#so there will be a lull in original art

[moon-m4n]

Hey y'all, I made a DCA Bill design based on the draw your Oc as Bill thing floating around right now. I am going to redesign them cuz they is not scrukly enough. But for a first try they look cool to me.

"SO WHO WANTS TO MAKE A DEAL?"

@daycarefriendpickup thank you for hosting the magma

[traggalicious]

Y’all I am STRUGGLING. Idk why my ass decided to go for smth more realistic here but. I did. Anyway which one looks better I feel like the right is kind of lacking SOMETHING and idk what. My solution honestly might be to draw it out traditionally and see what happens there.

(Also the mouths are straight up KILLING ME)

[dweeborea]

[tildae]

My man's barely keeping it all together...

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 10, day 3

♪ Knell's boots were made for walkin'~ ♫

But she has wings so that doesn't really matter :P

[mxstellatayte]

landoscar 4+1 kiss things.

alternate title: four times it's casual and the first time it isn't

this one is inspired by @prokrastinartiya's landoscar kissing meme! i saw it, fell in love, BOOM absolutely locked in for an idea :)) (before y'all start telling me it's normally 5+1 I KNOW shhhhhhh i prioritize quality over quantity)

contains: the 4 is mostly fluff but a lil bit of spice, the +1 is straight up smut tho, smut warnings: making out, sub lando, miami gp win, congratulatory sex, L bombs, lowkey a shitty ending bc i don't know how to write endings LOL, just two boys being really in love :)

find the original art post that inspired this here!

taglist: @vivi-81 @irishmanwhore @lucycowr @benstormy @anat33-blog1

@Xoscar03 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @nenamalenaa @champagneproblems17 @marknolee

@toby33b @theendofthematerialgworl @soloqualcosa @sassyinchident808

join my taglist here!

i: the establishing kiss.

contrary to popular belief, oscar's love language is physical touch. he doesn't let it show all that much, but when he feels safe with someone, he doesn't stop showing it.

take lando, for example.

the first time he kisses lando, they're in japan in 2023. the brit is initially confused and a little bit shocked, taken aback by the sudden change in oscar's demeanor, but quickly learns to reciprocate.

lando had been endlessly yapping about something or other, oscar hadn't really been paying attention, but when his engineer poked his head in to summon oscar for a quick check in about potential tyre strategies, oscar stood, pressed a kiss to lando's cheek, and was about to walk out of the room before he heard his teammate short circuit.

"shit, sorry. it was an automatic reflex. is it... was that okay?" oscar had backpedaled, completely ignorant to the flush that immediately flooded lando's summer-tanned skin.

"y- yeah, it's fine, i just... wasn't expecting it."

oscar takes that as permission to continue the goodbye kisses.

ii: on the forehead.

the second time, lando is clinging to oscar's arm in his sleep, the left side of his body plastered to oscar's right and his head resting on oscar's shoulder. they're heading back to the MTC on the team jet after qatar, and frankly, oscar understands lando's exhaustion. the heat that weekend was entirely unbearable to the point where multiple teams, including mclaren, were genuinely concerned for their drivers' and pit crews' safety, and most, if not all, of the drivers had reported feeling unwell in their cars. the fact that he and lando had somehow managed to scrape a double podium together despite the brutal conditions was astounding.

lando shifts a bit in his sleep, the crown of his head resting in the nook between oscar's jaw and his shoulder, and a protective impulse hits oscar like a freight train. he tilts his head just so, pressing his lips to lando's forehead gently enough so that he doesn't wake, instead sighing delicately in oscar's arms and shifting impossibly closer.

oscar lays his head on top of lando's and passes out within minutes, the comforting weight of lando's body on his lulling him into the deepest sleep he's gotten in weeks.

iii: on the cheek.

the next kiss occurs inside the MTC, and this time, it's lando's lips on oscar's skin.

immediately after being released from the team debrief meeting that stretches on, in lando's entirely correct opinion, for an unnecessarily long amount of time, he all but throws himself into oscar's arms, and oscar gladly accepts, wrapping his own arms around lando's waist and burying his face into the soft fabric of lando's hoodie. thankfully, lando had quickly caught on to the fact that reciprocating oscar's physical touch is not only acceptable but also welcomed and encouraged, so he'd begun initiating hugs and slotting himself underneath oscar's arm more frequently in the past weeks.

"hello to you, too," oscar murmurs into lando's hoodie, taking comfort in the feeling of lando's arms around his body.

"'m so happy you're okay," lando mumbles, his face tucked into the crook of oscar's neck between his jaw and his shoulder. "you... you are okay, right?" he pulls back briefly, looking up at oscar with concerned eyes that search oscar's own, scanning for any signs of discomfort or pain but finding none.

"i'm okay. are you?" lando's eyes slip shut with a nod, the most delicate of smiles tugging at his lips.

"yeah, i'm good."

"good." lando pulls back, much to oscar's disappointment, the stale, conditioned air of the conference room replacing the comforting warmth of lando's body almost immediately. sensing that the hug is now over, oscar lets his hands drop, settling awkwardly at his sides.

fuck it, oscar thinks. "you wanna get dinner?"

lando sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "i don't know, mate, i'm pretty beat. breakfast tomorrow?"

had lando not been focused on noticing how scuffed his trainers are, he would've seen the way oscar's lips fell into his signature pout. instead, he hears a quiet "oh, okay," before looking back up and smiling faintly. "i'll text you?"

oscar sounds like a kicked puppy.

"oh, come here, you muppet." lando's left arm wraps around oscar's shoulders and his right hand holds oscar's chin, his lips on oscar's cheek, and... yeah. that's exactly what oscar needed. "where do you wanna get dinner?"

iv: on the neck.

it's early february, and they're finally back in woking to film some teaser content before pre-season tests in bahrain.

"mm, i missed you," lando says, tilting his head back as oscar mouths at his neck, and oscar hums in response. of course, oscar takes that opportunity to graze his teeth across the delicate skin of lando's neck, which, in turn, makes lando whine.

when oscar pulls back to catch his breath, his mouth goes dry, a stark contrast to the spit-shiny side of lando's neck. the fact that the buttons of his team kit polo are all completely undone and the collar is shoved to the side only adds to it, but his disheveled curls and flushed face really tie it all together with a pretty bow made of the finest ribbon oscar could ever imagine. "fuck, you look beautiful."

"osc," lando whines, and the look in his eyes can only be described as downright pathetic. his eyes are glassy, his lips parted and red from how furiously oscar had kissed them just minutes before, and his chest heaves with the panting breaths he's taking. it's only then that oscar notices- lando's hard.

+i: on the lips.

oscar hasn't really fully processed it yet. lando just got his maiden formula 1 win. he heard it on the radio, the replay of lando's overwhelmed cheers, screaming to his engineer that they did it, they finally did it.

it's only when his lips find lando's long after the podium ceremony, the lingering taste of champagne, sweat, and tears filtering itself onto his tongue, that he realizes just how real it is, and he can't even find it in himself to be mad that he wasn't in the points. "'m so proud of you," oscar says between kisses. "so fucking proud of you." the soft duvet of the hotel room bed wrinkle as lando squirms in an attempt to release some of the pent-up energy from all the adrenaline coursing through his body.

"fuck, osc..." lando's brain short circuits when he feels oscar's hands reach underneath his shirt, calloused fingertips on sensitive skin. "thank you." lando keeps smiling stupidly into the kisses oscar's pressing to his lips, hands scrabbling to grasp at whatever they can. oscar feels like every single sense in his body is heightened, and he's noticing every single detail about every single kiss he feels. the scent of champagne and sweat and lando's skin, the taste of something so distinctly lando that oscar doesn't think he'll ever be able to describe in words, and, above all, the feeling of lando's skin on his. desperate hands grabbing everywhere on oscar's body they can reach, the toned muscle of his abdomen beneath oscar's palms, lando's legs tight around his waist, bringing oscar impossibly closer to the tender skin on the inside of his thighs-

fuck.

he's hard.

"oscar," lando whines, pulling away ever so slightly to catch his breath. "fuck me."

what?

what the fuck?

oscar swears he's hearing things. the roar of engines, wheel guns, and fans' screams have finally gotten to him and he's suffering from either hallucinations or straight up hearing loss.

"what?"

"fuck me, please. there's lube and condoms in the bottom of my suitcase." and... fuck. stronger men have been defeated by less, so there's no way in hell oscar will be able to resist that, especially with how desperate lando sounds.

"where you hoping this would happen?" oscar stands, immediately mourning the loss of lando's body heat, but hastily rummages through the suitcase placed at the foot of the bed, easily locating the bottle of lube and a condom from the bottom of lando's suitcase, exactly where he said they'd be. he doesn't miss the way lando's cheeks flush even more as he nods, hands desperately fumbling to get his shirt off, just to have something to do with them. oscar grins and clicks his tongue, dropping the lube and condom next to lando's hip. "let's get these jeans off, yeah?"

"please." lando's hands fly to his pants, popping the button open and shoving the fly down before shimmying his legs out of the denim. a shuddering sigh pushes past his lips at the release of pressure, and oscar shoves his own jeans down, kicking his and lando's pants off of the bed. there's a faint dark spot on the front of lando's boxers, his erection tenting the fabric, and oscar's sure he looks no different.

"are you sure about this?" there's a nagging in the back of oscar's mind, telling him it's all the adrenaline from lando's maiden win, that this isn't actually what lando wants, that he's going to regret it in the morning... the tone of oscar's voice brings lando out of his haze, clarity returning to the race winner's eyes alongside something else that oscar can't currently pinpoint at the moment.

"do you want to do this?" that's what it is. concern. lando's voice is clear, lacking any of the previous whiny twinge it'd held just moments prior, and his hands come up to gently hold the side of oscar's neck, his fingertips brushing the short bits of oscar's hair. "if you don't want to do this, we can go out and get drunk and forget this ever happened." his eyes search oscar's, his multicolored irises inspecting for any sign of discomfort, hesitation, or uneasiness.

leaving is the last thing oscar wants to do. he knows that much.

with a deep, steadying breath and a shift of his hips- oh, fuck, that was a mistake, because now his clothed dick is laying in the juncture of lando's hip and thigh, and, instead of the thought-out words he was going to say, the only thing that spills past his lips is a moan and a breathy "stay" on the tail end of it. the muscles in his arms give out and he collapses on top of lando, his face tucked into the crook of lando's neck, and when he inhales, lando's fingers already raking soothing rows along his scalp, he smells champagne, sweat, and lando's body wash.

"stay."

"okay, osc. i can do that."

oscar isn't sure how long they lay there, lando's left hand resting in the small of oscar's back and his right rubbing soothing lines into oscar's scalp, but by the time his heart rate slows and his brain stops running a mile a minute, the desperation and speed that he was ready to fuck lando with has sunk out of his body. there's only one problem- well, rather, two problems, but one stems from the other. one: oscar and lando are both still hard. two: neither of them have the energy required for prep, sex, and aftercare.

lando is able to solve both of those problems, though.

"osc?"

"hm?"

"do you want me to get you off?" oscar's face flushes, a whine falling from his lips in embarrassment, but he nods into lando's neck. "yeah?" oscar nods again. "okay, baby. i'm gonna need you to get these off for me, though." he thumbs at the elastic waistband of oscar's boxers, and oscar is barely able to muster enough strength to push himself up and off of lando's chest to pull his boxers off and toss them aside before falling back onto lando. "can you roll over for me, baby?" okay, scratch that. now he summons the last of his strength to roll off of lando, wincing slightly when the long-forgotten bottle of lube and condom dig into his ribs.

"hey." lando's voice has a tenderness to it that oscar's never heard before, used to the constant energy and bubbly laughs, and it makes something stir deep in oscar's chest. before he can prod into it and try to figure out what it might be, though, lando's rolling over and slotting his left leg between oscar's, leaning down, and kissing oscar with a certain softness that leaves every point of contact with lando's body fizzling with electricity. it's a unique and beautifully intimate moment, chests pressed together and bodies touching everywhere they possibly can as hands grasp for places to hold the other closer.

oscar moans into the kiss, high and pathetic, when lando takes both of their cocks into his hand, and even dry, he thinks he could cum just like that.

"oh, fuck, lando-" oscar's eyes are screwed shut, panting as lando continues licking into his mouth, running his tongue along oscar's lips before dipping down to oscar's neck, mimicking the same actions there. lando can't form a verbal response, so he simply hums relishing in the taste of oscar's skin. the aussie doesn't want to admit just how keyed up he is, doesn't want to admit the fact that, with a little bit of lube and a little bit of movement, he'd be cumming onto lando's hand.

thankfully, though, lando seems to be in the same boat, and he makes that very well known with a perfectly timed gentle thrust of his hips forward and a slight loosening of his hand, and the sound that it pulls from oscar's throat can only be described as unholy. "osc..."

"like this, lando, please."

"fuck, me too." oscar jumps slightly when the cold lube hits his cock, but with the slide it adds and the grip around lando's big hand has around them both and the fact that he's completely caged in and every single sense is flooded with lando, lando, lando, the temperature difference is rapidly forgotten in favor of white-hot pleasure. he can't stop himself- his hips are canting up into lando's hand, and it just feels so, so good. oscar's ears aren't processing the difference between his moans and lando's, so all he knows is that there's sounds of sex filling the hotel room, the wet slide of his cock along lando's, and it's so much at once.

when lando's hips start moving, too, fucking into his own fist, oscar throws his head back into the fluffy pillow and groans so loud that he gets a flickering sense of sympathy for whatever neighbors may share a wall with this hotel room, but it's immediately wiped from his brain as lando's lips meet his once more.

oscar isn't sure how much time passes, his lips and tongue gliding along lando's and their hips fucking into lando's hand, but his ears finally process that lando's moaning his name, desperately mouthing at his neck. "oscar, aah, fuck, i'm gonna cum, please, 'm gonna cum-" and, well. oscar didn't think he had a thing for begging, much less a thing for his teammate begging, yet here he is.

"yeah. yeah, go for it. cum for me, baby." before oscar finishes talking, his words breathy and faint, lando's cumming with a cry, his hips shuddering as his cum paints his hand and oscar's cock and stomach in a pearly white. oscar looks down, and the sight he's met with is absolutely filthy. past the mop of lando's curly hair and sweat-shiny skin, he sees the way lando's muscles tense with every thrust and the way his dick is painted white with cum and lube.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, osc, love you, love you so much." and that's what sends him over the edge, muscles in his torso tensing as he grasps desperately at lando's shoulders.

"aah, lan- love you. love you."

[silksongeveryday]

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 365!

1 year! One whole year of daily doodles!!

Honestly?? Idk how to feel, so much has happened since I first started this blog.

I guess I’ll just write what I’m thinking right now??

(Everything under the cut, this thing is longer than I expected)

A lot of this text probably isn’t going to make sense. I’m writing this at 1 am. If there’s any mistakes or errors that’s why. I’ll fix them in the morning maybe.

So like. This whole thing kinda started as a joke, I wasn’t intending to actually draw for a year straight lmao. Like I even used a completely different art style from my regular one that was simple, quick and intentionally dumb. Not that I’m upset by it, I’m actually quite proud of myself that I managed to stick to something for an entire year. That’s pretty unusual for me believe it or not. My original intention was to stop at maybe 20 days because I really wasn’t expecting for this blog to get as much love as it did.

So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so so much to everyone who has followed and supported this silly little idea I had, you guys are the biggest reason my experience has been so positive and worth it. (Sure it’s not original but I hope it’s at least been interesting!)

I’ve said this a few times now but I’ve mentioned wanting to take a break. I’ll admit that even though it’s been fun it’s still pretty tiring to keep up with this blog sometimes since some recent life events have made it so hard. After some thought, I’ve decided that I’ll likely take a break sometime in the coming months. Maybe toward day 400 or so. As of right now, things are at a lull so I’ve been okay enough mentally and physically to keep up this daily streak I think. Though this could change in an instant for whatever reason.

Overall I think my burnout has kind of gone away I think?? Or at least I’ve been reinvigorated recently after replaying a few runs of hk randomizer and steel soul. No promises it’ll stay away but I silly expect it to come in waves.

Ok but call me crazy or delusional or whatever, but my hopes are up that Silksong will release this year. (which means slowing down/not doing daily doodles yay) I genuinely believe big news is coming since I’ve been getting a lot of dreams lately about something happening with Silksong in March. Idk, I could be wrong but after doing this for a year I’m literally clinging onto anything right now lol

I’d obviously still make the occasional doodle or two when HKSS releases but not daily. This stuff is tough to keep up sometimes, I would never do daily posts like this again once it’s over

Oh yeah also I have an actual big drawing I’m still working on, expect that in sometime in the next few weeks I think!

Anyway, I can’t think of anything else to say right now so I guess that’s it for now!

Thanks so much and here’s to more doodles!

[some-bunniii]

— self indulgence time, say howdy to my hellaverse oc! [+ a fic]

Kokabiel, one of Hell’s original celebrities and fashion icons [art by mamma_hisa]

I have a 6k word fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for awhile, and i worked long enough on it so i think it deserves some sunlight

i wrote the first chapter to a lucifer x oc story in an AU where Lilith leaves when Charlie is a baby and Kokabiel accidentally becomes her maternal figure, and it was going to be long but then I never touched it again ☠️ she was made originally made for the fic but she’s so gorgeous and mommy i spent days fleshing her out as my main bbyg.

working on a few things so take this for now to get a taste of her and some morningstar love! no romance, just introductions.

“Charlie, please go to sleep” The pearlescent figure next to the small bed begged the toddler, who was trying to scramble out of his grip and away from the covers that were wrapped around her waist.

The man’s platinum-blonde hair was disheveled, dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep that was quite evident on his features as he tiredly pulled the girl back onto the bed, holding her still as she whined against his hands. 

His mouth opened in a wide yawn, his shark-like teeth glinting in the soft light that emanated from the bedside lamp next to him. He blinked slowly, trying to rid himself of the exhaustion that was trying to overtake him, his eyelids beginning to droop even as he continued to wrestle his daughter. 

Charlie shot her father a nasty glare, brows furrowed as she frowned deeply. The bright red spots that graced the chub of her cheeks lowered as her lips curled downward. They were one of the many features she shared with the pale man before her, including those soft, sun-kissed locks and snow-bathed skin. 

She also shared the same tired eyes that met hers sternly, but her mind was too active to allow her body those much-needed hours of rest. 

The rest her father, Lucifer Morningstar, also needed.

“I know you’re sleepy, sweetheart! Just lay still so daddy can get some shut-eye too, hm?”

“No!” Charlie whined, lips puckered in distraught as her strength began to wane. Why would she sleep when she could be playing with her stuffed goats instead?! It just wasn’t fair!

“Yes!” Lucifer commanded, before he growled softly and lifted a finger towards the small child, a glint of golden light lit on the tip of his claw as he pressed it softly against Charlie’s forehead. 

For a moment it flickered against her pale skin, and Lucifer removed his finger as Charlie froze at the sudden tingling sensation.

Her mouth was in the shape of a small o as she tried to get a look at whatever her father had placed on her, but the only clue in her vision was the twinkle of aurum light. A warmth began to seep into her skin, emanating from the magic blooming across her face.

Like a firework launching into the night sky, the tiny orb shot from her forehead up towards the ceiling, before it burst into a flurry of sparks that glimmered in the darkness, casting the walls with their vibrant hues.

The golden light danced above Charlie’s head, her eyes wide and in awe as the golden sparks began to melt into rippling waves that spiraled across the ceiling.

Lucifer flicked off the bedside light, the room darkening slightly as the magic above basked the room in a subtle warm glow as it pulsed rhythmically.

He still sat beside the bed, hand resting limply against Charlie’s chest as the interest in her eyes soon turned to sleepiness, and her eyelids began to droop.

Lucifer watched with a small smile as a magical display began to lull Charlie into sleep, and it only took a few more minutes before her face relaxed into a peaceful expression and her breathing swallowed.

Roughling rubbing a hand down his face with a sigh, Lucifer stood from the floor. His fuzzy pink robe drooped from his shoulders just enough to expose his bare, finely chiseled chest.

Quietly, he tip-toed across the bedroom, stepping over dolls, stuffed animals, and other trinkets that littered the floor. As long as he was careful, he wouldn’t risk waking the child.

Lucifer’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, before he waved his hand in the air, and the golden light dispersed, showering the room in shadows once more.

Cracking open the door just a tad, he slipped into the hallway. Lucifer’s back hit the door’s solid, oak frame as he exhaled a sigh of relief. The fallen angel felt like he could slide down onto the plush red carpet and hibernate right there, but he was the King of Hell, he had too much self-respect for that.

Raking a hand through his disheveled hair, Lucifer began to drag his feet down the hall, fatigue gnawing at his mind as he passed by the large paintings that hung upon the dark red walls, a perfect backdrop to the fair-skinned figures that posed elegantly inside the gold-framed portraits.

A man, his apple-red cheeks practically brushing against the edges of his face as he smiled brightly. A woman stood tall beside him, a dark purple dress hugging her curved figure as she posed regally. Her fingers entwined with her counterpart, their intimacy evident.

Lucifer would take that down, eventually. It only ever reminded him of painful memories, of that violet, sultry gaze through which she would send him as they basked in the warmth of the large fireplace in the large lounge in their castle. 

Wine glasses emptied again and again as the King listened to her gentle humming, her fingers laced with his as she pulled him closer. Her lips left wet, sloppy kisses against his chin. The faint trail of black lipstick as her mouth connected with his in a passionate embrace of body and soul, intertwined.

Lilith, the previous Queen of Hell. Lucifer’s ex-wife, Charlie’s mother.

How long had she been gone now? Lucifer knew the exact day, he practically memorized the minute and hour when she left. When Lilith had sent him one last look from the open front door, her gaze unreadable through the black shades on her face, her honey-colored hair flowing like water around her figure as the two lovers locked eyes for the final time.

“Goodbye, Lou,” Lilith had whispered, her voice like silk against his ears even in such an anguished moment. Strands of hair covered her features as she spoke, shielding her expression as she turned her head, her back facing the fallen angel as she stepped through the threshold. 

Out of his home, out of his world. 

And, Charlie’s too. It’s hard explaining to a child that their mommy went on a very, very long vacation. He’d have the courage to tell her… eventually. Except, that meant she might one day blame him, too.

What could Lilith have been feeling, happiness, sorrow, anger? Lucifer would never know, he had tried so desperately to even understand why she had left in the first place. Had there been signs? An argument of some kind he had forgotten? What had he done wrong, that his first love and the mother of his child, would leave him to care for Charlie and the realm, all alone?

It was Lilith who held most of the influence when it came to the lower-classed demons, her words and songs enlightening the residents of Hell, cultivating the realm like a garden as she watered the needy and uprooted those with dark intentions like invasive weeds.

To the people of Hell, Lucifer was the epitome of complete, ultimate power. The embodiment of pride, and the reminder of who would always have control. 

He was rarely seen in public, especially in his own Ring, full of the very demons he despised the most. Sure, he had his covers on magazines and face plastered all over LuLu World, but that was where it ended.

Instead, the King kept his duties strictly to those most loyal and most powerful. The rest of the Deadly Sins, the Ars Goetia family, and once in a while joining on an overlord meeting. 

As long as they understood who not to cross, the safety and security of his family would never be at risk, if one could even try and pose any threat to one of the first creations. The Morningstar that shone before Lilith, before Earth, before everything.

In all honesty, Lucifer didn’t really do… anything, when it came to his subjects. 

It was Lilith whose appearance was imprinted into the minds of her subjects through her many concerts and powerful political influence. It was she who had given them the confidence to defy Heaven, to stand against their exterminations that plagued the Pride Ring once a year.

Now, Lucifer was left to hold up face, to keep the realm from divulging into chaos, as the stability of the hierarchy of Hell slipped slowly and slowly through his fingers. No matter how many demons he could smite with the snap of his fingers, the sinful on Earth would always be sent to him as punishment, for the both of them. 

He needed to keep them all in line, as respectfully as possible.

Which meant Lucifer was alone to take care of Charlie, who was insanely active and needy for attention, like any demon her age. She couldn’t stay out of trouble, and Lucifer had to juggle her, his own volatile emotions that had been causing him to skip more and more meals, and the piling events that always filled his days this time of the year. 

The annual gatherings with the Ars Goetia that he had to attend symbiotically to keep their unwavering loyalty, the meetings to make sure the rest of the Sins were keeping their rings afloat, and flaunting a little bit of his power to the Overlords in Pentagram City that liked to stir trouble in his own ring.

Hell needed a future so that his daughter would have something to rule over when she came of age and wisdom. No matter how he tried to push the thoughts of his little girl growing up and leaving him, sooner or later, the fledgling would have to leave the nest.

Lucifer could see it, clear as day, his spirit and creative spark deep in her gaze when she listened to his many ideas and visions of what could have been and what surely will be. The way she giggled quietly as he presented her toys of his creation, her soft gaze looking at each little trinket with adoration and inspiration.

If she was anything like the man Lucifer used to be, that meant she would no doubt rebel against his views of Hell and his subjects, and that scared the King. 

Lucifer continued to pass more portraits, dimly lit by the warm glow of the wall lamps dotting the hallway. Pictures of his daughter, the other Sins, and the grand opening of LuLu World. The final portrait next to his bedroom door was a small painting, an almost-perfect recreation of the only Heavenly creation he still held close to his heart. 

The Morning Star.

The large ball of bright, white light illuminated against the oily-black backdrop that was also speckled with smaller, glittering stars. Some shone in vibrant, multi-colored hues that lit the painted night sky with a soft celestial light.

Except, none of those stars shone as bright as his star, the star specifically created for him by a face whose familiarity had been long lost in time. A face that still gnawed at the edge of his mind every time he stared at that painting, those long-buried memories slowly crawling from the depths of his soul.

Maybe, one day, he’d have the strength to remember.

When the door to his room was pushed open softly, Lucifer’s eyes hit the digital clock on his nightstand. It was one in the afternoon, and Charlie would only nap for a few hours before she awakened with renewed energy. 

The toddler has grown restless lately, anxious to see a new face, to take a peek outside of the confines of their large home. No matter how many magical displays Lucifer presented the child, she always grew bored, and that frown was becoming more permanent on her lips as the days passed.

It must be tiring waking up and practically seeing your reflection almost every minute of your day.

There was no one Lucifer could trust in the presence of his daughter, though. No one he could see fit enough to care for her, not even himself. He struggled, being a father, for his little apple pie.

Parenting was not easy, especially when you had no idea what you were doing. It was especially hard when you were too afraid to upset your daughter with stern words and an authoritative voice, which meant the toddler ran the house.

The most powerful being in Hell would have to put his foot down to his little girl… eventually. After this quick nap, maybe. 

The large bed, much too big for only one person, beckoned Lucifer with an irresistible invitation. His legs moved with renewed strength before he fell face flat into the soft, cool duvet that welcomed him kindly. His muscles relaxed instantly, his feet dangling limply from the end of the bed as he finally opened his mind to the idea of sleep.

Slowly, Lucifer’s consciousness began to ebb, and his snores echoed around the room as his mind stilled into blackness.

What he wasn’t aware of, as the fallen angel sunk deeper into the plush, red blankets, was that the small bed on the opposite side of the hall was empty. Its previous inhabitant was currently tottling towards the door to his workshop that had been slightly ajar just across from her bedroom.

With wide eyes, Charlie scanned the room as she poked her head through the crack in the doorway, her little button nose twitching as she drank in all the little knick-knacks and prototypes of fantastical ideas that would never see the light of day.

It was dimly lit, save for the faint red glow pouring in from the large circular window above the desk across the room. There was nothing of interest on its smooth, wooden surface to the tiny awe-struck eyes. Instead, it was the soft, chromatic light that caught her gaze on a low shelf right next door. 

Floating elegantly above a short, circular pedestal were seven glowing rings, stacked above each other a few inches apart with zero gravity. Each held a unique hue, from green to pink, as they lured Charlie with their ethereal glow. If she could lift her little body just slightly onto the chair against the desk, she could reach them. 

What could they be, so pretty just floating like that? They looked just like glow-stick necklaces! Would Daddy think she was pretty if she put them on and showed him?

With a large smile and slightly unsteady steps, Charlie crossed the room, her tiny feet pitter-pattering against the soft carpet as she beelined for the colorful display. When she reached the wooden chair, her chin barely grazed against the cushioned seating as she placed her palms gingerly against its plush surface.

With a mighty heave and a sharp inhale of breath, the toddler began kicking her legs wildly as she tried gaining momentum to hoist herself onto the chair. 

Charlie sputtered for breath as her grip loosened due to her sweaty palms, but then her leg hooked onto the seat railing, which gave her momentarily support to pull herself farther up until her knee grazed the top of the cushion. 

Placing one arm underneath her for support, the toddler reached the other out towards the ring. Her fingers splayed out, the whites of her eyes glowing red as they reflected the ring’s vibrant hue. 

Charlie held her breath, beginning to tip over just as her index finger grazed the very edge of the ring’s surface. Red energy shot down her spine, sending her hair to stick out with static 

The girl barely got a squeak in before she vanished in a burst of lightning that barely resonated a sound as it zapped her away. 

The red ring flickered once, faltering above the rest for only a moment, before it stilled into place.

And the room was empty once more.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀🤍🤍🤍

On the outskirts of the Pride Ring was a small, white villa nestled against a rocky cliff face, surrounded by tall, black fencing that ended in sharp, spiked ends. Purple magic sizzled off of the tips, a clear warning to anyone who wanted to enter: They would not be welcome.

Inside the powerful barrier, was a large garden filled with a surreal combination of beauty and decay. Vibrant flowers bloomed amidst twisted, blackened trees that seemed to reach out with gnarled branches like skeletal fingers. 

The floral scent that wafted from the blossoms permeated the air, mixed with the slight tinge of sulfur of Hell’s odor.  

Nestled among the dark purple bushes and other hellish flora, were tall snow-white sculptures of men and women, their stone eyes staring lifelessly across the garden’s expanse. 

A diverse cast of figures, short and brawny, too tall and lanky. Each unique from the rest.

Except, for their facial expressions, in which they each held a similar look of terror. As if they had been frozen in place during a time of anguish, of a terrifying encounter that left them to rot inside their pretty stone casks. 

They were positioned across the lawn in a perfect, meticulous manner. As if someone spent day in and day out holed up inside the black fencing, with nothing to do but continuously cultivate their blooming garden. 

One particular statue, which held the image of a goat-like man, staring up at the sky as if in one final prayer, was currently being inspected by a gracefully poised woman standing before it. Painted on his frozen cheek, was a small black lipstick-stained kiss.

From a distance, you’d think she was human. The silky, black dress that hugged her curves was reminiscent of ancient Greek fashion. Her shoulders were fully exposed, garment held up by a high neckline that tickled at her throat as she leisured, a glass of alcohol in her hand.

Her rich, deep brown skin stood out among the pearlescent, marble statues. Practically shimmering against the red hues that basked her home with the midday light. 

An ethereal radiance seemed to seep from her skin, giving her silhouette a faint, golden glow that made her skin shimmer like light on morning dew.

Her hairstyle was similar to a ponytail, a partial updo that sat at the top of her head like a bun, before the long, white locs cascaded down her back.Along with two large strands that framed the sides of her angled face.

The big differential between her and a woman strolling down the street? The horns that graced the top of her head. They curved to end just above her forehead, a black crown that cemented her place as another resident of Hell.

Travel a bit farther down her figure, and you’d find those large, white tendrils of hair that swished as she turned slightly had a funny texture to them that most would mistake for thick braids. 

Except, braids aren’t made of scales, are they? 

At her ankles, a multitude of snakeheads stuck out their tongues, tasting the air as their beady red eyes scanned across the grassy scape. 

They twisted around each other, curling into themselves to keep a tighter form as they wriggled against the woman’s back, interest peaked at their surroundings as their tongues flicked in and out.

Once in a while, a head would spot some small, hellish critter skittering across the yard looking for food. And, before one could blink, its jaws would open wide as it shot forward, pulling slightly at the woman’s scalp as it clamped its maw around the tiny creature.

It would slink back near her ankles, trying to gulp down the tasty delicacy as the other snakes around it poked and prodded for a taste. They hissed and snapped at one another, fighting for a morsel.

The woman turned her head, shooting the reptilian mass a glare as they wrapped around her legs. Milky white pools met multiple red, glowing eyes as they slunk back slightly at her scolding, giving time for the one snake to finish gobbling up his snack without fuss.

The two smaller serpents that framed her face weren’t as long as the rest of their siblings, instead reaching to her breasts as they lazily rested on the fabric of her dress. 

Tenderly, the woman lifted an arm, and her shorter serpent curled delicately around her hand, until its head rested gingerly on her palm. 

Gently, she brushed a thumb along its snout, and it hissed softly with pleasure, its eyes closing shut as it nestled farther into her warm skin.

“Jameson, another margarita, please.”

“Yes, Lady Kokabiel,” a small imp butler bowed, his cropped, curly white hair bouncing slightly as he lowered his head. 

Turning, the imp trotted towards a shaded area underneath a weeping willow tree, its low-hanging branches that grazed against his shoulders were dark red, shielding the large mixture of alcohol from the heat of the day as he poured another glass of the blue liquid.

When Jameson returned, Kokabiel handed him the empty glass before plucking the margarita from his grasp. She sent him an appreciative smile, her white freckles sparkling like starlight as they curved with her lips.

She swirled the alcohol in the glass, watching the small vortex for a few moments, before lifting it to her lips and taking a sip. 

That’s how Kokabiel spent most of her days in Hell, nowadays. Getting a buzz off of fruity liquor and fawning over her snakes, as she lounged in her garden with no one to bother her. 

It had been a long time since she left the spotlight, previously a fashion and sex icon, Kokabiel had flaunted her good looks and curves to promote all kinds of products and events, dominating the biggest runways. She even starred in a couple of A-list movies, growing her until she reached the peak of stardom.

Kokabiel had earned her place at the top of the pyramid, right next to many older, successful celebrities in the industry. Lilith was a big name, even bigger than Koko’s with how beautiful of a singer she was, pulling in fans like a siren with her honeyed voice. 

Even with such cutthroat competition, Kokabiel never felt that she was fading out of the audience’s vision with how fast her mailbox would fill with writings from her fans

Fanart, declarations of love written in sparkly pink ink, and invitations to large parties and prestigious events. Even now, she still received fan mail here or there, although they were usually left unanswered. 

She had never wanted to retire in the first place, her plans for the future only confining to grow bigger by the day. Until one night, during a party hosted by the overlords of the city, was Kokabiel confronted with an ultimatum. 

“I know your secret,” he had smiled devilishly. That flat-faced, know-it-all smirk the man sent her one evening, as he confronted her in the darkness of a hallway. 

“What secret?” Kokabiel laughed dryly, shooting him a question glare. 

“Oh, you know,” his pixelated eyes lifted to the darkened sky through the ceiling-high windows nearby, Heaven’s white glow cascading through the panes, “The one about where you really came from, not the Lust Ring lie you like to spin to the audience.” 

The alcoholic buzz in Kokabiel’s system faded in an instant, and her snakes coiled against her back, hissing loudly as she shot him a deathly glare. It had seemed he had chosen to give the news from a safe distance, too far for her snakes to reach. A smart man. 

How did he find out, and what did he plan to do with that information?

That smile of his had only widened further, giddy at the fact he had her in his grasp. He could pull the strings, keep her away from his industry. This secret, that he had only stumbled upon accidently, was going to make sure she stayed gone.

Kokabiel had never caused trouble, never flaunted her power to rise up Hell’s hierarchy, never made any public displays of how easily she could rip demon’s souls out of their bodies if they got too close. 

Nor did any demon claim to be owned by her, as they were too busy being decorative pieces to tell their tale. 

Kokabiel’s presence was a mystery to her powerful counterparts. Her aura was too clean, too ethereal to be a sinner or an average hellborn. But, she had never actually said the words ‘Yes, I’m from Heaven.’ 

She didn’t need to, anymore. After that little conversation, the talking TV had made a deal. Keep that pretty face away from the cameras, and his lips were sealed for eternity. 

Kokabiel had announced her retirement a day later, not answering a single question about why or where she was going. Those cameras and microphones that had gotten shoved in her face received no words as received hurried into her limo. 

How could Kokabiel, someone whose face was once plastered onto entire sides of buildings, fall so hard because of some up-and-coming overlord with the intent to control the masses? She’d had bigger spats with the paparazzi on the side of the street than this!

Now, she didn’t have to worry about those annoying flies anymore, with their constant flashes that always anguished her snakes and the peppering of questions.

Finally away from any prying eyes and those awful, bright flashes that plagued every step Kokabiel took out in public. Here, she could do and say anything, without someone waiting to jump at the opportunity to sell a shitty, non-contextual picture to the highest tabloid bidder.

Solitude gets boring, though. Even with her snakes to crawl over and her garden to tend, one could only vent to the marble figures for so long before they felt their sanity slipping.

That was until an imp had squeezed his way through the thick pickets of her fence, those short white curls singed at the tips from the magic that stung him. 

Whatever was chasing the small man was more dangerous as he continued to beeline toward the bushes that could shelter him.

The imp had turned his head, catching the sight of his pursuers as they reached the fence. Three burly, tall shark demons roared as his tiny frame sped off.

That only led him to meet horns first into the stomach of the owner of the fence, and the land he was currently trespassing on. With an oomph he landed on hit, gaze darting at the being standing above him.

Kokabiel had quirked a brow, unamused as she wiped the dirt from the front of her dress. It wasn’t until one shark demon rammed into the fence, did she lifted her head and a dark frown played on her lips. 

He had seen it, the power behind her gaze, when the loan sharks blew up one of her favorite rose bushes as they broke through the gates.

“How dare you,” she had hissed, her white gaze boring into the thugs, glowing with a much fiercer intensity as she bared her teeth, “Get out!” 

The imp had flinched, but Kokabiel’s anger was not directed at him as she stepped right above his quivering body, and he could feel the soft grazing of scales against his raised arms before he turned to watch the woman continue to meet the loan sharks halfway.

“Not without our little friend there,” one sneered, his teeth glinting as he gave the woman a silent warning of his strength.

“Unfortunate that you aren’t the one making the demands,” she retorted, putting herself between the sharks and their prey. 

With a loud, collective hiss, the bodies of her snakes lifted, encircling her head, and they opened their maws with extended fangs, displaying their own grim warning with bright red eyes.

The aggressor didn’t like that so much, as he opened he pulled out a large, glowing steel-laced ax and charged right for the duo. The imp squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. 

The Kokabiel’s pupils shifted from that starlit glint into black pools of emptiness, and the air sizzled with a powerful energy right as the shark-faced man swung his weapon to connect with her shoulder. At the last moment, the fallen angel ducked and backpedaled, right as one of her snakes lashed forward, jaw wide to reveal twin, deadly fangs and struck the demon right in the eye. 

The scales of her snakes pulsed with a golden shimmer, and the demon’s mouth opened in a painful scream as his feet took on an ivory color, hardening to stone. 

The other sharks near him tensed, the rage on their faces instantly draining as their comrade's feet cemented to the ground, that stone plague creeping farther up his waist as he writhed in place, clutching his eye as black blood seeped from the large gash. 

They took a step back, then another, and another as the only blubber left on the struggling man was his large head. His teeth gnashed in mixture of anger and pain, but his good eye only showed fear, right as it was glazed over by white stone.

After that, the rest of the loan sharks had fled, huffing and puffing as they tumbled through the broken fence. 

Then, the snake that had bit the demon began to convulse, writhing with an open maw like it had something stuck in its throat as black blood from its victim landed on the grass below.

Like some hellish form of mitosis, the scales of the serpent began to stretch and split, revealing a mirrored version of the reptile that began to take form and separate from its twin. 

With wide eyes, the imp watched the two snakes finally , this new, fresh face shaking its head in confusion, before the rest of the scaly follicles began to surround and inspect their new friend with flicking tongues.

Kokabiel only watched the demons scurry off, before she sighed and adjusted her dress. Pivoting, she turned to face the imp, her arms crossed as she regarded him curiously. 

The scrawny demon gulped as he stared wide-eyed. Was he next?

“What’s your name?”

“W-what?” The imp replied hoarsely.

“Your name. You have one, don’t you?”

“it’s… Jameson, madam,” 

“Thank you, and I assume they’ll kill you if you try and go back into the city?”

Jameson nodded slowly, rising tentatively from the ground to look up at the woman. 

“Well, it seems you are out of options, Jameson,” Kokabeil had quirked a brow, a small smile on her lips, “but, it appears I’m in need of a butler. What do you say to free room and board in exchange for your services? I’ll let you keep your soul, I promise.” 

He had looked at her, suspicion in his gaze as his eyes darted to the snakes that coiled around her, shooting him hungry glares. How could someone with power like that be so… nice? If it were any overlord back in the city, they’d have taken his soul and his free will.

But, the offer didn’t sound too bad, and she didn’t look crazy. Just… lonely. Maybe, staying here would be so bad.

That’s how Jameson had begun working for the retired celebrity he now called master. Weirdly, he didn’t do many things a butler would do.

Sure, he cleaned and was at her beck and call most of the time, but Kokabiel did most of the things on her own. She cooked, tended to her garden which was slowly growing by the day, and kept up on the juicy rumors that circled the city. 

Usually, Jameson spent the day as entertainment for her. As an ex-clown in the circus, Jameson had a few tricks up his sleeve he’d showcase for the fallen angel, and she seemed to eat it up with amusement.

Kokabiel’s thoughts towards him? He wasn’t exactly sure. Obviously, she was much kinder to him than anyone else he’d worked for, but her zipped lips on anything related to her past or what kind of demon she was made him unsure.

There were times she got… sad. That was the best way to put it. Jameson never saw her cry or have a tantrum, but sometimes she’d get so sullen even her snakes seemed rather depressed.

And, once a year there was a day that Kokabiel would lock herself away in her room, and would not call for him at all the entire day. Not even for food to feed her snakes. What could make her so depressed for that one day? A lost loved one? Her death day, perhaps? 

She rarely mentioned her influential era as one of the largest fashion icons and models Hell had seen, although she didn’t need to with her collection of the seductive, sultry gazes she on the many ripped out pages of magazine covers she had framed on her walls. 

The few times he did go into the city, heavily disguised to run errands for Kokabiel, he’d pick up the newest tabloids or fill her ears with the latest gossip circling the entertainment industry.

“That’s what that old fart is up to now?” She had chuckled about an old acquaintance as she moisturized her snakes with a scale-safe lotion, “He used to be an A-list actor, and now he’s selling retinol cream? Ha!” 

The snakes had hissed with a chuckle-like sound, mirroring their mother as she coddled them. They still made Jameson nervous, even after all these years, they had a mind of their own, each individual one it appeared. But, they all seemed to have the same thoughts when it came to him: hungry.

Watching the snake finish its snack made Jameson a little uneasy as Kokabiel turned away from the statue and she took another sip of her drink.

“I’m getting tired, Jameson. I think I'm going to go inside, maybe take a nice, warm bath to relax.” 

“Would you like me to get the water heated?”

“No, thanks. I can do it myself.” She said, beginning to walk towards the patio doors. 

Jameson’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, at the very moment the statue began to sizzle with a powerful energy that even made his curls stand on end. 

Red sparks erupted from the front of the statue, right on the pedestal it was standing on which raised a few feet in the air. Jameson could only stare in disbelief as the sparks began to swirl like a vortex, until they burst and sprayed like confetti and a figure materialized an inch off the marble surface.

The tiny stranger landed with a quiet oomf, before she stood on her feet with a slight wobble, her little hands held out in front of her for balance. 

Jameson’s eyes flew open at the sight. It was a child! Her platinum-blonde hair disheveled, and her large eyes were darting around the area with confusion and fear. 

When her eyes landed on him, she took a tiny step back, her eyes growing wide as she stared nervously at the new face. 

“M-m-madam!” Jameson finally croaked, his finger pointed towards the girl with a slight quiver as he tried to get the words out. 

“What..?” Kokabiel quirked an eyebrow at his stammering figure. Jameson’s eyes never left the strange girl, and she slowly followed his gaze to the statue.

The toddler and the fallen angel locked eyes, before Kokabiel’s mouth fell open and she stood there silently for a few moments. Charlie’s eyes widened, and she pulled her arms to herself in comfort at the shocked faces.

“What…. is this?” Kokabiel finally spoke slowly, eyes trained on the little being standing awkwardly on the statue. Her snakes lifted their heads slightly, tongues flicking the air as they tried to get a scent of the girl.

“It’s a child, madam,” Jameson whispered.

“I know that! But, how did it get here? What’s the point of having a magical fence if everybody can just walk right through it?!”

“She didn’t get through the fence, madam!” Jameson squeaked, shaking his head furiously as he explained, “She just… appeared here, like out of thin air! I saw it all!”

How could that be possible? There’s no way a child could harness such strong magic. It must be some kind of illusion, trickery by a powerful demon trying to use her empathy to get the best of her!

“You!” Kokabiel pointed an accusatory finger at Charlie, taking a small step forward “How did you get in my garden?”

“Um…” Charlie started, but her words—of what little she had—died in her throat. She only took a step backward, trying to escape from the attention 

“You’re trespassing on private property!” Kokabiel continued to stalk forward, she was only a few feet away now, her snakes becoming antsy as they curled around her, hissing softly.

“Oh…”

“Who are you?” 

Charlie took another step back, her hair grazing the leg of the marble figure. Where was she? 

“…Char—eep!”

Charlie’s heel hit the foot of the statue, and she tripped, her back hitting its leg as she slid awkwardly sideways. Her tiny fingers grasped desperately at the smooth, white stone, but to no avail, as she tumbled right off the edge of the pedestal.

Jameson squeaked in terror, before throwing his hands over his eyes to protect him from any grisly sight. He heard Kokabiel gasp, but no sickening thump or terrible crack of bones meeting the firm ground.

Slowly, he splayed his fingers and lowered his hands, his eyes widening. He stood there gobsmacked at the scene, mouth agape in silence. 

Yes, Charlie had been unable to save herself, falling helplessly in the air…. right into the arms of a shocked Kokabiel. 

Kokabiel stared wide-eyed at her own reaction to the split second of instinct that propelled her to catch the child. Charlie was tightly secured in her hands, being held at arm's-length as far as possible. 

Charlie blinked, before her eyes met those glowing white pupils with a slowly growing smile. She had one hand wrapped around the wrist of the taller woman, as she lifted up her free hand and sent a small, shy wave.

“Hi!”

[art i commissioned for the chapter by ruspettaa]

woahhh nice little(ha!) introduction to my oc, with some cute art of charlie! If I were to ever continue writing this fic, the relationship would be more focused on charlies than lucifers, at least at first. Slow-burn/co-parenting kinda thing bc Koko can def exist without being a relationship with our handsome king. she’s sipping margaritas free as a bird rn.

kokabiel is a loosely based version of the biblical figure with the same name who created the stars and constellations. One of the reasons she fell was for teaching humanity astronomy. A few others fell with her too, but she instead melded into demon society instead of her heavenly counterparts.

the only people that know of her true identity are Hell’s royalty, and Stolas probably has a signed autograph of hers somewhere around his office seeing as his duties are closely bound with her creations.

she’s a business woman too, though i am trying to figure out whether she sells snake-skinned accessories as a fashion line or diluted venom that’s a psychedelic drug which makes you feel all euphoric and stuff. l

I also have no idea who her voice claim is 😭 i imagine it being smooth and buttery like Beyoncé, but i’m sure there’s other voices similar to hers that I haven’t found yet.

i’ve got a comm [by wkyarts51243] in the works that will be styled closer to the show, so here’s a sneak peak i guess ☠️ I’d say her height is slightly shorter than charlie (not counting her horns lol), but I haven’t settled yet.

i have more art (one of her and luci hehe), which i might share either. but you can have the full version of the first art pic, with an extra piece from the same artist 🤭

also making this post so i can cement her backstory and stop changing it up ☠️ it’s its writing officially now yall

anyway, enough rambling, back to writing!! have a great weekend 🤍

[wordsvomit101]

Reverse AU: What if... 'You' are his favorite fictional character.

Summary: In their mundane human lives, filled with ups and downs, there’s one constant: you. As a beloved character from the pages of fiction, they find themselves irresistibly drawn to you. Though you exist by someone else imaginations, your presence brings a daily dose of joy and inspiration. Now, imagine their sheer amazement when they stumble upon you in the real world, a living, breathing embodiment of their cherished fictional hero.

Warning: A small bit of yandere, not too much. A lot of how they were as human are my hcs. I have a lot of fun putting them in different scenarios as you can tell.

Satan

In his youth, Satan was a notorious troublemaker, causing endless headaches for adults while earning the admiration of his peers. As the leader of a biker gang and winner of many martial arts competitions, he was the coolest guy around—both in school and in his neighborhood. Even his rivals admitted it. His rebellious nature led to frequent clashes with authorities, stemming from countless property damage incidents, noise complaints, and weekly brawls—many of which he instigated. Despite the chaos, Satan was well-liked and respected. His unwavering commitment to his word and reputation as a tough but honorable man inspired loyalty wherever he went, making people feel they could rely on him no matter the circumstances. These traits even managed to draw in the uptight Sitri from another neighborhood, who became his right-hand man and later his manager when Satan turned professional racer.

As a child, Satan was a huge fan of action and sports movies and TV series. Speeding through the streets on his motorbike made him feel alive, and he sought out any media that thrilled him and distracted him from his depression and insomnia. When he wasn't smoking or drinking himself to sleep, his gang members or Sitri would take him back to his empty home. His parents had long given up trying to discipline him and make him follow their path as upstanding citizens—wealthy socialites—in the upper echelon of society. So they left him the house, some workers to clean and cook, and helped with the bills. Aside from that, he was on his own. These movies and TV series made him feel less alone when he didn't have company over. One of his favorites was about a secret military project that endangers a post-dystopian country by turning a biker gang member into a rampaging psychic psychopath, who can only be stopped by a teenager, his gang, and a group of psychics.

Satan both loved and hated this movie. Beyond the action and the dream of owning the red motorcycle featured in the film, he adored a side character who was a close friend of the main character. He was enraged when they died sacrificing themselves for the protagonist. Back then, he deluded himself into believing that he could save that friend if he were the main character. When he confided this to Sitri or Mammon, they only patted him on the back and looked at him with sadness or amusement. He punched and kicked them both. Satan continues to watch the movie throughout his life, despite the gore and violence. Whenever the side character is on the screen, they calm him, and their soothing words lull him to sleep every time.

As an adult, successful and owning his dream red motorcycle, Satan became a respected racer and moved far away from that empty house, carrying only the good memories with him. His love for the movie, especially the side character, remained strong. When he heard about a sequel to the original, he abandoned his photoshoot schedule, leaving an angry Sitri behind, and raced to be the first in line for a ticket. The movie, set in an alternate scenario where his beloved character is still alive, elated him. Whenever they appeared, he grinned with pure joy, his eyes full of love, causing those beside him to be flustered by his radiance. He mentally thanked every animator who brought the character to life and wished he could capture every moment they were on screen with his phone.

Imagine his surprise when, after winning a prestigious motorcycle racing event, he heads to the hotel bar and catches a glimpse of you through the windows—real and breathing the same air as him—walking out of the hotel with your luggage. Heart pounding, Satan races down to the ground floor, but by the time he arrives, you’ve already vanished, leaving him in a mix of anger and disappointment. Yet, there’s no doubt in his mind. He knows it was you, your distinctive look and walk burned into his memory for years. From that day forward, he leverages every connection at his disposal to track you down, enduring months of fruitless searching until Lady Luck finally smiles upon him.

When he sees you talking to the receptionist at his usual gym, he can't contain himself and tackles you into a crushing hug. He savors every micro-expression you make—the way your breath grazes his face, how lovely your voice sounds when you yelp in shock, and how you grip his shoulders, trying to push him away. You are real. This realization sends a shiver down his spine, and his elated grin remains even when you slap him for hugging you out of nowhere. The sting on his cheek feels incredible, and he almost wants you to continue, but he lets you go. Despite his intense desire to carry you off and shower you with kisses, he knows he has to be patient. He has all the time in the world to get to know you better.

Sitri

As the sole legacy of his grandmother, Sitri carries the weight of her expectations when she sends him to the city for a better education, arranging for him to live with a close acquaintance. It was the first time he took the train too. Determined not to worry her, he strives to be responsible: studying diligently, maintaining his health, avoiding trouble, making friends, and being respectful to others. His life is simple yet challenging, easy yet demanding—truly mundane. The bright spots were learning about various teas and the art of tea making from his grandmother, engaging with his fascinating neighbors next door in their apartment complex, and playing drums in his school band with Juno, Belial, and Jiyu.

Until Satan discovered him during a school festival performance and promptly recruited him into the gang, Sitri was used to leading a relatively quiet life, though not anymore after that fateful day. The constant headaches from the trouble he had to resolve for his new gang members and the concern from his grandmother and his guardian seemed enough to turn his hair white from stress. Yet, this chaos brought color and excitement to his life, much like discovering new flavors of tea that thrilled his senses. Satan gave him a place where he felt he belonged, new people to care for, and a friend he promised to follow for the rest of his life.

Sitri never met his parents, and his grandmother didn't like talking about them, so he refrained from asking. Sometimes, he forgot they existed unless someone mentioned them. If asked whether he missed them, he would say he didn't; it was impossible to miss people he never knew. However, he did feel a deep connection to a character whom he has always yearned to have in his life from an old drama—which became a significant part of his childhood and adulthood—about a spy agency retrieving a stolen martial arts manual, leading to epic battles and encounters. The protagonist, along with his friends, ultimately defeats the villains and chooses to roam the martial arts world.

Growing up in a retirement community, he was surrounded by elderly folks who treated him like their own grandson, so he rarely felt lonely despite not having peers his age. However, before meeting his friends and Satan, he always wondered what it would be like to have a friend his age to share adventures with. The main character’s friendship with a beloved side character, who taught valuable lessons and provided unwavering support, made him especially envious. When that character left the story, Sitri was deeply heartbroken and sulked for days until his grandmother gifted him a mug with the character's silhouette carved on it by an old uncle at her request. That mug became his favorite for drinking tea, a treasured item that no one else, not even Satan, was allowed to use.

Despite his affection for Satan as a leader and a friend, managing Satan's temper and tendency to get into trouble was no easy task. This challenge was compounded by the constant bombardment of calls and texts from their former biker gang members—most of which were thoughtful inquiries about their well-being, but after an hour of chatting, his phone would become hot from the incessant vibrations. What kept Sitri's sanity intact were the generous paychecks he received for handling PR nightmares and the quiet nights he spent with tea and snacks, re-watching his favorite childhood drama just to see his beloved character's face on the screen. One evening, seeking relief from the headache induced by Satan's latest chaos, Sitri went to a bar. While massaging his forehead and groaning after a phone call with an agent, he heard a clink next to him.

Looking up, he nearly choked from the shock. There you were, sitting next to him with a friendly but concerned expression, offering him a warm cup of black tea. You looked exactly like his favorite character, even your mannerisms were identical. His heart pounded harder as he noticed the simple gestures you made that were the same habits you have in the drama. When you tilted your head gently in confusion at his silence, blood rushed to his face and south. Quickly, before you could leave, he grabbed your hands and, with fervent eyes and equally sweaty hands, gasped out a question for your name, struggling to breathe from the excitement and disbelief. Everything doesn't feel real but his entire body screams for him to never let go of your hands.

Juno P. Cruel 666 Orgasm

Juno had always been hailed as the best in his clan: the most handsome, the strongest, the smartest, the most talented. It was obvious that the clan elders had a favorite among the children, and it quickly became irritating to hear them constantly brag about him as if they had birthed him themselves. They would say he would never disappoint them, that he would honor the clan by joining politics or taking over the family's massive military manufacturing business. Juno hated it. He wished that some of his relatives would hate him enough to challenge his position. What baffled him even more was how his cousins could respect and look up to him despite the unfair comparisons. He liked them and wanted them to succeed, but he wished they would show some dissatisfaction with the situation.

Juno had always admired Satan's powerful aura and leadership. Joining his gang was an act of defiance, but the elders dismissed it as a childish tantrum, saying he would get his act together eventually. Juno felt ridiculous for harboring anger when he was the privileged one, handed everything on a golden platter without effort. From home to school, it was the same. There was even a sizable fan club dedicated to him since middle school, which grew when he became a guitarist in a band. While they rarely bothered him, it was embarrassing when their actions affected bystanders. He never knew how to explain to his friends why he had to apologize for his fan club's behavior. Despite this, he couldn't dislike them; many were good people if you ignored their fixation on him. The club leader even introduced him to his long-time obsession: a novel about an idol group that debuted from an idol survival show. The group had been involved in many controversies since its debut and lost more than half its initial members. However, with the help of their new manager and staff, they turned their situation around and fought their way to the top of the industry.

The novel was compelling, showcasing the intricate sides of the idol world with a great cast of characters and dynamics. Juno's favorite character is the manager who helps the struggling group, sticking by them through thick and thin and giving them a chance to succeed in a harsh environment. He read the novel dozens of times, never getting the urge to throw it away, even when it became worn from being hastily packed into his bag. At some point, he ran away from home with only his clothes, personal items, and the novel when it was announced he would officially be the next head of the business. He drove his motorcycle aimlessly until it carried him to his closest friend's house. Zagan found him sitting outside his family antique store, finally calming down from the adrenaline rush.

Zagan and his grandfather offered to house Juno temporarily until he graduated and found his own place. Juno was grateful and content to stay with Zagan's family, helping around until a new idol project aired on a broadcasting channel. This reminded him of the novel the feeling that it was his calling urging him every day until it led him to audition for the show. He had never experienced anything more intense. Compared to other trainees, he was like a fish out of water. His core beliefs and confidence were shattered countless times by online haters, behind-the-scenes producers, instructors evaluating the trainees' skills, or his endlessly talented peers, some even four years younger than him. It was hard, even with support from his fans, but the situation only made him cling to the novel like a lifeline. He devoured every letter to ground himself, gripping the manager's advice as if he were there with them, following their lead to survive through sleepless nights.

Juno succeeded in the end. His stage name, Ppyong, reached the top spot, and he became the face of the group due to his large popularity and underdog story. Many broadcasting shows wanted to invite him and the group, his gag jokes became viral hits, and the group's songs became international sensations. They faced many baseless controversies from antis, and smear campaigns from his clan, or by the elders and his parents. As well as terrible management teams, and an old-fashioned PR team, but they pushed through. Juno almost built a shrine for the novel since he sometimes relying on the manager's advice and knowledge to navigate group meetings and problems. He was always jealous of how the idol group in the story had the manager with them, and the bitter feeling only intensified each time he reread the story. Even his teammates joked about his obsession in interviews.

He could only cry when he saw you sitting across from him during a fan meeting, gifting him a small box of his favorite snack, Ferrero Rocher. Through his tears and snot, he noticed your surprise and fussing over him in the soft, sweet tone he had dreamed of hearing for years. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands and feel their warmth, but with the eyes watching and the risk of jealous fans targeting you, he restrained himself. He gave a half lie, put on his usual cheery attitude, and sneakily wrote down his number and a meeting location on the exclusive merch you gave him to sign. He drank in your beautiful, blushing face as he winked at you when you noticed.

[ghcstao3]

ok more natm statue!ghoap because i’m insane

(edit: part 2 !!)

-

John has long since lost track of how long he’d been a display in the museum when Simon arrives.

His room had been sectioned off one morning, about an hour after sunrise, which is typically indicative of one of three things: repairs, renovations, or a new addition to the exhibit. And whichever it is, it has excitement thrumming through John, waiting to be released come the next night.

He’s always been a fan of change, however insignificant.

And come two hours after the ropes are set up at every entrance to the room, in is rolled a statue of John’s size, a translucent tarp draped over the carving itself as John had once found himself to be, however many years ago. Museum employees work quickly to install the new piece, plaque and pedestal and all, and once that tarp is removed—if John had lungs, he thinks his breath might’ve been stolen away.

Simon—or Ghost, as his placard reads, and as John first knows him as—is the most beautifully carved statue John has seen in his centuries of existence. It’s clear that his details were etched into pale stone with care and love, every fold of fake cloth, every wrinkle of false skin intricate and deliberate.

The separate slate of stone that serves as a piece of skull to mask Ghost’s face is more than intriguing enough for John to know he wants to meet the other statue the moment the museum closes that night. He knows he want to be the one to introduce Ghost to the world of the living the museum is so generous to offer, no matter how limited it is.

He has to be the one.

It’s no surprise, once the exhibit is reopened, that so many visitors flock around Ghost. John wishes he could be among them, warm and brimming with real, human life—but at the same time, he’s also happy to be where he is, with the opportunity to stare at Ghost forever.

John feels giddy, contained within his frozen form, when the final call announcements sound. When he feels the freeing magic loosen his limbs, his joints slow to movement, he’s immediately off his pedestal to wander over to Ghost.

Who has yet to move.

He knows the first night for any new display is strange. Some are hesitant, unwilling to break their original form. Others are eager, the first to wake.

John had been the latter.

“I wanted to welcome you,” John says, staring up at Ghost. He can tell Ghost knows he can relax his pose, and yet he remains tense. “My name’s John. Do you have a name?”

Piercing eyes shift to peer down at John. Still, Ghost does not move. A beat, a lull of silence if not for the other displays also coming to life, then, “Can’t you read?”

John grins. Ghost’s voice is wonderful deep, wonderfully full. “I can,” he replies, tilting his head. “But sometimes that isn’t the right name.”

Ghost’s jaw shifts, his shoulders finally dropping, the hand that’s poised and holding his mask in place falling away with the skull to reveal a face just as stunning as the rest of his composition, all sharp lines and smooth stone. He still watches John from above, though now with a gentle curiosity that holds questions that would never be asked, at least not tonight.

Quietly, almost timid, Ghost amends, “Simon. That’s my name.”

“Well, Simon.” John extends a hand out to Simon to help him off his pedestal. To John’s surprise, Simon doesn’t hesitate to take it—and again, he feels that in another life, he’d be breathless by now. “Why don’t I show you around?”

What he means to say, is that he looks forward to an eternity alongside Simon, the magnificent piece of art that he is.

And he hopes some day, Simon will feel the same.

[francixoxoxo]

୨ৎ Dream a little dream of me ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .

Billy The Kid x fem reader

Desc; billy can’t stay awake when your voice lulls him to sleep so easily.

This is my very first short fic to go on tumblr that wasn’t originally just for ao3 and also my first Billy the kid 🫶 enjoy!!!

Billy worked long days full of physical labour and mental stress. You knew how much of a toll it took on him by how exhausted he was when he came home to you. You saw it in the way he’d hang his hat with a heavy sigh, in the way he’d grimace from sore muscles as he slipped off his boots, in the way he looked at you as if you were an angel that’d lull him to sleep.

Partially because you were. Maybe not an angel, (though he’d beg to differ) but you had a certain effect on him that made him drift off the moment he had you in his arms. Quite a feat, considering most nights without you were sleepless and nerve wracked. Your presence in his bed after a hard day was like melatonin.

You had a particularly fond memory of him slipping into bed, his head on your chest. You lulled him to sleep by humming softly a lullaby from your mother, the timbre vibrating in your chest soothing him like a baby in a warm blanket. Your love filled every corner of his soul with warmth, your soft humming filling his ears as he slipped into the first good dream he’d had all week.

He’d asked Tunstall for a day off at your request. You knew he’d work himself to the bone if you didn’t, and you could tell he needed a break.

So here he was, back against the bark of an oak tree you’d claimed as yours and his spot. You were slotted between his legs, back against his chest and your knees folded to keep up a heavy book you brought. Billy was nosing the back of your neck, humming in thoughtful acknowledgment as you read to him. Your horses were tied to the trunk of this tree, grazing a only few yards away. You spent the morning half in bed, in all honesty.

Billy's chin had come to tuck perfectly atop your head as you'd curled up against him; and the steady thrum of your voice reading to him had him smiling softly in contentment. His thumb lightly swept across the page of the book as he wrapped himself around you further, breathing in the sweet scent of lilacs as he rested with you, the sounds of horses huffing and the tree’s leaves rustling lulling him into a sense of pure bliss.

One of his hands slipped across yours as you read, idly twining his fingers with yours; a small gesture, but one that still managed to bring a gentle flush into his cheeks. You read in that soft voice of yours, “He greatly admired the graceful arch of his antlers, but he was very much ashamed of his spindling legs.”

Billy pressed a loving kiss into the nape of your neck, but he could already feel sleepiness creeping into his bones. He laid his head back against the rough bark of the tree, the movement making you lean back further as he let his eyelids close.

You had always been a big reader, you were in love with books. And when you met Billy, you were eager to share that love with him. The way he listened to you with his whole heart made you feel so important. “"How can it be," he sighed, "that I should be cursed with such legs when I have so magnificent a crown."” The soft lull of your voice was something he heard even when you weren’t around. Even in his dreams.

Billy opened his eye a crack. Your hair was pulled into a French braid over your shoulder, sleek and neat.. Sunlight poured over the convex slope of your nose and your thick eyelashes.. Billy thought you were a work of art. His attention fixated on your every word, taking in every syllable of your voice like a child with sweets. As you continued to read, his fingers lightly brushed over the skin of your leg, moving slowly up to where he reached the bare skin of your knee.

“I don’t think your legs are spin’lin’.” Billy mumbled, distracted, his voice gruff and low as he pulled you in a little closer. His lips, pink and plush, lightly pressed to your temple; and a smirk spread across his face as you melted just ever so slightly into his arms.

Turning your chin, you pressed a kiss to his stubbled jaw to repay the one to your temple. You giggled, furrowing your brows. “Well, s’ about a stag, not me!”

Billy’s gaze settled over you with adoration and affection as you pressed a kiss to his jaw; and another breathless laugh slipped through his lips as you pulled back. He loved your laugh, a melody he’d grown used to and completely addicted to. “Mm. My mistake, pretty.” He murmured, a smirk spreading over his face as he stared intently at your lips. You realized that he was a bit distracted from the story. You could do nothing but oblige his silent request, pressing your lips to his for a lingering moment. He smiled fondly, softer at you as you broke the kiss, letting you turn back to the book. “Keep readin’.”

With a soft smile, you did just that. “At that moment he scented a panther and in an instant was bounding away through the forest..”

Your voice was just the perfect lullaby. You thought you heard a soft snore from behind you, making you turn your face. A grin tugged at your lips as you watched him jolt at your stirring, his long lashes fluttering and his lip twitching. “‘M listenin’.” He mumbled.

“You’re sleepin’, baby.” You snorted lightly at Billy, making a sleepy smile stretch across his lips.

His voice was low and gruff as he shook his head, lips parting to reveal his front teeth in that sweet way of his. “No, m’ invested.”

“What’d I just read?” You jeered. You honestly didn’t mind, you found it cute that he was already falling asleep at noon. You couldn’t resist teasing him, not when he looked so cute.

Billy hummed, squinting at you. His hands moved to knit over your belly, the warmth seeping into your skin. He chuckled through his words, “‘S about a stag. N’ he’s got nice antlers.”

You laughed a little, the fable being retold to you in simple terms making it sound a bit silly. Another soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, if not from the simple joy of having made you laugh.

“I knew you wouldn’t listen to the book.” You cooed, settling your head back onto Billy’s broad chest. He nosed the crown of your hair for a moment.

“Wait, am I dissapointin’ you?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Most definitely. Cannot believe you’re fallin’ asleep on me, William.”

Billy laughed at that, one hand moving to pinch your side. You chirped out, the sound of surprise delving into a cheery giggle. God, you loved this man. This man who spent his day off listening to you read a silly book to you even when he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Billy pressed a kiss to your cheek, nosing the outer corner of your eye. His arms tightened around your middle as his head leaned back against the oak’s trunk. “You want me to keep reading?” You spoke softly, not wanting to rouse him.

He hummed affirmatively, unable to resist the exhaustion finally catching up with him. So you continued, in a gentler voice. “But as he ran his wide-spreading antlers caught in the branches of the trees, and soon the Panther overtook him.” You grimace. Perhaps it wasn’t the sweetest fable to be reading your lover to sleep with. But you glanced up at him. Knocked out, the poor boy.

But not too sleepy to murmur drowsily, “Love you.” Billy’s eyes were closed, eyelashes dark against his sun-freckled cheeks. You took the moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of him. The gentle set of his mouth, the stubble covering his jaw and chin, the protrusion of his damn perfect nose. How could a man be so beautiful?

You decided to shut the book right there. You didn’t need to read the old print to know the next lines, and the moral of “appreciating the ugly yet practical things over the beautiful and inconvenient” seemed unimportant right now. You snuggled into his chest with a contented sigh, fixing to take a nap right there with him. “Love you more.”

Billy snored softly again, utterly succumbing to your ambrosia voice and calming presence lulling him to sleep. Not for the first time, and not for the last.

—

Yall I really like The Stag and His Reflection by Aesop lol

[chaewberry]

the art of touching.

diluc x reader. wc; 6k. tags; friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst and hurt/comfort, blood and injury, reconciliation, when your love language is being annoying asf. epilogue; part 1. read on ao3.

Shuffled to one corner, shoulder to shoulder with other young ladies of high society, a teacup balancing on your head, and young impressionable minds being dilated with piths of old literature, the core values and ideals of what governed over man and woman — this is what an etiquette class consisted of.

Art was next; the studying of paintings on textbooks as they’ve been sketched and photographed over the years, their history, the way the marble is cut and shaped, the way the bronze hero was melted to make weapons and coins in times of hardship, the way the stony goddess of love shied away not from the viewer nor from her nudity. Gods old and new, dead or alive. Decarabian and his circular castle, his tomb, the would be tyrannical winds that bend to the whims of no one but the few ticklish chords of a harp. The statue of a lover holding onto masterfully crafted fingers, fingers made to match, yet laying underneath the earth for years on end without his beloved, an old poem, indecipherable still, crafted at the heel of the mourning stone, tears of mud in silent agony. The masked fools of unknown origin, the star shaped sword found deep within a dreary chasm, sharp as celestial rage throughout the aeons.

The old madam teaching art was very old indeed. Her glasses laid dormant on the small stool table next to her, thick white hair braided like a crown atop her wrinkled head. She was recounting the story of the lone girl in the clouds again, word for word, not a syllable set adrift by the roughness of her scratchy voice, uttering each sentence like a musical concord. It was an old story, spun through the years, centuries, this way and that way, fitting whichever era’s moral standard of the time in order to teach impressionable young ladies the do’s and don’ts of society and lull children into sleep – the girls toyed with by mere men even as they sat at the hand of a god, wind shifting their fates at the drop of a ball; a lesson about sacrilege, perhaps, though about what? The fair women, or the carved palms which held them up for all the world to see? If this particular god was real, then the ball would surely float or drop out of bounds. Or, the maiden would go through a metamorphosis and take off into the sky. Maybe the lesson behind the story was to learn from the past and try to be better than the forefathers.

If so, it was proving to be a hard learned lesson.

The old lady at the front of the room cleared her throat, gulped the lukewarm tea from her cup, and entered the last few paragraphs of the story.

She wasn’t from any “elite” family in Mondstadt, but she had taught nearly five generations of young ladies now. Having hailed from Snezhnaya, the old croak was bitterly cold, steely eyes cutting even now as one dropped and the other was half closed, neck adorned by old family jewels and fingers heavy with rings gifted out of gratitude – her stern, stiff demeanour when it came to “breaking” the girls – as well as the young boys, occasionally – was looked upon with much reverence indeed, and though now that crown had lost its lustre, the way she still moved about in her old age inspired both awe and fear. With her cane, she hit any giggling girl and knocked a teacup over the head if she thought the gaggling ladies weren’t walking with the right sway. One word from her and anyone one of you in this room could be confined to a house for a month.

You tried to stifle a yawn for the third time in the span of ten minutes, leaning to the side, behind a girl’s back, to hide it. The old bat was more than half blind, but her ears were as sharp as ever.

Her head swivelled towards where you sat. You feared, for a moment, that the weight of her braided crown would snap her neck.

Such fears were always unfounded, however, for wicked old dogs always die last.

It was Friday. You were tired, wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep the rest of the day away or attempt, at first, to take interest in one of the boring books your lady mother had set out for you; even more pamphlets about all the esteeming accomplishments a woman were to have to deserve to be regarded as such — music, dancing, drawing, the occasional child rearing lecture, the knowledge of languages. Surely, she didn’t want you to spend the rest of the rest of your precious weekend in a similar fashion? It was truly impossible, unfathomable even. You could already feel your body, your nerves, thrushing this way and that way to move; the corner of your lips, your eyebrow, a finger or all of them, a change in position, a look in another direction. You longed for this dreary business to end, you yearned for something to wake your sly interests. Anyone and anything would do, as long as this wretched, meaningless class ended this moment and the party proceeded with the usual “walkabout” around town. This activity, one where you’d be forced to walk around with another girl or two for company, dressed in fine silks and linen fabrics, made to socialise with people you wanted nothing to do with, would be an activity most detested by you. This day however, the promise of stretching out your legs seemed like an everlasting winter.

Of course, there were other options besides a promenade, and as long as you could slip away from present company you would be able to fill up your daily quota of bad deeds easily enough. It’d be unfortunate if the day passed without you committing a small sin or another, a miniscule disgraceful act to satisfy you.

The heavens seemed to have smiled upon you then — the old croak cleared her throat, again, and tapped the gilded end of her blackwood pipe at the edge of the round table where a couple of books and her tea, which by now must’ve grown cold, sat. “That is all for today, young ladies,” she dismissed promptly, taking the time to filter through the faces amongst her crowd. As the ice of her gaze drew near you you made sure to straighten up your posture, keep your face as tightly still as possible, imagining your skin stretching over too much bone, hands folded neatly on top of your lap. If you could will your eyes to shine as brightly as the stars in the sky you would. Alas, whatever dullness she found in them either did not raise her particular concern (the seven forbid if your mother and father received from her another letter depicting the crime of the mediocrity of your interest in her and her words) or perhaps you did willfully enlightened your eyes through the mere thought.

In any case, you wasted no time after that in jumping up from your seat, grabbing the book you’ve been handed, a theological monstrosity wrapped around a predictable love story written before your grandmother was even born. 

You could never understand the thought what lurking danger could be behind a kiss on the cheek by a ‘fair maiden’, and yet this book certainly vexed you enough by the mortification such an innocent touch brought to the literary masses dubbed with ink in those pages as to think that yes, perhaps a simple kiss was a cursed thing to give to a lover if it were going to enrage the masses, so much so, in fact,  that they’d resort to stoning you or burn you alive as a witch, or accuse you of such ridiculous crimes that brought you the urgent want to use the pages of the book as a fire starter. The meaning behind the story, you thought, was so painstakingly clear that the old hag herself would have grown bored of it by now. Perhaps, if she lived for another half a decade, she could request a more salacious book, one where a woman and a man held hands even, and shared a kiss under a cherry tree, or in between the bushes, or wherever else a lover’s kiss could be freely given to the beloved.

“Miss Wolfram,” a most inconvenient companion called out to you, going as far as to even link arms with you. “Walk with us?”

Drat.

You smiled. “Of course. Where to?” you asked, trying to show the proper enthusiasm as you curled your elbow around hers.

She giggled, her other friend following suit at her other elbow. “By the training grounds - there is more eventful game to be found there, no?”

“How shameless, Anna.”

There was no bite behind your words, of course, and she knew it — hence the reason she continued to smirk, even as her shy friend at the other side started growing red with realisation. “Perhaps,” Anna hummed, blonde curls shining beautifully under the sun. “But I would like to think that the satisfaction of ocular senses is much more elegant than those of the more depraved ones. A sweet tongue like yours, Wolf, would be much better suited to remain sharp rather than bland.”

Ah.

“If so, then I pity old lady Klavdiya. You clearly don’t know the dangers a passing look could hide. Just read the book, it should tell you all about it.”

“Mm, if we were still in the old ages then perhaps I would’ve been more shy. As it is now I am more than certain that passing looks can be fruitful for one’s constitution, isn’t that right, Maria?”

The shy brunette nodded, growing even more red. You couldn’t resist poking fun at her. “I see. They say it’s always the quiet ones.”

Anna laughed. “Something like that, I suppose.”

By now you had arrived at the fountain. There was a kid in it, trying to give a bath to a fluffy, plumpy looking house cat who had its claws hooked to the kid’s sleeves and meowing like all frightened house cats did. Its bushy tail was curled between its hind legs, and no matter how many promises of tasty and sweet scented fish the kid gave, the feline persisted against the ill advised idea. Anna went on then, as you three walked towards the stairs leading up to the Knights headquarters, how amusing it was to keep pets at one’s house, commenting on how to tend to them, their fur, their fussy attitudes when it was time yet again to cut their nails. Maria agreed heartedly with her friend and appeared to gather some confidence in her shoulders as she marched on.

You stayed silent for the most part, simply humming along in agreement - what did you know of pets, anyway - all the while thinking of all the dangers walking by a dozen or so young boys and men, all of whom were, surely under this scorching sun, in some state of undress, and the fits of blood breaking in the face if that outcome shall come to pass. Perhaps Anna had some vested interest in the flowers wilting under the sun, though in your humble opinion, none of those flowers would ever grace your window, none of them, even in their throes of blossoming beauty, could ever tempt you to dirty the hems of your skirts, to bow down and pick one up, indulge in their colours and smells. 

On your way up you met the old man Alchemist. He was holding on to his cane and trying, with his arthritis riddled bones and nerves, to gather a soil sample for some reason or another. Anna stopped, while still gripping your elbow around hers she suggested Maria help the poor man with his work. “Once you’re finished, we can meet up in the plaza?” she asked in a way that was too soft, too mellow. If honey could rot, resting upon that tongue would be one way to do it.

Despite the scowls but still polite spoken refusals from the old Alchemist - he was old and thus equipped with little patience about the vices of a rich girl such as Anna Lionheart - Maria, partly due to mortification at the clear dismissal from her more influential friend, and also probably due to her good nature (and this you firmly believed, for never had you seen her committing a grave sin which would befoul her honour and title as a lady, always cradling the broken boned bird in her soft, petite hands, and because people have always confused kind, nice gestures with stupidity), made quick work of soiling the fabric around her knees by kneeling down on the dirt since the old Alchemist couldn’t. Admittingly, his old and wrinkled complexion took a hit, for he seemed now more appalled at the notion of not only receiving help with his soon-to-be-over-indefinitely work, but to also receive said help from a girl who would gladly “debase” herself enough to dirty herself. 

Whereas Anna Lionheart’s family was in the same circle as yours was, merchants which had the means to sell products to half of Teyvat and more, Maria’s family was a family of only old money and not much power. They owned part of a field the town used for agriculture, getting some pretty coin every harvest, but no more than that. Your family and Anna’s the Leonhearts and the Wolframs, had the means to apply pressure where pressure needed to be applied if given reason, had the power (which consisted of mostly gall and putting up airs, you were of the belief) to block this vote on such matter or another, to push  for that vote in this discussion or another and even introduce one.

Of course, the Knights of Favonius were no fools.

Varka was an especially devious one; a remark which your father had groaned and whined about for no more than at least two dozen times the past year for some reason. Whatever governing power he held out in front of the faces of the elite class, he did so with his various degrees of amusement and mischief, and only allowed them to smell the intricacies of said power before he pocketed it away. When it came to social power — well, the public wasn’t especially gracious in their behaviour towards any of them, sneering or side eyeing them with no small degree of scrutiny. This abuse (and you used this word lightly) was a smudge in an otherwise unbroken, white paged book which the Ragnvindrs didn’t have to suffer; always the darlings of this free city since ancient times, with beautiful daughters and equally handsome sons, all the exemplary manners and everyday etiquette, painstakingly unblemished morals, and the annoying habit of being genuine believers of the god Barbatos.

Now, if only your brother managed to win the favour of Varka as well as that one of the good and young Captain then perhaps your family too will be able to taste the saccharine treat of being a societal ‘darling’ in this city. 

(he was doomed to fail, of course — your belief in the existence of Barbatos was begrudgingly one towards acceptance, if only to prove that the family’s sins of the past had cost you now, in the present time, your future. As it were, the impression of a family curse being laid upon the bones of your forefathers and now upon yours as well had not made its existence known, even of your father’s eyes were always lurking here and there for a speck of it, and your mother’s Sumerian blood chuckled at the ridiculous notion of it.)

Why, one of those priceless sweethearts was but a few mere steps away, instructing his knights to run this way or the other, to drop down and give him their laboured breaths, their sweats and tears.

“Oh my,” Anna hummed, flicking her fan open and hiding her smiling nose and nose behind it, “aren’t we in luck? Look, Wolf, starlings, so many starlings.” She admired and mocked in the same breath, a prominent characteristic from which she derived love and, thus, hate. “Don’t you want to bite some?” 

Ah, the shortening of your surname to its basic animalistic meaning seemed to amuse her as well, for some obscure reason or another, but of course, this was a test, you surmised with surety, for the lion and the wolf were both dangerous, and if the brave one wanted to tease, the cunning one need only play along and wait.

“I am afraid I’d starve,” you went along with her metaphor, because of course you’d be forced to be reduced to such driveling cliches. You'd roll your head straight out of your skull if it weren't considered rude.

She hummed. “You’re right. Your teeth are much too sharp for those little bones, but you must indulge me just this once. Today was dreadfully dull.”

By now, the presence of two ladies standing next to the training grounds garnered some attention from the knights. A few of the other ones, presumably recognizing when they were being sized up for a particular kind of slaughter, suddenly seemed as spry as spring. Someone blushed, someone coughed scandalously while scrambling to wear one of the piled up, discarded shirts (clearly, someone needed to hold a seminar about proper hygiene), while others started picking up speed, making a show of flexing whatever attributes they thought were their best possessions. It was no secret that a lot of young ladies seemed to have a particular interest in frequently adding the Ordo Favonious headquarters in their daily walks, especially at times such as these, when October sun was beginning to dip underneath the earth sooner and sooner. 

It would be unfair, however, to include the ladies and not the gentlemen which too came to ogle, either at their closest male companions and friends - the seven knew if undressing your closest friend was considered pure platonic comradery or a sign if true friendship - or to enchant the female knights with their usual smiles or annoy them with their scepticism. Case in point; a raven haired knight wedged her axe over her head and brought it down on the wooden dummy with adequate ferocity, all the while glaring at your direction. You ignored the poor display of intimidation, but was greatly surprised when Anna winked at the woman, who then proceeded to miss her next swing and end up almost embedding the axe into her own foot as she sputtered and blushed.

You smiled, said nothing for a moment.

The captain himself was now throwing you a calculating look as he gave instruction on the next set of exercises.

“Fine,” you conceded. “Should I go first?”

“Before you do, you must tell me what your appetite consists of.” 

“Oh dear,” you fanned your face, full of faux modesty, “you can’t possibly expect me to admit to that.”

“I surely can - I must know if we are eyeing the same man.”

“Well, I am certainly eyeing a man.”

The grip she had on your elbow loosened. Turning her head to you now, she said, “go on, then.”

Out of all the knights here you were sure that more than half of them had warm, strong hands, charming air that could make you think twice as hard about the words you spoke, the way you acted, and maybe even all of them had been blessed with the good looks of mediocrity and beyond that. More than half of them had sense and the taste for responsibility a woman - or a man too - would look for, especially if one shared the same lazy characteristic as you. Why do anything when you had a strong presence next to you, kindled by the flames of duty and sensibility, kindness (even if that kindness was shown in a way that passed as roughness) and delicate sensibilities for you to grab on and twist?

Many of these knights held such esteemed characteristic traits, indeed, but you only had the need for the one.

You dislodged yourself from the lion and walked forward, ignoring all the puzzling, vexed looks thrown in your way. Your target was familiar with you, your antics, and some of the things you got up with his other familial relation — which was why you excused the frazzled, yet still polite, gaze he threw at you, arms coming to rest at his side, exactly as he was taught.

A proper gentleman, this city’s darling and your current target upon whom you’d inflict your half hearted villainy.

You stopped in front of him, smiling as brightly as you could, and said, “Captain.”

“Miss Wolfram.” 

Despite the fact that the good and honourable Captain was but seventeen years of age his voice sounded out firm and sure, without any of the teenage awkwardness and cracking quality it held only three years prior in his birthday party. Back then you had been just an inch taller than him and took indeed great pleasure in torturing him in that regard, taking his hand and leading him into the middle of the ballroom for the purpose of granting him his first dance that day, all the while berating yourself silently in a vain attempt to stop your face from cracking in two as the boy squawked and sputtered with non of his current grace. Oh, you had twirled him this way and that, dipped him low on the floor and gifted him a glass of orange juice and a kiss to the knuckles that left them red in the end.

Your mother had berated you the next day, your father had stayed ever so blessedly silent and shut himself into his office while your brother had adopted such a wonderful shade of fury you could still remember its taste it left on your satisfied, thrilled younger self — and when Kaeya invited you over to the Ragnvindr manor the next week for a history studying session (a session which you spend playing cards and fooling around the house if you remembered correctly), you had the personal pleasure of seeing the young heir stomp past you with little to zero grace, all pouty lips and affronted brows. You and Kaeya giggled, and his father was thankfully a forgiving man with a sense of humour, much to Diluc’s dismay.

Unfortunately, that would be the first and last time you’d tease him so, for in the next six months or so he sprouted up like a Sumerian fungus and you could no longer drag him at will to here and there.

“I am in need of your assistance,” you said, inching closer to him still, “and there are important matters I wish to discuss with you, seeing as you’re a knight, and so the only one who can help me shade some light into this particularly questionable choice of literature.”

The Captain, holding true and steadfast to his training, didn’t diminish your rather childish whims, evident as they were in the tone of your voice, in the way your eyes squinted as you smiled and blinked, but he did, however, chose to put them aside for the time being. “I am quite busy,” he said with a tone so mellow it rivalled the warmest of spring days — but did not satiate your desire for his attention at the present moment. 

From the corner of your eyes you saw the beats that dogged your steps open  her frilly umbrella. It was much harder to ascertain if her eyes were trained on you or away from you. Still, that mattered little. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your free day entertaining Anna Lionheart.

It was with one particular goal in mind that you decided to refuse his refusal on attending to your problem -- your intolerance to his intolerance when it came to you did nothing but egg you on, swell your cheeks with giggles and teasing remarks. It was one thing to fluster a much younger Diluc, as fun as it was, but it another matter entirely to cause him to fluster in front of his brave knights. 

“I insist.” You looked back towards the sun beaten knights. “I doubt a break will do your hounds any harm.”

He frowned. “Don’t call them that.”

“Mutts, then,” you compromised.

His crown of red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail as it usually were, but some strands had managed to escape their hold, framing the youthful yet stern face of the Captain. His bangs look dishevelled, sticking to the left and to the right, forming a part in the middle. His eyes, of course, seem content in harvesting the sun’s rays into them, which only seemed to serve in making the Captain look even more a twinkle eyed than usual, and though the usual scowl hanged from his face - no doubt brought on by the insult against his knights - his face remained a smooth marbled testament to how truly young Diluc was.

“You betray your origin,” he simply said.

For a moment, you were too stunned by the thinly veiled insult to react, but then you laughed behind your closed fan. “ Ah, no, it’s merely my family name.”

He was too familiar with you to act like a proper gentleman, and yet foreign enough to not speak the harsher words brewing around that mind of his. In return, however, your answer only made him look that much more upset, or perhaps ashamed due to his words, or maybe yours. It wasn’t good etiquette to insult someone so bare-faced, even if the words spoken rang true.You couldn’t resist teasing him then. “I assure you Master Diluc, the view from down below is quite lovely. Never has the sky looked so regal, so perennial.”

“I said your origin, not your family name.”

You remembered, if only for a second, why you hated the man - the boy - standing right in front of you. “You can be so naive sometimes, Diluc. I am my family’s name.”

You were anxious, for a moment, that he was going to reject you again altogether and you’d be forced to stand under the lion’s vindictiveness. 

The Captain only stayed silent for a mere minute, sighing before turning to his knights to dismiss them. A weak chorus of happiness rang out into the courtyard and you had to press your lips together to beat back a smile as Diluc’s face spasmed. One by one, the knights emptied out of the courtyard. When you turned around you found Anna nowhere near the vicinity. You’d be annoyed at having been given the slip, especially since she was the one to drag you all the way here in the first place, but you were most eager to leave now. Today Kaeya was working at the tavern. If you were lucky enough, he’d be able to slip you a cool glass of cherry liqueur before you had to head back home. After all, shouldn’t you indulge in the freedom Barbatos himself toiled so hard to earn for his people?

“Okay,” Diluc said, grabbing his winter coat and seething his standard Favonius sword away before passing it off to a knight. “I presume you’ll be wanting to go to the tavern then?”  he asked, slipping in his coat, “and what is this about questionable literature?” 

He made to take a step forward but stopped when you slapped his bicep with your closed fan. Dumbfounded, he looked down at the offending item in your hand. “What?”

“Is this how you treat a lady such as me? A simple let’s go ?” you huffed. “If I had been informed of your caveman like manners I would’ve abandoned you post haste young master Diluc - or is the gentlemanly air of appearances you go on about with just a game for appearance’s sake?”

A muscle in his cheek jumped -- and you knew which prize you desired most. 

“If anyone here is playing a game I’d rather think it would be you.” 

Nevertheless, he offered you his arm, like any gentleman would. “You are right, of course, so play along!” You curled your elbow around his. “Whatever little standing I may have in your eyes, whisk it away for today and play this game of pretence with me.”

Wisely - or perhaps more foolishly - Diluc didn’t react much to your jib, only managing to glow a faint red which could be attributed, surely, to the effect your irritating wiles had on him. Having gathered his wits, he turned to you swiftly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

You opened your fan, hiding the lower part of your face lest he saw the way your lips quirked. “Let us examine that statement for a moment, shall we?”

“Let’s not.”

“Who was it that refused to help me , an unchaperoned lady, when she asked the first time, and had to thus resort to insisting a second time?” 

Incredulous now, Diluc opened his mouth to speak — you pressed your fan against his lips to shut him up, ignoring the flare of his vision hanging from his hip between you. “And who was it, once again, that rather rudely stated that I was betraying my origin? What other origin could you possibly mean but me ? You are, now, indicating that not only do you know my person but that I have also significantly lowered my position in your eyes with nothing more than a benign comment,” - as if calling his knights mutts warranted such treatment, ha! - “and now, lastly, you see fit to presume my destination which, for me, an unchaperoned lady of seemingly high status would bring nothing but shame and horror to my family name if I were ever to be found out in those kinds of establishments.”

The young Captain was, once again, foolishly staying quiet, all suffering.

“Where does that particular presumption lead, if not to belittle me and debase me as an everyday street wench who loves sweet wine and has naught opportunities to write red letters?”

Finally, the young Captain’s face crumpled and the corners of his eyes creased with laughter. Taking a hold of her wrist, he lowered the hand that was holding the fan up to his face. Why, he was smiling truly now. “The airs of rich innocence don’t suit you.”

“Perhaps,” you admitted. “ Perhaps. Yet, I have not failed to notice the lack of rebuttals regarding my apt observations.”

He stayed silent, urging you instead to start walking towards the plaza with the little fountain and the myriad of aroma’s coming from the food stalls. 

The month of February was in reality no less harsher than that of January, and even as early in the day as it was, the sun was beginning to sink beneath mountains and rivers, painting white clouds with the first droplets of pink — always a sight, those pink clouds, and then after the fiery orange spreading over the celestial sky, breaking out in stark white stars.

In truth, you’ve wasted so much time with Lionheart and her friend, and now with Diluc too, that taking a short trip to the tavern was near impossible if you wanted to make it home before dark. You could only hope that the footman waiting by the family carriage hadn’t been carried off by his wiles yet again, lest you find the fool decorating the bushes outside the Ragnvindr’s Tavern once more with his foul stomach content.

The long, white-grey coat was whipping around your legs, Diluc’s dark one doing the same; dancing in the winds, slapping against each other and against the windas you walked on, the whipping cold numbing your unprotected nose. You had refused to wear a hat, however, even in this weather, for it would ruin the perfect head of hair you had toiled over, and although the air current was certainly doing the same, you preferred whipped like hair instead of the frizzy monstrosity the hat would have introduced.

The heat emanating from Diluc’s vision was nearly leaving steam as it drove away the cold, allowing a mellow warmth, liquid, as it set into your bones. There were days where nothing in the world could warm you after succumbing to a cold, no matter how close to the fireplace you lay, in your own room, entombed with your own will and touch. Your fingers would grow stiff from the cold, leaving you thus unable to write with comfort and fluidity — and you so hated scratchy letters, unmoving and petrified down onto the page, nothing you hated more than the pain on your back as your muscles locked into themselves as you shivered. 

Winter was most foul. Beautiful in its own unique way, yet foul nevertheless.

You could offer a complaint to the man - boy - next to you, but sort of lighting himself on fire there was nothing to be done. Besides, the last dying embers of the sun would be able to sustain the sound mobility of your fingers until you arrived home.

And while you were buried under the nonsensical musing of cold and winter, of hot soups and fire whiskeys hidden in your father’s library, Diluc stopped, abruptly, at the top of the staircase leading down to the plaza.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked, staring into your eyes in a way that made you squirm.

“What?”

“Do you really believe I hold naught respect for you?”

You narrowed your gaze. “Who said anything about respect?”

Affronted, he repeated your own words back to you. “I have not failed to notice the lack of rebuttals regarding my apt observations.”

“Ah, that.” You waved him off. “That was me simply teasing you; you know it to be my favourite pastime.

“Good,” he said, resolutely, and so began your descent down the stairs. “As annoying as you are sometimes -” excuse me!? “- you must know I hold you in the highest regard.”

The words flowed so easily out of his mouth it nearly made you stumble and for laughter to burst out of your mouth. The tight knot in the pit of your stomach whipped itself around your lower ribs. “Such words should be given a bit of thought before given so freely - like I said, dear Captain, you are still somewhat naive.”

For a moment he regarded you with absolute earnesty (because the boy had always worn his heart on his sleeve), and you considered tripping him down the stairs.

“Maybe I am,” Diluc said. “But I am not prepared to give up my position in this matter.”

“I see.” you hummed, certain you were delirious. “Very well then. You must promise me, however, that when and if you’re ever proven wrong in that regard that you won’t reproach me; after all, I have clearly stated your faults in your opinions of others, and so I have washed my hands of consequence when it comes to your person.”

He sighed, a glimmer of his childhood self shining through with the pout that followed. “You are needlessly dramatic.”

“I am not,” you rebuked, and then, because the rope around your intestines felt as if it had wrapped its rough, itchy limbs around your fragile ribs, you demanded, “say it again.”

“Say what again.”

“What you just said.”

“Needlessly dramatic?”

“ No. Before that.”

He flushed, and the dark pink colour in his cheeks was beautiful against the harshness of winter. “Why must I say it again?”

“Do you need a reason to pay a compliment to a lady such as myself?”

“A debt I've already paid off.”

“Kaeya would do my bidding,” you changed tactics, knowing full well that the other Ragnvindr brother would absolutely not do such a thing - he’d be more prone to cooking a fish on your lips than doing what he was told.

You felt lightheaded at the prospect of Diluc doing the same.

“He would not !” the redhead almost stomped, looking down on you with mounting vexation. The blood red of his eyes blended with his whipping hair, black eyelashes long enough for the first flakes of snow to clutch onto.

“He would, ” you kept on, stubborn in your lies. “Kaeya is a good boy who knows that all good things must be said thrice.” 

That was the reason he lied so much, after all.

Diluc was a portrait of scandalization. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Only if you say please three times in a row.”

[sugar-crash]

🍬King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader👑

(Sleep Edition!)

(Request here! Sorry this came out way later than it was supposed to, some personal stuff is happening that’s I won’t divulge into... But I’ll just say that the fanfiction🔑 curse is apparently real and doesn’t stop at AO3.)

- He’s more tolerant than how he is Turbo when you start sleeping with one another but still has those selfish habits of hogging the bed, but seeing how he’s royalty now it probably isn’t much of a problem— He feels like the type to have a overly large bed or something like that.

- Snores a bit louder than he used to, cause,, old man disguise. Uhhh old man in general, whose supposed to be whimsical but falling back on it.

- But like again they’re not going to keep you up at night, at least, I hope they don’t cause you guys probably spend a lot of time together.

- More cuddly for sure, like I touched upon earlier after all those years of hiding and being all alone did something to me, he probably realized that being more affectionate would help him and this relationship.

- I like to think that as a creation of humans it isn’t much of a stretch to say like any other piece of art it imitates life, and what is life with those moments of desire, belonging.

- A part of him probably wants to belong to Sugar Rush desperately, and being in charge of it is what makes him feel like does, at least to a degree. Giving you affection and space when you need it, sleeping in Sugar Rush is always the best, sleeping on literal marshmallows.

- Maybe even wants to feel as if he belongs in this relationship in general, His actions in this relationship trying so hard to be genuine at times when he feels it warrants them, like hugging you close and lulling you to sleep.

- He’s making an active effort to be what he thinks you need in this relationship, thinking he knows what’s best for you more you do, that sense of entitlement he has seeping into this relationship almost covertly.

- Who knows what’s going on in his brain most of the time, maybe ways to insult people who he deems below him but I digress, like sometimes his emotion is unreadable when you finally nod off after a conversation about your place and why never comes over or leaves Sugar Rush itself where he is able to quell you enough for the time being.

- He has so much going through his brain constantly, mostly stemming from that anxiety that has the tendency to keep him up at times.

- Still a terrible insomniac, that’s not up for debate he has lost hours of sleep over his own self imposed fears of being replaced by the original ruler Venallope.

- One word to describe both Turbo and King Candy is Paranoid, whether it be about his popularity or maintaining a power of authority over something that isn’t his.

- He’s so afraid and that mixed with sleep deprivation and denial of what he truly is, getting him away from everything is how you get him to stop and think critically before finally calming down and taking a chill pill after being strung up for so long.

- He gives you credit for your care for him, thanking you softly but never repeating himself when you ask him to, you know what he said.

- Again he doesn’t hang on your every word, that self reliance still being a very important part of who he is, especially now as a ruler.

- The amount of lectures you get when you guys first start dating and he has to explain away how weird Sugar Rush gets is far too many.

- I think with your help he’s a bit less paranoid, like a relationship with you definitely lessens the edge he has about him— Hell he’s probably even more conniving to others than he is in the movie because he takes the time to really think about what he can do without needing to think on the spot.

- His tendency to think later on is still very much intact, and I believe your relationship has both their benefits and drawbacks— A part of him definitely becomes more smug and full of himself, he got someone to love him as King Candy after all, further adding less suspicion on him.

- I think in a way to keep him from going “too soft” convinces himself that your relationship is that, but no amount of justification can hide that genuine caring he has for you, years of being together only amplifying that.

- In a way, you give him ease, just not in a literal way he does for you, a way that he doesn’t really recognize till he reaches the point of no return.

(Bdr aqfdk dr rljcsbdko kl lkc wdhh squhy nljmqcbcki fki d ilks sbdkg fkylkc wdhh cvcq sbc nbfknc sl fs hcfrs kls sbc mclmhc lt sbc fqnfic.)

[junk-story]

Interview: Ongaku to Hito and Sakurai Atsushi - Ichikawa Tetsushi x Kanemitsu Hiroshi, Part II

This interview is on pages 52-57 of the magazine. Footnotes are included in numbered parentheses and can be found at the bottom. For Part 1 of this interview, click here.

~~~~~~~

Ichikawa: It may have been a shock, but in short, [BUCK-TICK's] material elevated. Really, because they were able to turn their work into art, we can grasp now how they were able to bring forth a decadent rock masterpiece like 21st Cherry Boy. Although that kind of dark decadence is seen as a negative, they established it as an excellent form of entertainment, which is fantastic. When I listened to that, I wondered, “Why has Sakurai made a breakthrough to this point?” What did you make of that? 

Kanemitsu: I think he was able to gradually create distance between himself and the band - in a good way. It wasn’t because their relationship had worsened, and there were still times where they’d be up until the morning drinking, but, as you might expect, after nearly 20 years had passed since they debuted, their relationships with people had expanded too, right? When that happened, this sort of scene, where Imai-san would finish an interview and the other 4 were drinking while they waited for him, it almost completely disappeared. This positive sense of individualism is how BUCK-TICK came to be born. 

Ichikawa: I see. In the 21st century, I was listening to the works of B-T as a fan only, so I didn’t bear the weight of that darkness. 

Kanemitsu: What I call acting out the darkness, that elevated their work as entertainment. But normally, when you have this individualism come to be, it leads to actively pursuing solo activities…and that can be troublesome, certainly. 

Ichikawa: That’s the self-indulgence I talked about earlier. (laughs) When that happens in a regular band, they disband and it’s over. Suddenly some new thing starts, and the other members end up not knowing what to do. But Sakurai ended up feeling guilt about this, because he was a man with a kind heart. Thanks to that, the unique worth they had as a band that continued for 35 years with its original members came to be. 

Kanemitsu: In what ways did you feel Sakurai-san’s kindness? 

Ichikawa: Well, in many ways, the Sakurai Atsushi I carry with me is still a yankii(1), you know, a good-looking yankii full of chivalry. We talked about the time when his mother passed before, but there is no shortage of that kind of material. For instance, the launching issue of Ongaku to Hito. I asked Sakurai to be in it as well, and even though it wasn’t around the timing of any [album] release, he said, “Well, since it’s a magazine Ichikawa-san is creating, I’ll do it”, and in the middle of a national tour he came back to Tokyo from Numazu after the concert was over, and it was after midnight at an oden food stall in Sendagaya where we had a no-makeup photoshoot and interview. He was a man who could simply do such things. 

Kanemitsu: What about Sakurai Atsushi made us so charmed by him, do you think? 

Ichikawa: Hmmm…his face? 

Kanemitsu: Well, that’s some brutal honesty!(2) But certainly, it was important. (laughs)

Ichikawa: Wahahaha. There’s that issue with Sakurai Atsushi on the cover where he’s wearing an unremarkable white shirt and has a slight smile, right?(3) That one is among my top three favorites. For some reason, it was a time where there weren’t any interesting releases, and there was no content to be had during this lull, so we ended up in a tight spot for an artist to put on the cover. To be honest, we made the offer to Sakurai like, “heeeelp!”, and I was grateful when he readily consented. They also didn’t have any releases coming up, so I suggested we try a risky(4) cover with no decadence, where Sakurai had a casual appearance and is looking into the camera with a smile; he had also become more concentrated(5) at that time and said, “Let’s do it!”

Kanemitsu: That’s why he cut his hair without anyone’s permission. (laughs)

Ichikawa: I’m glad we didn’t go that far with it. (laughs) But really, Sakurai Atsushi could not be detached from my magazine. There were always plenty of guys skillful at conversation, but I have never met another frontman who, even though he wasn’t good at speaking, could expose his inner thoughts to such a point. Of course, there were also those with negative feelings, like, “It’s all just to tickle the B-T girls’ fancies”, but I hoped, even without him knowing, if we could drain the low-water swamp called Sakurai Atsushi, something amazing would happen. I wanted to do something with this man. It was the same for you too, right, Kanemitsu? 

Kanemitsu: I didn’t have that “I want to do something”. But I did have something like a maternal instinct. (laughs)

Ichikawa: (wry laugh) I understand that too. You can’t leave him alone. 

Kanemitsu: Because at some point, there were only a few articles about the album releases outside of ours. 

Ichikawa: Why was that? As I said earlier, during my time, he spoke frantically as if it was needed to confirm something to himself - so in other words, something must have changed where he could become more self-contained. 

Kanemitsu: It was like Sakurai-san created his own style. As though, dressed up in decadence and gothic imagery, he tried to act out his ideal Sakurai Atsushi. 

Ichikawa: The same as kabuki. The great name of “Sakurai Atsushi” was focused as he would be in the traditional Japanese arts. 

Kanemitsu: Yes, yes. I think that was a good thing. 

Ichikawa: It finally makes sense to me. So that’s why it happened. That Prince of Darkness character was created. 

Kanemitsu: There was what you call the Prince of Darkness character, but he also loved cats, which brought out his playful face. If such a person were to appear on TV with Shiina Ringo, everyone would be hooked. 

Ichikawa: A rare creature, really. (laughs) This may be inappropriate, but it seemed to me that Sakurai could only bring the curtain down(6) on Sakurai Atsushi in the way he did, or by going into a life of seclusion, unknown to anyone. Because he was carrying such sin(7) with him. 

Kanemitsu: Well, as someone who saw him from the 21st century point of view, I feel that he’d aged well in this way, and he wanted to enjoy the rest of his life happily. It’s just that he was a sensitive person, so he was affected by things like children being displaced by war, the oppression of people based on gender, and so on, and when he tried to get closer to the emotions of the weak, he would be forced to remember his own pain, so I suppose in the current era, it was hard for him to live…that’s what I think, anyway. 

Ichikawa: Hearing the talk about the Sakurai Atsushi of the 21st century from Kanemitsu today, it makes sense now. For me, who only knew the Sakurai of the 20th century, the Sakurai of the 21st century is like a different person. I was very fascinated with him all the same. I don’t mean this in a bad way, but it’s like he established a whole separate persona. How can I say this…maybe I could call it guilt. I could see his guilt so clearly through his songs in the 20th century, and it was made invisible in the 21st century. And, invisible things aren’t bad ones. Because that just shows how accomplished he was at fulfilling his role as Prince of Darkness. That’s also how he elevated to being a charming big name. 

Kanemitsu: As a musician, an artist, the purity of his expression had reached a level so high as to be incomparable [to anyone else]. 

Ichikawa: His skill in the 21st century clearly went up. But, although the Sakurai Atsushi of the 20th century was still a work in progress, that progress had turned into a serious dead end that was plain to see. So there were many people who were able to empathize, and I think he himself, the band, the media, and the fans all came together, able to become a community with a shared destiny. It’s strange, but in other media, BUCK-TICK was just shown as a cool band, right? However, at Ongaku to Hito, it wasn’t like that in either the 20th or 21st century. 

Kanemitsu Because we got to see them as 5 people with 5 different styles of character. 

Ichikawa: In other words, they’re “Osomatsu-kun”(8).

Kanemitsu: Hahahahaha!

Ichikawa: When I was doing it, they were “Osomatsu-kun”, and while Kanemitsu’s been doing it they’ve been “Osomatsu-san”. Their appearance between the Showa and Heisei eras was totally different, but the original people were the same. In both the 20th and 21st centuries, Sakurai was Sakurai, and his foundation and attitude didn’t change, only his appearance from that of an unusual self-deprecating man to the Prince of Darkness did; as a result, he was popular in both cases. So, as Ongaku to Hito, speaking from our beginning, he is the person we should be the most grateful for, and he was the kind of man who made me feel like I had to include him in our publication. 

Kanemitsu: He was. No matter how cool Sakurai Atsushi looked on the stage, everyone knows that he actually also had these traits. 

Ichikawa: Of course, with that presence, that appearance, and the look in his eyes, no one would know he was actually this cute and loveable character. 

Kanemitsu: Through the medium of Ongaku to Hito, you and I wrote about those parts of him, so now everyone knows. 

Ichikawa: That’s true…a long time ago, when I was doing a late-night Friday FM radio live broadcast, I had Sakurai on as my first guest. We were at the Satellite Studio in Ginza, and even though I hadn't asked them to come, Takuro and Hisashi [of GLAY] came. We finished at 3 AM and the 4 of us were drinking when Sakurai said, “Will you come to my place?”, which was unusual. When we went there, the windows - all of the windows - had these pitch black curtains on them, it was like being at a planetarium. (laughs)

Kanemitsu: Hahahahahaha!

Ichikawa: We drank in that dark room until we eventually were struck by sleep, but even when I woke up, it was pitch black and I had no idea what time it was. (laughs) When the sun was at its peak, I woke those 2 [from GLAY] up and they went home, but while that was happening, Takuro said to Hisashi, “If you’d told me 10 years ago that I’d go to the home of BUCK-TICK’s Sakurai Atsushi and drink together with him, I never would have believed you”, and I’ve never forgotten that. It was purely moving, emotionally. 

Kanemitsu: Everyone wanted to become like Sakurai Atsushi. 

Ichikawa: It must have been a dream for them. However, it’s a dream that no one could achieve. This sounds misleading, but I think you have to want to be like Yoshiki [of X JAPAN], if you’re going to abandon yourself to despair(9). (wry laugh) But no matter what gimmicks you make use of, you’ll never be Sakurai Atsushi. And for better or worse, it was tough. 

Kanemitsu: I’ve said this many times, but him finding that gothic style was big. 

Ichikawa: The gothic atmosphere seemed like maybe the one he was most comfortable in. The decadence created a kind of surreal and abnormal worldview. But Sakurai Atsushi himself was not abnormal at all, nor was he trying to intentionally deviate strongly from what’s accepted(10). It was just the suit of armor(11) that best fit when he was confronting the world, definitely. 

Kanemitsu: It was Sakurai Atsushi’s suit of armor, wasn’t it. But whether he ended up putting it on or not, he empathized with people’s sadness, and he was a person who could shed tears. And because that seeped out, everyone loved him. Those feelings [of empathy] were expressed in what became his last album, Izora. 

Ichikawa: I see. Well, perhaps he would have continued on expressing it, if he could. 

Kanemitsu: I really think so. There were yet many things he could do, and many he would have wanted to do.

~~~~~~~ Footnotes: (1) I think most people into this scene are familiar with this term, but in case you aren’t - yanki/yankii refers to a young delinquent, usually one who dresses in a sort of street/biker style. (2) If someone has ever said to you, “wow, tell us how you really feel!”, it has the same sort of feeling to it as that, although a bit more polite since Ichikawa is the elder of the two, lol. (3) I believe he is referring to the January ‘95 issue cover, based on his description. (4) Risky in the sense of something not usually done. “Nikopachi” is the type of photography he describes, and online sources generally spoke negatively of it as something not befitting professional photography. (5) Literally “boiled down”. I think this is a reference to paring back his visuals from what they were earlier in their career. (6) This is a metaphor for Sakurai’s passing - but I liked the nuance of his wording and tried to retain it. (7) This word really does not translate well - in different contexts it can be sin, guilt, karma. I translate it again as “guilt” below as it’s more befitting the context, but in all cases here, it’s a sort of heavy emotional load brought upon oneself. My husband’s preferred definition translated to “a living with the burden of past wrongdoings and feeling a sense of remorse”. (8) Per Wikipedia: a comedy manga that revolved around of group of brothers who cause all sorts of mischief. (9) I asked for more clarity on this - what he is getting at is, it’s possible, if you really want to, to become like Yoshiki, but no matter what you do, you can never become like Atsushi. (10) The direct translation for this was “be a heretic”, but heretic is a loaded word in English, and this does not have any Christian overtones. (11) He specifically says “mobile suit”, as in the suits from Gundam.

[maddisgonewild]

The Silver-Haired Boy

I originally wrote this on my AO3 account months ago buuut I decided maybe to cross-post it here. It's from Genesis's POV, and he comes into contact with a certain silver-haired child. It was inspired by art drawn by @birdblacksocialclub. I would really appreciate some feedback since I'm thinking about writing more in the FF7 universe.

Here is the short little blurb, enjoy hehe

Slate-gray walls join with a solid steel door ahead of me. Infantile cries pierce through the metal walls, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on edge. I stand there, troubled and contemplating. Without too much thought, my hand grips the heavy door knob, and it slowly opens with an unnerving screech. Inside this boxy, metal jail cell, is a single silver-haired toddler. Unable to talk or walk, the child lays on a bed of crusted blood and soiled clothing, screaming.

Shocked and shaken, I hesitantly take three steps forward before the child notices my presence and lifts their face to meet mine. Their pale sickly skin is slicked with the remains of salty tears mixed with watery snot. Their soft, silver curls fall in tuffs framing their puffy face. It’s a sorry sight, this tiny baby, alone, crying for someone, something to come and save them. After spotting me, the corners of the child’s lips curl upwards, and they giddily begin fishing for something within the mass of dirty clothing.

My vision blurs, realizing who this silver-haired child is; my best friend, lover, and the person whom I wronged so many years ago. In big, wet drops, glowing green tears fall down my cheeks onto the solid white floor below as the child finally finds what they had been searching for so excitedly. In front of me, the ocean-eyed toddler squeals happily while holding up a dirty, mangled stuffed bunny. It's missing an eye and one white ear is holding on seemingly by a single fraying stitch. I walk forward, sniffing louder with each step, my composure slipping, and once I make it to the child guilty sobs consume me wholly and echo off the steel walls.

I can’t even look him in the eyes as I fall to my knees. My eyes close as a million unsaid words race through my head. The soft confessions of love and the apologies that would accompany them. Ever present, the deep unhealing wound on my back aches as if it is on fire. A stark reminder of times past and times that have yet to come. A warm and soft sensation lulls me from the haze back to the scene before me. The silver-haired boy pushes the plush bunny into my lap, and then wraps his little arms around my neck, and holds me as I cry.

[sinligh]

I’m my mother’s favorite child; I’m full of sacrifices.

Hers and mine, and so many women before us Substituting security and affection with systematized delusions.

I'm falling down the rabbit hole, not because of curiosity, nor distraction. But because of something akin to reality call.

All the rage that belonged to my ancestors before me, spilt ink that I spend my days crying over

And i wonder if I’m the one dragging it along with me, or is it the emotion that keeps weighing me down.

I was raised to be paranoid mother said that will protect me when she’s not around..

Now, I’m just my mother’s child and I only know how to define versions of myself through her.

Always free, never enough.

A mother lullaby can blend into her child's bones, my mother used to lull me to sleep by humming

"I love you madly, enough to embrace you in my eyes and see the world through you as I cover you with my eyelids"

I’m my mother’s daughter, a wound that refuses to heal.

I poke at it every time I question how can i convince someone who spends days and nights writing and rewriting my future that i grew up to be blind to all that is prewritten ?

That l'm building a pathway for a little life In the shadows of dreams that are out of my reach

That silk sutures hold my organs in place and lies dressed in white sew me dreams that my brain didn't dare to conjure.

That i learned to dilute the amount of love I have for everyone in my life. I don't understand the whys and hows of it but I know that I'm at the stage of life where I don't love without guarding myself.

And I refuse to be punished for feeling anymore, even if it meant I'II only ever know rage.

Meaningless and absolute.

I lose my details as i go. Leaving tracks of my soul behind me.

I shed pieces that i don't know how to define, like a snake does its skin. The only difference is that a lot of my potential lay there underneath it.

I think i overlooked discipline in my journey to search for wildness and inspiration,

and it seems like the only consistent in my life is my desire to change.

I know empathy the way I know my father. Should be present; but isn't. And I'll never be my mother, doesn't matter how much of herself she sees in me.

•••

•Quotes:Elana Dykewomon/ Chelsea g. summers/Azra.T/Robert Goolrick/hayan charara/Hannah Green/Sylvia Plath/ Fariha Róisín

•original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

1. Winged Goddesses. Psyche II - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 2.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 3.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 4. 2. Metamorphosis 2 by Giovanni Gestel. 5. My Crisis are Blessing by Andrea Galad. 6. Papillon |I" or "Woman in Wings", by Louis Icart. 7.Art by Will Kim. 8. Art by James Jean.