose taking out the spare key you gave her only to find out, once again. The door was unlocked.

Lena rushes into the apartment and into your bedroom, relaxing once she spots your body huddled up in between blankets and pillows. She slowly made her way to the bedside table turning on the lamp. “y/n?” she whispered as to not startle her. “I did it y/n I found the cure” Lena whispered, her eyes tearing up as she smiled excitedly. 

She waits for a response from you, her heart beating out of her chest in anticipation. Her brows furrow in concern, “y/n..?” she hesitantly reaches her hand out shaking you awake. Your body which was facing the wall, now laid on its back and your hand fell limp off of the side of the bed. 

Pale. Blue lips. A shaky hand reaches to check your neck for a pulse, her eyes widen and she flinches at the cold touch of your once warm skin. She stumbled backwards, losing her footing and falling to the floor into choked sobs. 

She was supposed to save you. You were supposed to live. You were supposed to make it. If only she had been earlier…perhaps you would’ve lived to thank her. 

But she was late…and you, gone too soon.

______________________________________________________________

my apologies for not being on, writers block goes hard.

[bad4amficideas]

Fallen in Middle... Sea?

Okay, I just had a dream (that someone would please come and steal and write). Case in point 1. Persona falls into Middle Earth is one of my favorite tropes when people get all technical and discuss differences and such. 2. I just saw the Rings of Power. So, here we go with a bad written prompts of mine (fell free to use it) It's female coded because it's actually all a dream I had.

Reader may or may not be more or less a Tolkien fan, but between one thing and another she knows more or less what Sillmarion, the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings are about (a lot of Wikipedia may or may not have helped because who doesn't end reading whole fandom wikis instead of being productive?).

But what does Reader know about the TV series "The Rings of Power"? Which is a series PENDING TO BE RELEASED in a few days. Galadriel comes out, Sauron comes out and a lot of OCs come out. Is written in the 2nd Age, about which hardly a thing is known. And people is already complaining because that and people of color or something like that. Reader gives two shits about it.

Soooooo The curtain opens.

Reader wakes up (not to mention almost drowns) in the open sea, nothing in sight. She is rescued by a bunch of people and all wears medieval clothes and speaks an unknown language. And they itch her clothes. What's so strange about her clothes!!? (they should be grateful that you're wearing long pants!!)

In any case, after a time at sea where only a couple of people try to communicate with her (Not to be ill-considered, but Reader believes that she already knows the word prostitute, whore or equivalent in the language of these people although what she has been taught does not include that word) something hits the ship and smashes it to pieces. Which leads them to wander aimlessly for two days or so. They will all be wet and hungry but the atmosphere is all hot and smoky!

In the wreckage of the ship you rescue someone who introduces herself as Galadriel. Cue your world going crazy because WAIT, this IS Middle Earth? (I mean, you had had clues because of how people blasphemes and blesses, but denial is a powerful weapon) What is Galadriel doing in the middle of the sea, with such a hidden bad character btw? (THAT IS NOT IN ANY BOOK!!!) And well, from here the story begins. Only you, a dude called Halbrand (appropriately one of the few interested parties who was nice to you) and Galadriel survive the next attack at sea. You are rescued by hotty Elendil, etc.

Thus Reader becomes friends with these two sharing the "culture" of their "country" (world) and their eclectic knowledge. It may or may not be that Reader supports that Halbrand wants to spend the hell out of his "inheritance" (because long live democracy and things should be voluntary for people prepared for it and feeling it, although Reader admits that Halbrand is super smart -suspiciously even for a HUMAN commoner).

Also both (Halbrand and you) of you are considering making a place for yourself in Numenor (well, more him than you, Reader is thinking that if Galadriel is not an option, she doesn't know who to ask about her situation, since you never know where Gandalf is. Some other Istar, maybe?) but in the meantime you learn from their healers and try to adapt to the somewhat misogynistic culture (Why is everyone surprised that she is NOT married with children back her home, goddammit!) and wears long dresses everywhere -also PADS send help!!!- and you may be developing a crush (reciprocate, is he courting you?? Wow, how strange this world is!!) on Halbrand but rather die than hook up with a future king (first is to try to return home, if that is not possible, try to live a peaceful -no obligations- life, perhaps among the hobbits)

[Reader is a fan, but not a hardcore fan, she's not aware of certain things, in fact, she's still wondering when Gandalf and Mordor is going to appear, like, isn't it supposed to be IN the Southlands? Shouldn't she stop Halbrand or more like Galadriel to push Halbrand from going?)]

In my dream Reader calls herself a healer because is the closest thing in Middle-earth to her job (you can think whatever you want) and because of her knowledge she accompanies and helps Halbrand and Galadriel to the Southern Lands and later to the Elf Kingdom (making the trip not have to be so drastic and hasty).

Galadriel also mentions that "the three of us have met for some purpose" Because anyone can see that Reader is almost as out of place in Middle Earth as "The Istar" was upon his arrival (It doesn't help that Reader doesn't take off her sneakers/sport shoes/boots even by begging... I suspect she sudenly cares lot about her bra now). Some people call her behind her back "The Naive Wise One" because she knows and teach so much but at the same time she doesn't know.

[gods-third-eye]

Killer Klowns from Outer Space and Clown Husbandry:

Qualifications: I am an avid clown lover and perhaps a bit of a clown myself. I sleep in a small circus tent and eat fresh cotton candy regularly. I am also working on my third home-made clown suit.

Anyways, with the intro done, let's get onto the meat of this.

I was recently gifted KKFOS t-shirt and I figured if I want to wear it I should at least watch the movie, right? I was apprehensive because I am a fan of sweeter clowns and putting respect on the clown name. I was worried what this movie was going to entail, but after watching it I have lots of opinions and thoughts!

Firstly, I should say that I think the movie was done very well. I am a fan of the plot and props. I enjoyed all of the references to horror movies. I enjoyed learning about how the Klowns operate and what their machinery looks like. However, I am conflicted on the killing.

I have a few proposals for the clown husbandry community to consider before writing this movie off as inappropriate:

These "Klowns" are not the clowns that we are all familiar with and deserve their own understanding as a separate creature entirely. Now, this may be the most obvious choice, but it is still worth bringing up. This theory is supported because in the movie, Mike Tabacco (the policeman) says, "They're not clowns. They're some kind of animal from another world that just look like clowns... maybe they're the ancient astronauts that came to our planet centuries ago, and our idea of clowns just comes from them." Now, I don't know if I believe that they are where our idea of clowns comes from, but I certainly could see them being a completely different species from our clowns. The Wikipedia for the movie also describes them as "a clan of evil extraterrestrials who resemble clowns". They are from space, afterall. Now, these both come directly from the source material, but I still have more thoughts on the matter.

What if they ARE clowns, but they got sick with some illness that has caused them to be blood thirsty? Now, this one might see a bit far-fetched, but we are talking about Killer Klowns from Outer Space, right? Well, this movie seems to understand lots of points about the culture of clowns: the importance of noses, love for cotton candy and popcorn, bright colors, silly noises, entertaining folks with goofy gags. So why are these Klowns killing? Let's look at some of the clowns themselves.

They have puffy and deformed skin that looks like that from an allergic reaction, they have yellowing teeth and eyes, enflamed lips, and their eyelids are droopy. These look like sick clowns!! Perhaps you might argue that they are simply scare clowns, but to that I say shame on you! Scare clowns get the same treatment as pitbulls, they are not inherently harmful, they only get that way from maltreatment. However, I don't think these Klowns are scareclowns. Scare clowns have traits like "salivation, staggering, growls and hisses and bluff aggression" as well as a diet that may consist of balloon animals and a more solitary lifestyle than other clowns (according to the fandom wiki and many husbandry tumblr accounts). But the Klowns shown in the movie (I have not interacted with the game yet) are quite normal other than the killing, they take care of balloon animal dogs,

and they are almost always seen in packs. The Klowns are often shown displaying friendly and inviting behavior before, during, and after the killings, so why are they doing them? I think that they are sick. This would also explain why the culture and lifestyle (other than the murdering) is so similar to clowns we know and love.

3. Now, this point could be seen as tied to the last point, but I think it deserves its own bullet-point. This whole movie could be a clown-loving informational piece on the dangers of sick clowns! If these truly are classic clowns that happened to get an illness that caused them to be murderous, perhaps this is an informative video on what to do and what not to do, as well as a warning to care for clowns properly. This movie is clearly made by someone who knows the intricacies of clown culture, as stated previously. But if the cultural depictions aren't enough to prove that, then just think about how many sweet classic clowns are used as logos throughout the town. Jojo's ice cream truck

and Big Top Burger

to name a few examples. This town loves clowns. And again, Tabacco says that they can't be clowns. He cannot imagine them as the same clowns we know and love because he knows healthy clowns don't murder. So, this is a clown-lover's way of saying "Killer Klowns are not clowns. Clowns don't kill".

4. Now, this one might be the silliest take of them all, but what is more silly than a clown? What if this is just a clown's comedic take on a horror movie? We have seen numerous horror movies about people, but we know they are far from representative of all humans. Why can't this just be a clown's horror movie? Of course we watch it and laugh, thinking it is just a B-movie horror film, but think about a clown watching this. A clown would be scared and horrified, both for the Klowns and the people in it. We see this movie as silly and cheesy, but clowns might get a real fright out of it! Maybe that's why clown lovers get so riled up over it. Besides, it seems like a goof because it has ripped off some of the most famous cliches in horror: the Psycho shower scene,

the girl not believing the killer,

and the car filled with cotton candy, reminiscent of the Blob. Actually, the whole movie is reminiscent of the Blob. Why? Maybe a clown found out about scary movies and wanted to make one suited to scare a clown!

Well, that's it. Those are my explainations for the movie Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Believe what you want, but these are some of my ideas. Like them? Or maybe you have another take. Please share your ideas! Thank you for reading through this ramble.

Clown bear for your patience!!

[art-crumbs-main]

Hello!

I'm a queer artist who wants money.

You're (perhaps) a person with money who wants queer art.

Let's make some magic happen.

Let's talk Commissions!

[SR text: "Let's talk Commissions!"]

Character Art Prices

Bust (Click for quality):

Sketch - $12

Colored sketch or lineart - $15

Lineart with flats - $17

Simple shading - $20

Full render - $45

Half-body (Click for quality):

Sketch - $15

Colored sketch or lineart - $18

Lineart with flats - $20

Simple shading - $25

Full render - $55

Full-body (Click for quality):

Sketch - $20

Colored sketch or lineart - $23

Lineart with flats - $25

Simple shading - $30

Full render: $65

Backgrounds (Click for quality):

Solid color/No background - Free of charge.

Sketchy background - $5-15 (Depending on complexity.)

Painterly lineless background - $15-45 (Depending on complexity)

Full-lined, full-detail, anime-esque background - $50-150 (Depending on complexity.)

Extra stuff:

Props - $1-25 per prop depending on detail. This usually includes things a character is holding, but may include for example, a painting or family photo hanging on the wall, if that's an important focal point.

75% off any extra characters in each piece.

Things I will do:

Traditional art (IT WILL ALWAYS BE MORE EXPENSIVE.)

Mimic styles of popular media

Pixel art

Sprite edits

Character sheets

OCs

Fandom content

Ship content

Tasteful nudity

Headcanons (diversity and otherwise)

Homestuck panel edits

Things I will need to clear before you request but aren't necessarily off the table:

Extreme violence/Gore

Kink

Fetish

Other NSFW

Depictions of mental illness

Things I will not do under any circumstances:

Draw for free. If you come in my DMs asking for free art, I will personally take you to the top of the Eiffel Tower and hang you from it by your shirt. (Though, if you put it in my asks, I may respond with a little doodle when I have the time and energy.)

Proship: This covers incest, pedophilia, shit like that. I don't wanna fuckin' draw that.

NSFW of real people.

Hateful imagery (hate symbols, racist characatures, dogwhistles (I will look shit up if it seems strange.))

Self harm or suicide.

Drug abuse.

Depictions of domestic abuse.

Depictions of sexual violence.

Anything that gives me the ick. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, yadda yadda.

Anything, if you're personally a dick to me.

[brucewaynehater101]

im having SIGNALIS thoughts and it gave me an idea

Okay so in the book, The King in Yellow, "A common thread is a fictional play also called The King in Yellow, the reading of which either drives people mad or leads them to a dark fate." - TVTropes Literature page for The King in Yellow

iirc, the first act is completely standard but Act Two is when things get fucky when its contents--well--gives people insanity or a less than stellar fate

Jason was the Second Robin, and can be seen as Act II of the legacy of Robin; Jason's revival gave him a Second Chance at life, an Act II to his first life; Jason iirc was the Second Red Hood, taking the name from the Joker who gave it up

((wait if his Second Alias is Joker does that make Joker another King in Yellow in a sense??))

Moving on w/ the idea of the Act II bringing madness, when Jason died, thus being an ending to Robin's Act II, Batman fucking lost it, and Jason was arguably at his lowest after his ressurection and donning of the Red Hood moniker

combine this w/ the idea of Jason being a literature nerd and you could maybe do something w/ this, maybe he or someone else notices and points out this admittingly surface level parallel between him and The King in Yellow

do w/ this what you will

Alright. I did some research for this one.

To make this somewhat understandable for me, it's kind of like The Ring? The Ring is a movie about a recording that causes the people who watch it to become haunted. The King in Yellow is a series of short stories about a play called The King in Yellow that causes people to lose their minds. The King in Yellow (as a creature) seems to be a god-like being that will one day rule all earth kings??

The color yellow, at that time period, had the meaning of disease and mental illness to the point of insanity. Thus, the ties between The King in Yellow and the color yellow are clear.

Fuck. I'm going to get into color symbolism, aren't I? Fuuuuck. Alright:

Yellow - Joy, remembrance, caution

Red - Strength, danger, passion

Green - Rebirth, Growth, Jealousy

Purple - Luxury, ambition, royalty, devotion

These sets of colors are vital to Jason's story and Joker.

Anyways, for the story you mentioned, what I saw indicated that "the first act" was pretty normal. One line into the second act, though, and the audience was hooked until they met their own mental demise. Perhaps Jason's story could indicate that too?

So, he stole the tires from the batmobile and got dropped off at Ma Gunn's school. Jason beat them up with Batman and then, immediately afterwards, got called Robin by Batman. He hadn't even set foot into Wayne Manor by that point.

Post revival, his second chance at life, he kind of fucking looses it (which is understandable. This is not a diss against Jason or his actions). It is stated that for those who read the play, recovery from madness is possible.

Hmm... Thoughts here. Who/what is The King in Yellow? Robin or Joker?

The King is a ruler.

Purple is the exact opposite of yellow, and purple usually indicates royalty. We've also got the whole Joker shit going on with royalty symbolism

Robin could be a king in that they usually lead teams... However, they would be closer to a prince than a king

The King IN Yellow

Purple is the exact opposite of yellow

Robin wears yellow

I think it would be ironic if Joker, clad in purple, was the yellow fellow. Robin, however, could be the yellow sign they somewhat talked about. Idk much about the book/story, though.

Side note. Found this wicked quote. No clue if the context is correct, but here: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a living God!"

Idk. Made me shiver