#tantalising

[markscherz]

I think I have officially written my best sentence ever in a paper we are working on right now, and it makes me so sad that I will have to wait perhaps upward of a year before I can share it with you nerds.

[citrine-elephant]

leon's body is supposed to be here tomorrow. supposed to be.

as i struggle to take a break from painting (and being so fuckin close to finishing him -> lighting + final touches left....)

as i struggle to wait for my boy.... to complete him....

here's an idea, a spoiler if i were to commit to it, for the doll fic...

so what if chris had a box delivered to his office/home that was all dolled up (hah, pun!) for him. specially, for him.

and inside, chris finds leon's severed head-

can you imagine? can you imagine the dread? the terror? the fear? the burning fucking hatred and blind rage? ohhhoohoh....

[poorly-caffeinated-diatribes]

I want to write a story about a relationship so all-consuming it transcends time. I want it to make the reader question whether or not both of the characters could even be real within the confines of the literary universe I have constructed, because I want these characters to be so deeply attached that there is no way to discern one from the other by the end of the book. I want a Fight Club moment where it becomes clear that one of them is fake, but I want it to be so confusing, so illusive that it is never clear which one of them is real and which is fake. I want a story about loving so fully you forget yourself, and loving so fully that you are nothing but yourself. I want a story where people leave with their lungs trampled on the floor and their heart tangled like gum in their hair. I want people to know what it is like to yearn and to yearn so desperately that there is nothing outside of that incessant want, that hunger. It is worse than Tantalus, worse than Erysicthon, it is worse than pain. It is the feeling that lives deep within the recesses of a brain so starved that there is no way to describe it without screaming into the wind and watching it gust away. I want to make the incommunicable entirely and utterly real, I want to make it so visceral that it is all that can be felt. I want people to understand, and I want them to leave the experience knowing that it can never exist ever again.

[brendalamour1]

[dungeonaspects]

The Thrum of Blood

So there you sat, perched upon your branch, watching the forest shiver with the pulsing beat of life. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers. You observed how the sun danced through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that flickered like whispers on the forest floor. The roots burrowed among the rabbit warrens and badger dens, like ancient veins.

You could have sat there for a moment or a millennium, knowing that all of it was the same, singular moment. You danced beneath the moon, its silver light bathing the world in a ghostly glow. You laughed under autumn leaves, their crisp crunch shifting beneath your feet, and napped beneath spring buds, the air alive with the fragrance of new growth. And all was good.

The first time you felt the acrid tang of iron, you would have retched if not for your curiosity. The scent of copper underlay it, inviting, calling. The forest was still, the bruised, grey sky above holding back a torrent of rain that had threatened to burst for days, yet it spat, barely holding back its deluge for… something.

You followed the scent, your chest thrumming lightly at the thought, the sensation as the world around you held its breath. The leaves rustled softly, a whispering chorus that seemed to guide you. And there he lay, curled inward like a wounded deer. You had seen how your four-legged friends would stagger through the forest, from the barely adolescent fawn to the mightiest stag. How they would limp and chuff and shiver as their blood coated the ground.

A thing of iron buried into them, an intruder in every sense of the word, as the humans would track and trail and taunt. Now, you stand on the edge of a clearing, the sky shivering above, as a man lay curled around another thing of iron, blood seeping into the ground, his own chuffing breath laboured and short.

You approach his crumpled form. He was bigger than you, yet… so small. His eyes leaked dazzling tears that shimmered to the ground, the lustre lost to the dirt below. Blood coated him, the thing of iron deep in his gut as you watched. You felt yourself lean over, curious, concerned.

You flinched as his eyes flicked open, locking onto you, sharp and sudden, before growing dull by the second, his laboured breaths so shallow. He didn’t flinch when you touched his shoulder, cold and fragile as his body cradled the thing of iron, the scent of blood and earth sweet between the stench of unnatural things.

The blood sang to you, not like the pulse of the forest. The forest was calm and rhythmic, methodical and melodious. But this blood… The blood was primal and cruel and shimmered with malice, but below it all, under the aroma of violence, the cruel beat of vicious drums… Was a melody all its own.

It tasted unlike all of nature that had tantalised your tongue. Sweeter than the richest honey, earthier than the forest mushrooms. The nectars of life were better, stronger, hardier than this human’s blood. Yet it captivated you as bursts of light shimmered over your eyes, and your lips stained with blood.

You caressed his cheek, so cold. Barely a whisper passed his lips as his bleeding slowed, his aching heart unable to follow the demands of the spirit trapped within its wounded shell. Your lips stained his tear-soaked cheek, the burst of exquisite flavour sending you reeling as you turned his head towards the roiling sky.

And you tasted him, truly. His lips, while cold, were burning and hurt almost as much as the stinging burn as you gripped the blade in his stomach. Hunger. Need. Desire. It was as primal as the thrum of his blood.

And as your flesh burned from the poisonous, corrupting iron, you drew it from his parted flesh and cast it into the forest. You pressed on the wound, vestiges of blood flowing over your hand as you kissed him, the throbbing, pulsing, frantic pace of his blood, his lips, his tears making you shiver.

His body shuddered as his lips parted, burning as they were against your own. You didn’t need to hold his wound any longer, as his shaking hand lifted from the ground, to kiss you back in the cruellest way as his eyes fluttered closed.

The silver scar shimmered as rain began to fall, the tantalising, gasping kiss left you laying over him, head on his chest as lightning thundered above, the sound of his heart thrumming in your ears.

[hajihiko]

Advanced technique

[orionsangel86]

Sandman fandom is so funny to me. We are all going insane over a glimpse of collarbone and cleavage in the promo when he literally spent the entire first episode totally stark naked. Like its only thanks to a very intentionally placed hand that we didn't get full frontal nudity. That chest is nothing we havent seen before!

[art-is-kayos]

Sight of a Star - Blue-ish Star Ryōshū and Don Quixote

[onesidedradiostatic]

you know if you subscribe to the demiromantic pansexual val hc, between val and alastor, vox is just really prone to falling for arospec people and idk what that says about him

[haridraws]

Autumn panels from I Shall Never Fall in Love (x)

[wickerfemme]

my belly is so close to falling fully into my lap whenever I sit, and I'm just itching for it to close the gap. Right now it just grazes the tops of my thighs, and it's like. come on, girl; I know you can be heavier than that.

[onelastskip]

some keyframes asks that live in my head rent free... (especially that third one,,, GAH WHO HURT THEM!!!)

[homoeroticgrappling]

Hobbs lowers his straps like a burlesque star

[remnantspod]

How do you imagine Sir and Apprentice? (the reply may be used for fanart purposes :P)

aaa I am so excited for fan art ;-;

and aaaa there is not a way to answer this in a satisfying way without spoilers unfortunately. Suffice it to say that the Apprentice has dark hair and boyish good looks. Sir is. Or, I mean, he probably. He's. Very. He. Hmm. Yes. He probably.

Interpret this how you will.

--- Eira xxx

[trans-l-lawliet]

Rotating Killer Within in my mind... what if it's a game where you get the Death Note in a post-Kira world, you as the player taking over the "one year after" nameless guy that landed the new Death Note on the epilogue... or maybe go further in time, post-Minoru time, 10 years after he dies and after the weird economic changes affecting future Japan and its relationship with death/gods, the original Kira a distant memory turned cult... hell what if it's a murder mystery visual novel set in Wammy's House

[thevisionofbeautiesthemes]