#the buttons shine and the cool light reflects on the black clothing; but especially the hat; made out of leather... NICE TOUCH

[muka-rapak]

AYO⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️

AYOOO?!?!!!⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️ THIS RIPS SO HARD!!!!!!!! LET'ẞ FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Der Meister (The Master)

》 Und was soll ich dich lehren? Das Müllern - oder auch alles andere? 《

'And what am I to teach you? How to grind grain, or the rest as well?'

[arse-crack-thistle]

rwrb winterfest - day 10 - snowflakes

@rwrb-fests

in which firstprince goes to a middle school dance bc i love little alex and henry so much!!

Alex knows tonight is going to be awesome! Normally, he wouldn’t be excited for a lame middle school formal, but he’s going to ask Nora Holleran to slow dance. She’s way too smart for him, but he can make her laugh like no one else can. It sounds like a bird, and being twelve, Alex can’t resist. If she says yes, this Winter Formal nonsense will all be worth it.

Outside, the D.C. air is chilly but bearable. Alex, his lacrosse friends, and their parents stand in front of his house, about to take pictures. His mother adjusts his red striped tie as he fusses with his black curly hair. June waits inside; she’s a high school volunteer tonight—much to Alex’s protests.

He shoos his mother away, slings an arm around his friend Liam, and smiles. His parents ready the camera, and Alex thanks Jesus they never fight in public.

Just behind closed doors when they think he and June aren’t listening.

The white Christmas lights shine behind the boys. His father tells them to focus and takes the picture. It catches Alex laughing at some joke Liam told, his eyes scrunched closed.

•••

Henry wouldn’t go to this thing if his mother weren’t forcing him. She reminds him it’s good practice for his future as he heads out the door to Bea’s car.

He hates these kinds of functions and having to socialize with people he doesn’t know and couldn’t be bothered to know. Because his mother is the British Ambassador, he’s gone to a few, but he doesn’t want a career in public office like the rest of his family. The Mountchristen name means something back home—they’ve had a few MPs, secretaries, and prime ministers—but that’s not Henry. He wants a quiet life away from the fuss.

A life in which he can finally be himself. And tell the truth. The Fox side of him.

Henry misses his father more than ever as Bea drives. Thank god, she’s here and playing Sufjan Stevens to match their moods. If his mother had been appointed any later, Bea would’ve been an ocean away like Philip—not that Henry misses his posh, Oxford brother all that much.

The buttons of Henry’s Burberry suit reflect the soft yellow glow of the streetlights outside. He knows he’s overdressed and that this will be the most expensive suit in the room, but it’s what his mother picked out. Yet another thing his classmates will pick on.

Especially Alex Claremont-Diaz.

Bea wishes him luck, and Henry groans as he gets out of the car. He really doesn’t want to be here.

•••

Alex dances in the center of the gym floor with his buddies to an Imagine Dragons song. Blue and white lights shine down on them. The whole place is covered in fake snow and light blue fabric. Shimmery snowflakes dangle from the ceiling. It’s cheesy, but Alex doesn’t care because he’s having a blast.

He just hasn’t been able to talk to Nora yet.

She’s been huddled with her friends from Tech Club all night. They’re watching something on a dude’s phone, and Alex knows that’s his in. He just has to make himself move in that direction.

An eighth grader, Pez, starts a dance circle and busts a few moves in his fluorescent clothes. Alex watches and cheers him on because everyone loves Pez. But they don’t love his best friend.

Ugh, Alex can’t stand that British guy, Henry. They may not be in the same grade, but they do Model UN together, and everything he says in that dumb accent riles Alex up. Partly because the girls—and some guys—swoon over him, taking some of the spotlight from Alex, and partly because Henry’s existence just irks him.

His perfect blonde hair. His judgmental blue eyes. His rich-boy wardrobe. The fact that he gets the right answer to every question asked of him. And the fact that he rides horses—like, riding outfit and everything.

Alex hates it all.

When a slow song comes on, he goes for Nora. She looks beautiful in a pale pink dress and with her hair done up in a bun. Alex feels stupid in his black church pants and white button-up.

Why didn’t he get June to help him pick out his clothes?

He asks Nora what they’re watching, and she tells him it’s an anime and laughs at something on the screen. After an awkward pause, he stutters out an invitation to dance. Thank Jesus, she says yes.

On the dance floor, he puts his hands on her waist, and she puts hers on his shoulders, and they sway to the music. A disco ball from the center of the gym casts sparkles all over them. This is their moment.

Which is why Alex asks her to go out with him.

Nora won’t meet his eyes, and Alex knows he screwed up. They’re just friends, she tells him.

His stomach hurts.

Alex misread the situation. He could puke right now. Nothing has felt this embarrassing. Not even last year when he dove for a volleyball in P.E., smacked his face on the floor, and chipped a tooth or in second grade when he called his teacher “mom” and the entire class laughed.

Nora comments on June’s dress to move the conversation forward, but Alex just nods. They finish the dance in silence, avoiding eye contact.

Alex’s face is hot and red. He doesn’t want his friends saying anything, so as soon as the song’s over, he thanks Nora and runs out of gym to the bathroom.

•••

For the most part, Henry is ignored by his classmates, which is good. He’s left to sit by himself at one of the tables. Someone sprinkled glitter all over the tablecloth, and flecks cling to his jacket sleeves. The speakers blast him with music, and the whole event is rather annoying, especially when chaperones bother him to ask if he wants anything or to encourage him to dance. Luckily, the high school girl serving punch just gives him a cup and tells him there’s only a few more hours left until they’re free.

Pez checks up on him every once in a while, but he craves a good party wherever he goes and only stays for a few seconds. Henry doesn’t mind. He scrolls on his phone, catching up on social media and eventually settling on a new Wolfstar fanfic. He peaks up from time to time to watch Pez try to impress the punch girl, but his eyes always end up on Alex.

He moves so easily. Whether it’s shaking his hips or fist-pumping to the beat or letting his head fall back in laughter, he just seems to handle everything so carelessly, so happily.

Henry envies him—can’t stand him because of it. There’s a ping in him every time he sees Alex.

Those curls. And soft brown eyes. The undeniable charm.

He walked into a Model UN meeting in glasses once, and Henry had a coughing fit and had to leave the room.

Don’t even get him started on the Spanish.

God, Henry cannot deal with these feelings right now. And he can’t find Alex in the crowd.

He stands up. Maybe he will dance. Maybe if he tries, he can think about something else. His father would want him to try. He’d give him a pep-talk and a hug that smells like his cologne and send Henry on his way. It’s how he convinced him to try polo and ask a girl to dance at his first gala.

Maybe this is good practice. To try to do things on his own.

But as Henry approaches a girl in his English class, someone scoots out their chair and trips him.

And Henry falls face first into a pile of fake snow.

The music still plays, but the students and chaperones are silent as Henry comes up covered in white clumps. It’s worse than the glitter on his suit, and it sticks to the gel in his hair. He feels the very last thing he wants: everyone’s eyes on him.

Henry excuses himself and leaves as fast as he can, stumbling into Pez and shirking him off on the way out.

•••

Alex finally feels cool again. He splashed some water on his face, unbuttoned his top button, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He looks impossibly chill considering he was just dumped.

Okay, not dumped. But he definitely feels better. Like Rafael Luna, his dad’s best friend. Luna carries himself with a swagger that Alex can’t resist.

After he tousles his hair one last time, Alex walks out of the bathroom, only to find Henry covered in faux snowflakes, looking like the abominable snowman from Monsters Inc. But he’s not cheerful like the yeti. He furiously swipes at his pant legs with one hand and curses at his phone in the other.

“Oh, man! Rough night, huh?” Alex says.

Henry freezes. He sizes up Alex and scowls. “Could you not?” He goes back to his phone, “Bea, just come pick me up when you get this, all right? Please,” and then hangs up.

“You’ve never looked better, honestly. I dig the winter chic vibe,” Alex teases. This is best thing that could’ve happened; his friends aren’t even going to mention the Nora thing when he gets back in the gym. For once, he’s not upset Henry has upstaged him.

Henry mumbles something and shrugs off his suit coat to wipe it down. Snow flurries from his clothing onto the cream linoleum flooring.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘Unbelievable!’ As in, ‘Of course, the universe hates me enough to put you here right now!’” Henry’s face reddens.

Alex can’t believe this guy. He’s practically a prince! What could be wrong with his life? Well, his father’s death, but that was a few years ago. 

Alex googled Henry once or maybe twice—it’s irrelevant—and read about his famous father, who is Alex’s favorite Bond, for sure.

“So you messed up your suit? Big whup. I’m sure you have hundreds just like it. If not, the Fox-Mountchristen estate could probably cover it,” Alex says, crossing his arms. He’s surprised no adults have come to check on Henry. He’s not really sure what happened, but it was probably hilarious and well-deserved.

“You insufferable prick!” Henry shouts and throws the jacket at Alex. Before he can duck, it thwacks his face. He tastes the bitter snow in his mouth.

Alex scrunches it and throws it back. “You dickish, little drama king! You can’t handle the slightest bit of imperfection, can you? Heaven forbid, you’re knocked from your pedestal, and the rest of us mortals crack up!”

He knows this is stupid; he wouldn’t want people laughing at him either, unless it was intentional. In fact, he fled before his charismatic reputation was tarnished. Henry just brings something out of him—not the worst of Alex exactly, but the fight in him. Many a Model UN debates can attest to that.

Henry turns around and slams his fist against the black lockers. He flings the coat to the floor and leans on his forearm. “You haven’t got a clue, Alex,” he says. He sounds tired.

The muffled music from the dance echoes down the hallway. Posters on the walls and lockers advertise the dance, midterm tutoring, and the school-sponsored Spring Break trip to Peru. Alex watches Henry’s back go up and down with his breaths. A toilet flushes, and the sink is run before a girl walks out of the bathroom, past the boys, without a second glance.

Henry is right: Alex doesn’t have a clue. He knows people can hide their home lives. He hasn’t even told Liam about his parents fighting. How he’s heard the word “divorce” from both of them more than once.

And he’s pretty sure losing your father is worse than that; he wouldn’t know what to do without his own, no matter how much time had passed. And then to be moved across the sea to a new school, let alone a new country.

Damn. Alex sucks. And now he has to do something that would’ve made him throw up yesterday.

“Henry,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

•••

Henry can’t believe this—any of it.

Firstly, Alex Claremont-Diaz comes out of the bathroom as if he knew his nemesis was out there and wanted to catch him off-guard with his beautifully disheveled look. Henry blushes at the thought.

Secondly, after a row of which no teacher heard apparently, the aforementioned Alex Claremont-Diaz apologizes for the things he said. “Even though some of it was true,” he clarifies. Henry knows he’s right.

Thirdly, he and the godforsaken Alex Claremont-Diaz have been sitting next to each other on the floor for the past five minutes, just talking. Occasionally, Alex’s arm brushes against his and sends a tingle up his back.

If Henry didn’t know he was gay after consuming hours of Drarry and Wolfstar content, he knows now. As in, he finally realizes why he always looks for Alex in every room and why that boy gets under his skin so easily. 

He definitely cannot go to a lacrosse game, ever. He might die.

The bright bulbs from the bathroom and the blue hue from the gym doors’ windows light the otherwise dim hallway. Henry can make out the Coldplay song coming from the dance and plays the piano chords on his knees. The smell of old sweat and cleaner lingers in the air.

Henry likes that Bea insisted on a normal American education for the two of them and that his mother actually agreed; he just doesn’t enjoy the smells that accompany the experience. Or the horrid cafeteria food, for that matter. He tells Alex as much.

“Totally,” Alex says. “It must’ve been hard moving here. Even if I think you and your uppity family are ridiculous, leaving your home behind would suck for anyone.”

“Yes, it does. But Mum got this great job, which she wasn’t going to take until my grandmother and my brother Philip encouraged her to. ‘You need a fresh start,’ they said. She agreed, though I think her attitude is more about survival rather than actual happiness,” Henry says. “I, for one, would prefer to be home where Dad taught me to play cricket on the back lawn.”

He sighs. Alex doesn’t need to hear this, and giving him more information to use against him or to poke fun of is a disastrous idea. But it does feel good to talk about his father with someone who doesn’t know him and barely knows Henry.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Alex says. “I looked him up once, and he seems pretty cool.”

“He was, yes.” If Henry lets himself get too close to the cliff of grief, he’ll jump off and never be able to recompose himself, so he looks at Alex. “You looked me up?”

Alex sits up straight. “No, no! Your father!”

“You looked me up.” Henry smirks. His stomach flutters, and he doesn’t know what that means.

“I wanted to know what your deal was!” Alex says. “It’s not weird like that! I wasn’t stalking you or whatever.”

Henry laughs hard for the first time in a while. “I can’t believe I have enchanted you this much, Alex. What must I have done to peak your interest? Was it the defeat in during the foreign aid debate?”

“Okay, one, don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” Alex says, holding up a finger to silence Henry’s laughter, which it doesn’t. “And two, you were arguing on the behalf of an imperialist, asshole country. How was I, the humble yet fiery Mexican delegate, supposed to get you off your high horse after you started barking about your country’s economy?”

“Accept that I am the better diplomat.”

“I accept that you’re the bigger—what’s that British word? Wanker.”

Alex shoves him, but Henry shoves him right back. The two laugh together, and as it fades, Henry thinks that maybe they can finally get along—be friends, even. Though, he doesn’t know if that’ll make his heart race more or less when Alex is around.

“Want to go back in there?” Alex asks. “I know you’re still covered in fluff, but it’ll add to the ambiance.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Just then, Henry’s phone rings, and Bea’s name flashes on the screen. When he answers, she tells him she’s outside. Henry looks at Alex. While he has relaxed since the incident because of him, he’s not quite ready to face the rest of the school.

But the hesitation is duly noted and will be thoroughly examined tonight as he tries and fails to fall asleep.

He tells Bea he’ll be out in a minute and hangs up. “My sister’s here,” he says.

Dare Henry say Alex looks a little disappointed? The space between his dark eyebrows crinkles, and he shoves his hands in his pockets after they both stand up.

“Well,” Alex says, “maybe you and I could prepare for the meeting on refugees together when we get back from winter break.”

Henry blinks. “All right. We could do it at mine if you like.”

“Sure. I’m dying to see the palace,” he says. “Let me just get your number.”

After they exchange phone numbers, Henry watches Alex walk back into the gym. Thank god, he isn’t wearing better trousers, or Henry might’ve blushed. Actually, it doesn’t matter; Henry feels his checks get hot.

Outside, real snow dusts the school’s steps. Henry spots Bea’s headlights and walks to the car, enjoying the cool night air. He slips inside as his sister asks what the hell happened.

He knows it’s not the question she meant, but in his head he answers, “Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

[7demonhoes]

Lucifer x MC smut

Lucifer learns that he’s not MC’s first and decides to show them that they only belong to him.

Warnings: 18+, very graphic, bdsm, sub/dom, MC is female and Lucifer calls them “girl” once 

Word count:  2,500

I walk into my room with a sigh after a long day of classes and listening to all the demon brothers argue. Mostly over me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to that. 

Once I close the door behind me, I lean against it and run my hand through my hair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in an attempt to relax. When I open my eyes, I glance at my bed-- and see something on it.

I walk over to it; as soon as I see what is placed upon it, my eyes go wide and my mouth is caught in an awkward place between a smile and a gasp. 

It’s lingerie. Beautiful, black, and lacey. And very, very see-through. The thin fabric would hug my curves perfectly. I swallow, picking up the note that’s placed on top of the clothing. I open up the thick, folded piece of paper, and immediately recognize Lucifer’s handwriting: 

I’ll be waiting.

My cheeks turn red as I read the short sentence. A shiver goes up my spine in anticipation. I've known that he's wanted me for a long time. He’s been leaving notes for me and giving me these… looks that make it hard to fall asleep at night, and I didn’t know how badly I wanted this moment to come until now. 

Gingerly, I pick up the lingerie and put it on. It fits perfectly, unsurprisingly. I wonder how he got my measurements? He seems to know details about me without asking, especially if it has to do with my body. Does he study me that closely?

I look at myself in the mirror. Lucifer isn’t the first demon I’ve slept with, but this is different. I don’t just feel excitement-- there are little pinpricks of fear sending anxious butterflies all over my body. I think he’ll like that.

I pull away from my reflection and slip on a dress for the short walk over to his bedroom. Mustering up the courage before it leaves me, I walk out of my room and into the hallway, which is blissfully empty. I don’t know if I would be able to face anyone right now. 

By the time I reach Lucifer’s room, my hands are shaking. I knock on his door. I bite my lip; he’s been teasing me for weeks now. A gentle touch here, a secret smile there… I’ve never felt a longing so intense. I need this to happen.

The door opens, and just like every time I look at him, it takes a lot of effort for my mouth to not gape open at the sight of Lucifer. He’s wearing a linen blouse with the first few buttons undone, revealing his sculpted chest and a few wisps of chest hair. His shirt is tucked into tight, black pants. 

Soft waves of black hair partially cover his eyes and trail down to his hard jaw. He’s smirking at me, his rosy lips contrasting against his pale skin.

And his eyes… those red eyes are looking me up and down. I think I might collapse. 

He gives me a knowing look, and opens the door just wide enough so that I have to squeeze between him and the doorway to get through. 

The black walls of his bedroom are flushed with candle light. The candles shine in every corner of the room. My eyes instinctively travel to his massive bed, and I gulp as I see the items placed upon it. 

I barely notice the soft click of the door closing behind me, followed by the turn of a lock. I twist to face Lucifer. Slowly, he reaches out and traces his fingers against the side of my face, barely touching my skin.

“I can smell your emotions, you know,” he whispers. His voice is deep and filled with such a hunger that my knees start to shake. “Your excitement, your lust…” He circles around me, his fingers moving from my cheek to my neck. He brushes my hair aside and leans in so his lips barely touch my ear. When he speaks, his breath is hot on my skin. “... your fear. Darling, are you afraid of what I’m about to do to you?”

I glance at the riding crop on his bed. “Sh- should I be?”

“Hmmm,” he growls into my ear. “Don’t you want to be punished?” He faces me and steps towards me, slowly backing me up against the wall. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. You’re a human, lusting after a demon. Isn’t that wrong?” He cups my face with the palm of his hand, and I lean into it with a sigh of pleasure. “And don’t get me started on how I’m not the first one you’ve been with.”

I blink slowly at him. Candlelight flickers across his face, sending deep shadows across his hard features. “You know?”

His smirk turns into a growl, and I tense up immediately. “I know everything that happens in this house. I know every detail about your day. I know who you’ve been with, who you dream about, and who you want the most.” One of his hands hit the wall, inches away from my head. Claws scrape against the black paint. He places his knee firmly between my legs. “I wasn’t your first.” He leans down, his lips trailing along the side of my neck. His other hand traces one of my thighs, moving underneath my dress and stopping once he touches the edges of my lingerie. “And I think you need to apologize for that.”

I’m breathing heavily now. My entire body is aching for his touch. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

He presses his tongue against my neck, and I gasp. “Not good enough. Try again.” 

I swallow, pushing against the rising confusion at his words. What does he want me to say? I bite my lip. His tongue travels up my neck. 

I close my eyes, not able to stop the slow grin on my face. “I’m sorry...,” I say, slightly louder this time, “Sir.”

He smiles against my neck. “That’s a good start, darling.” He leans away from me, staring at my dress. “Now, show me what I got for you.”

Warmth creeps up to my cheeks as I slide my dress over my head and toss it to the side. He stares at my body with a satisfied grunt. Slowly, he reaches his hand to his chest and places a claw against his skin, trailing down to the first button of his shirt. Where his claw meets his skin, a thin line of red appears. 

“You drive me crazy, looking like that.” He takes a step forward, slowly closing the gap between us. “Tell me that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

His lips are soft against mine. I reach up and wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him closer. He responds with a guttural growl. One of his hands is wrapped around my waist and he clenches it hard enough that a soft moan escapes my open mouth as tender pain erupts from his touch. 

He cups my cheeks in his other hand and squeezes before slipping his tongue into my mouth. I can’t help but moan again, moving my hands from around his neck to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

“No,” he snarls, taking my hands and pinning them against the wall. “This is what’s going to happen: you will follow my orders. If you refuse, or move without me telling you to do so, you’re in trouble. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

With a low moan, he reaches down and bites my neck. He pulls his hands from mine and trails his palms from my shoulders, over my breasts, and to my thighs, stopping his hands just before he reaches what’s between them.

He kisses me again, biting my lip as he pulls away. “You’re dripping.”

Before I can stop myself, I reach towards the bulge in his pants. Before I can touch him, he wraps a hand around my throat with a roar. He wrenches me around so that my back is facing the bed. He stares at me, his red eyes glowing with a mixture of desire and anger, and I realize with a start that the look in his eyes only makes me want him more. “What did I tell you?” He shouts before pushing me with such force that my feet lift off the ground before landing on his bed. I softly rub my already aching throat as he strides towards me. I try to prop myself on my elbows, but he places his hand on my chest and pushes me firmly back onto the bed.

He kneels above my hips, his power coming off him in waves. “You want me so badly that you disobeyed my orders right after I gave them?”

I nod, unable to look away from his eyes. “Yes.”

He gives me a scary smile, reaching over and grasping the riding crop. He places it softly on my chest, moving it along the curve of my breast to my hip. Without warning, he puts his hand under my ass and flips me over. 

I feel the cool leather of the crop against my skin. I clench my hands into fists, taking tight hold of the silk sheets of Lucifer’s bed.

“You do as I say,” Lucifer gently glides the crop along my ass. He takes it off me, and I tense. With a loud smack, he hits me and I moan. “You only move when I tell you.” Two more hits, and I swear. He leans down, his hand in my hair as he presses the bulge in his pants to my butt. He forces my face to go deeper into his bed, grinding himself on top of me. He moans softly, his cock twitching in his pants. 

He goes back to his former position, and he places his hand against my butt. I prepare for another hit, biting my lip. “I own you!” He yells, hitting me twice more with the leather crop. 

Before I can recover, he flips me back over, picks me up as if I weigh nothing, and gently places me so that my head rests on his pillows. 

“Arch your back,” he demands. I do so, and he takes off my lingerie, leaving me naked before him.

With a dark grin, he grabs the rope from the center of his bed and expertly ties my wrists to the corners of his bed. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he kisses me again before placing his mouth on one of my breasts. 

I gasp loudly as his tongue traces my nipples, his mouth and teeth stimulating them to the point that I’m writhing underneath him. He laughs softly, and as he bites the flesh of my tits, he softly traces my thigh until he puts his fingers inside of me. 

I moan as he fingers me, pleasure spiking through my body as he toys with me. “Yeah, you like that?” Lucifer asks. 

I can’t say anything beyond “Fuck,” as he takes his fingers out of me and places them in my mouth. I suck on them and taste myself as he stares at me, obviously pleased. 

He takes his hand from my mouth and slowly starts to undress himself. My breathing quickens as he reveals his sculpted abs. He takes off his pants, and my eyes widen at the sight of the bulge throbbing against his underwear. That comes off as well, until he is just as naked as I am. 

He leans towards me to wrap his hand at the back of my head. “I want to feel your mouth on my cock.” He maneuvers so that he’s straddling my chest, and without breaking eye contact, he slips his dick into my mouth.

He moans loudly as he slowly thrusts into my mouth, watching me as I take him. He starts off slowly, eyes bright, before gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts until I’m not sure if I can handle much more. He grunts with each thrust as he fucks my mouth, and I clutch at the rope tying my wrists to the bed.

With a hungry groan, he pulls away from my mouth. He moves so that his pulsing dick is resting against my stomach and immediately kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth. He grasps at my knees and pushes them so my legs are spread. 

“Beg.”

My voice is raspy from his abuse, but I still manage to speak, “I need you to fuck me. Please, Lucifer.”

He places his thumb against my clit and starts gently playing with it. “Louder.”

I swallow and repeat myself, raising my voice as I do so.

He touches my hair and softly pets it. “Good girl.”

Just as not having him inside of me becomes unbearable, he finally slips inside. We both moan, his thrusts hard and fast. One of his hands are against the headboard, the other still on my clit, and the entire bed creaks and shudders as he slams against me. 

My body screams with pleasure as he stimulates me, and I fight against my restraints, needing to touch him. He grins as he watches my feeble attempts and fucks me harder than I ever thought possible. Time slows and blurs, and there is nothing but him and his body and this wonderful, aching pleasure...

The pressure inside of me builds until it finally breaks and I scream his name as one of the most powerful orgasms I’ve had shoots through me. He moans, feeling me cum, and flashes a mouthful of fangs at me as he just. keeps. going. 

With a cry, he abruptly changes into his demon form. I find myself staring at those horns and wings of his in wonder. 

He never slows, and all I can do is moan and gasp and scream his name again as I feel myself getting close to the edge. When I cum, I pull so hard at the rope binding me to his bed that the wood of the headboard groans under the pressure.

Lucifer roars, pulling out of me and straddling my chest as he cums onto my face. He leans his head back, sweat gleaming along his entire body. He twitches, wiping the hair from his eyes. Slowly, he reaches down to kiss me, unbinding my wrists as he does.

Finally, I’m able to touch him. I gently caress his face, and he purrs. 

He breaks apart from me, a lazy, content smile on his face. His features are soft now, and he stares at me with a look of adoration that I thought I would never get to see. 

“I’ll go get you a towel, darling,” He says before getting off the bed and disappearing into his private bathroom.

I sigh. It’s a good thing he offered to go get it, because I doubt I’d be able to stand. 

[adulttrio-imagines]

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 1

A/N: This is going to be a 2-part series since I git a little carried away and didn’t want it to be too long. I’ll post part 2 soon. It’s also fairly dark, so please proceed with caution.

EDIT: I originally posted this answering an ask I was sent sometime back, but tumblr kept messing things up so I’m just going to re-post this

EDIT 2: Part 2 HERE

Prompt:  “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.” 

The man in the suit is beautiful. 

 He’s beautiful in a raw, delicate way that mirrors the unbridled strength his long lashes frame. It’s an uncommon beauty, unique to strange lands far beyond the clutches of York New. Some might even call him odd, with his arrogant face and brittle nose, hunched over the small booth his weak chin and long neck gave him the appearance of an overgrown crane. But as you continued to push your legs to the limit, stretching them wider and wider as you contort your back around the smooth exterior of your pole, you couldn’t help but to tear your eyes away from your adoring fans and observe his demeanor. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your shows, and based on the regularity he’s appeared at the past few months, you doubt it’ll be his last. He stares at you with impossibly large eyes that never blink (their starvation is pronounced, you feel their hunger even from here), lazily swirling a glass of whisky in one hand as he rests his chin in the other. You can’t see his legs from underneath the table at this distance, but from his posture you can tell they’re long and just as impossibly slender as the rest of his body. As you saunter around the stage, entertaining the roaring crowd that shower you with dollar bills, you note the silky texture of his suit (it’s expensive), the glint of his heavy-looking watch (possibly adorned with gold), and from the way he so effortlessly balances his glass in a well-manicured hand, you can tell he’s well-bred, wealthy, and sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other noisy hooligans at the bar. 

The room spins in gaudy shades of pink and neon green as you twirl around some more, the rush of wind cooling your face. You make your way up the pole, taking extra effort to stretch your legs out and angling them just right to display the soft curves of your thigh, the heat from the room coloring your cheeks as you sneak another glance at the man. More than the money, you like the way his cheekbones arch and the pronounced slopes they produce, the way they shape his fine features when he curls his lips in pleasure and expose a set of perfectly straight teeth that makes your heart pound just a little too fast for it to be normal. 

You wink at the crowd before you, making sure to tilt of your waist just right to sneak a peak of your ass, teasingly arching your leg forward as you slowly hitched your already short skirt up just a little more, relishing in their excitement. You reward their charity with a flourish of your own, flashing your brightest smile when their thunderous cheers applaud your performance. 

Your eyes snap back at the man in the suit, who’s gaze has remained transfixed on you this whole time. He claps politely, but the amusement that your dance draws from your crowd isn’t reflected in his face as he returns your stare with an empty look of his own.

He’s beautiful yes, in a way that makes you want to twirl your fingers in his silky locks and tug then hard while you kiss into the early hours of the morning. A delicious shiver crawls its way up your spine and you blow a kiss to him. Groping hands reach out from underneath you, desperately reaching for your attention, but you keep your eyes on the strange man, who accepts your kiss with a curled fist. 

You lick your lips, unsure if the tremors you felt were from the rush of excitement, the heat of the room, the swirling pools of intent in his eyes, or a combination of all three. 

But you do know this. 

You’re making him yours.

.....

Your darling’s name is Illumi, and he doesn’t speak much.

It's not as if you aren’t trying. But he’s still as a statue and unmoving as stone, his face kept carefully blank as you dance around him like butterflies, slowly trying to coax him our his shell, whispering sweet words that drip with honey as you brush a hand against cheek (his skin is ice, and the tips of your skin freeze upon contact). He holds your eyes with his pair of dark abysses, directing your attention towards his mouth as you continue to wrap yourself around him, all but crawling into his lap, the hard wood of the booth creaking under your weight when you plant feather-soft kisses all around his face, paying special care to tease the corner of his lips as you press your hips hard against his throbbing groin.

He doesn’t return your steaming confessions, preferring to grunt one syllable answers in response to your questions, but he receives your affection with barely restraint lust, grabbing your thighs with spider-like hands as he nudges them open, letting out a low groan when you stop rubbing yourself against him and made movement to unbuckle his belt.

“Let me-“ He tells you between breathless kisses, “Let me take you home.”

You can barely contain your own pleasure as he slides a hand against the dip of your hips, struggling to nod.

“Sure.” You feel him smile, and a faint prick nicks the back of your neck.

The room goes dark.

And everything you know changes. 

......

The cellar Illumi keeps you in is better than most. There’s proper heating, a small equipped bathroom in the corner, and a warm nest of blankets for you to curl into whenever the coolness of the stone floor after a fit of misguided rage becomes too much and form sores on your delicate ankles.

There’re no windows here, so you make a game of counting the scratches on the wall, bathed in the comfort of the dark, to make time go faster, adding a collection of your own on the wall beside your bedding when the days slowly stretch into weeks, even when your nails are filed down to blunt tips and your fingers are raw and inflamed.

Sometimes the boredom of it all drives the final nail into your head and snaps your existence in half, and you would brokenly hum songs of distance past, following the buried memories of times long forgotten, dancing around the small room on delicate toes and graceful arches, so different from the bold movements you made from your stage at the bar, before the old pain from your left knee would force you crumpling to the ground and bury your screams into the blankets.

“Why won’t you eat the food I give you? Would you rather starve?” Illumi asks you calmly. You eye him warily and drop your gaze to the neatly arranged fruits that lined the plate. He visits twice a week, dressed in strange clothes dotted with circular yellow nubs of what you can only guess to be buttons, often bringing with him baskets filled with peace offerings of sweets and little trinkets, as if they will make you happy.

You nibble at a slice of apple, careful to keep your gaze on the ground as you fight down the urge to empty what little contents you had in your stomach, one part out of hunger, ninety-nine parts from the ache in your head when he slapped you into the stone wall and bashed your face into it with extra vigor for refusing to take a bite of the bread he brought down the week before.

“Good job!” And he’s empty, empty, empty. The hollowness in his joy almost scares you as much as when he leans down to pay the top of your head patronizingly, as if you were nothing more than a badly misbehaving puppy who finally learned to obey. His fingers dig into your scalp when he feels you flinch under them, and he rams you headfirst into the ground as you helplessly choke for air when he carefully applies pressure to your trachea, all but strangling you while staring down with sinking eyes that drown out everything else.

And you realize three things.

He’s neither human nor beast.

He’s a beautiful doll who carved his name into your flesh for no reason other than because he could do it.

And there’s nothing you can do to escape.

.....

“Dance for me.” Illumi demands one day during one of his many visits. You look up your cup of tea, and stare at the man sitting cross legged across from you on top of a checkered blanket, like some sort of demented underground picnic. Under the flickering light from his kerosene lamp, his skin looks especially pale, and the gaping holes that represent his eyes are especially haunting. His visits range in frequency, and you can’t tell if you like it more since his absence is peaceful, or hate it for how unpredictable he gets when he does see you.

Hesitantly, you get to your feet and walk into the center of the room where a lone pillar stands. You place a hand of it, inwardly grimacing from its roughness, and forcing your body to contort around it. But just as you start, he raises a hand and shakes his head.

“No, no, no, not that.” He says, hair shimmering like black waves out in the sea, as formless as his tone, “I want to see your other dance, the one you perform when I’m not here.” You blink, not surprised to learn that he keeps track of your movements frequently enough to see you dance on those rare occasions. Instead, you kneel down to his level and take a sip from your cup, smacking your lips loudly as you smile widely and say, “No.” He strikes you across the face, and breaks an arm for good measure. You can tell from how easily it crunches in his grasp that your nerves are destroyed, especially when it flop helpless next to you in the ground. It is the first time he inflicts permanent damage on you.. But it’s not the last. 

.....

You learn that your Illumi’s last name is Zoldyck. It’s hard to miss since it’s painted and hung high in every room he brings you in.

His change in mood is astounding and you’re cautious not too upset him. You’re unsure what flipped the switch, but suddenly your above ground for the first time in months and the sun that shines through the large French windows that span from ceiling to floor hurts your eyes, but it feels painfully good to feel the warmth of natural light grace your face.

You look wistfully out into the garden, where acres of woods stretched endlessly before your eyes, and a range of mountain lines dot the far edges of your vision. And wonder if you would even be so lucky to feel grass press against the soles of your feet again.

The Zoldyck mansion is huge, lined with riches and elegance that screams of old money, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the passage of time as you wonder aimlessly through the elaborate halls, admiring each ancient artefact that tastefully decorates each room. But even its size and grandeur pales in comparison to the aura Illumi exudes that makes you feel so insignificant and small, as if the universe itself would split and swallow you whole. You dance around the mansion, often in the dead of night on weeks where Illumi disappears into the shadows that cut unnaturally into the walls, your feet guiding you through both the lavishly decorated rooms to the empty halls. It’s easy to pretend that you were in a haunted mansion as you sang from door to door; you never see anyone else, but the continuous presence of following eyes that track each leap you take reminds you of old ghosts lurking behind corners. “Where’s your favorite part of your house?” You ask Illumi one sunny afternoon, when you’re both lounging in his sunroom and lapping up what limited time you had left with the sun before autumn arrived and brought the chill with it.

He is surprised by your question, as if no one has ever asked for his opinion in his life, and blinks impossibly slow in response. Placing a finger to his lip, he quirks his head and hums. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t really care much for this house.”

And just like almost everything else he does, it’s horribly empty, and succeeds in shutting out your efforts and extension of friendship.

You return to starring listlessly at the lush gardens below, and make a mental note to ask Illumi if you could one day explore those grounds as well. There were only so many halls you could pass before turning into one of the many ghosts that haunt the mansion. 

..... 

Zeno Zoldyck is the first and only family member you ever meet. How you ran into him was mere coincidence. You’ve never left Illumi’s wing of the house. But by sheer coincidence do you run into the old patriarch on one of his rare ventures into the family library.

“It’s not easy playing chess alone. You don’t grow at all as a player if you’re only exposed to techniques you are familiar with.” He slams a pawn over your queen, ignoring the shriek of shock you return over his sudden appearance, and takes a sit across you. Despite yourself, you calm what nerves you had left and nervously prod your own pawn forward. He spares you fleeting glance and switches your rook out for his bishop.

And just like that, in the gaping hole that was Illumi Zoldyck’s home, you made a friend.

Zeno is a peculiar old man. He drinks only jasmine tea and likes it so hot it scalds the skin of his lips (you eye the scars that travel down his neck, self-inflicted and not from battle); like Illumi is gaze is piercingly empty, but unlike Illumi he can talk for hours on end and never fails to brighten your mood on days you felt as if your head was full of cotton and your eyes only saw the deaths of stars. You decide you like his straightforward ways and cheeky words, and you can only guess he likes how you’re the only person willing to entertain him in this lonely home on the most boring of days. He’s sprightly for an old geezer, and his wit tempt the corners of your lips ever so slightly.

And so you both meet once a week for a game of chess.

You’ll drink poison and burn your tongue if it meant filling up the empty spaces of time that suffocated you whole. 

“What was he like as a child?” You decide to ask one day. Zeno doesn’t take his eyes away from the board (you tried switching the pieces once, and now he knows better than to trust you). 

“Stupid. And ugly, if you ask me. Who knows what his mother ate.” He moves his king away from your bishop. 

“Like an ugly duckling.” You hum in agreement and move your knight over to his king instead. Grumbling incoherently, he retreats his king further. 

“Nothing like that. He’s was never really there,” tapping his forehead, he gives you a pitying grin, “I’m sure you understand.” You shrug in response. 

“He couldn’t have helped it.” His king narrowly misses your pawn, and you click your tongue in irritation. A comfortable silence draws on as you both analyzed the board. 

“Why do you defend him?” Zeno finally speaks after he slides his knight over to your king, and you bring your knees up to your seat, hiding the lower half of your face behind them before finally shrugging. 

“He was a child, there wasn’t much he could have done.” It’s difficult to ignore the bitter taste those words form, and you push them all away as you bring your surrounding pawn to his knight. Zeno frowns. 

“But he is now a man, and you are his prisoner.” 

You can’t help but sigh when his bishop finally corners your king, 

“I know.” 

..... 

On the nights where Illumi was home, he would occasionally demand you perform for him. Creeping hands dragging you from corner you curled into on the bed you unwillingly shared with him, not caring that the force of his careless throws injures your back further and colors your body with more bruises than you could possibly care to count.

“Why won’t you dance for me?” He demands you once again. It’s different this time though, you realize from watering eyes, choking on the cloud of poison that radiates from him, weighing you down to the floor as you feel your feet slowly turn to stone and merge with the tiles. You do not understand this sudden burst of anger (you think it’s anger; grief, rage and bitterness all swirl around you in endless clouds that it becomes very hard to differentiate one from the next) and you cannot stop yourself from begging for relief as the temperature in the room plummets to dangerously low levels.

“I can’t.” Dark circles creep dangerous close to the edges of your vision. He drives his foot further into your stomach.

“You can.” He nudges you hard, and the blood you cough out stains his foot.

“I can’t.” You want to scream in his face, and somehow he hears the resistance in your voice and digs his foot deeper.

“Why can’t you do this, for me?” He lifts you by your hair, forcing you to look right at him. “Is it because you can’t? Or is it because you won’t?” The last syllable rolls off his tongue with such harshness you never thought him possible of.

“Please,”  You plead instead, grabbing at his legs, “let me go.”

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but you see his eyes widen and the pure, unadulterated rage he spews strangles you, and it is so, so bitter that your heart stops and the world fades. He backhands you, and the stinging slap he gives hurts less than the searing pain that sets your chest aflame as holds your down and carves his name into your skin, right at where your collarbones dip and met, slowly and carefully etching something with needles he pulls seemingly out of his shirt. You put up a struggle, desperately screaming for someone, anyone to save you, but he just as easily pins you down and continues his task as if your screams were nothing (they probably weren’t).

“You are mine.” He says, after a long eternity, and your throat his hoarse and raw from all the begging. You can only stare at the name he forcefully carved into your skin with abject horror, shaking furiously, half from fear and half from grief, at how you would now be forever reminded of him.

He licks the blood off his needle, and whispers, “never forget that.”

[demytasse]

Shizaya #1 and #16, please!

1: How do they fall asleep? Wake up? Any daily rituals?

Both Shizuo and Izaya alternate giving each other a hard time in regards to their sleeping habits (and you know, everything). Normalized relationships have a soft spot in my heart so the following drabble reflects that a bit.

The dog days of Summer were upon Shinjuku, thus every street, avenue, and crosswalk was assaulted with unbearable heat that rose from the irritable crowds right on up the outer walls of the apartment buildings. Individual flats conducted the inclimate conditions and simultaneously baked an entire city to perfection, though no one was particularly fond of it. Shizuo was especially not fond of it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the heat, he could both tolerate and appreciate it as there were advantages to the weather regardless of the price that it took to obtain them. The only thing Shizuo really gained was the more revealing wardrobe of his partner, and the payment went straight to Izaya by allowing a crack of the window at night. Though it was an insignificant amount it made a difference for both parties, each on the opposite pole of the negative and positive scale.

What Izaya gained was the nightly indulgence of the city’s symphony. Every performance was a unique composition and filled him with comfort he couldn’t get from anywhere else. From the undercurrent buzz, to the exhausted clack of heels, the distant hush of interspersed automobiles, and racket of night dwellers it all served a purpose in what Izaya considered the perfect lullaby.

As most found the clamour a disturbance, it was an odd soundtrack for Izaya to prefer, but as always he was unlike the populace and enjoyed the noise. In his past it served as a quell for his loneliness, but even with company in his present Izaya found it to be a die-hard habit.Therefore, the air conditioner stuck to its schedule of an automated shut down just as Shizuo habitually shoved the window ajar before he hit the mattress with a groan as intolerable heat rolled in.

The stripped down, nearly bare blond prevented his limbs from touching his body in a feeble attempt to keep his internal temperature from rising out of control. Much to his displeasure that continued to rise, Izaya was much too clothed in a borrowed, oversized white button up and long black shorts. He scowled as the informant ended his absent minded pace around the room, toothbrush in mouth, to cross from wood paneling to tiled flooring.

    “Izaayaa,” an agitated drawl rumbled along with a car motor, “if your pullin’ a late nighter, why the hell do I need to deal with this shit?”

From the bathroom, Izaya’s hum requested patience as he spit out his used toothpaste; a rush of water from the faucet ran the remains down the drain. Seconds after, the brunet walked back into the room with a towel wiping at his mouth.

   “If you want me sleeping at all you’ll do this favour for me, Shizu-chan.”    “Tch.”

   “What was that? I didn’t hear you properly.”

   “Fuck off, already,” he exposed his back to the open room. Izaya rolled his eyes in vain. He lightened his step and seemingly teleported to his partner’s side in order to slide his chilled fingers over gleaming skin. On a more temperate night the touch would have been met with a rebuttal, but given the circumstances it was Izaya who found the lack of amusement from his stunt. Perturbed, he initiated another tactic with a pull against the beast’s resistant frame to lay him flat against the mattress; Shizuo’s muscles let up their hold fairly quick.

   “Don’t give me that look,” Izaya jabbed his finger at the crease between Shizuo’s eyes. “We make compromises for each other so suck it up, hm?” A thrusted backhand knocked Izaya’s finger off of his forehead.    “Hardly.”

Shizuo countered Izaya’s playful attitude with his own disgruntled and watched as the light expression devolved into something comparable.

   “If that’s your opinion, I suppose I can’t do anything about it,” he shrugged his newly tense shoulders. “The window stays open.” A flicked spin turned Izaya away before he replaced his prior cadence with heavy heels against the floor. He discarded his towel behind him in perfect arc that made it a heap on top of Shizuo’s face.

The balled up fabric was rallied with increased force and smacked its target before it unfurled at his feet. Izaya revealed his grimace, a mirror of narrowed eyes met when he turned his head, an accentuated scoff already in play.

   “And you call me a brat.”

   “Yeah? Jus’ go work already, louse,” he barked.    “Kindly expedite your hibernation, beast. Don’t let Summer hold you back from your slumbering months!”

   “Fuckin’ exhaust yourself to death!”

Izaya completed his storm from the room and continued to his workspace, tend to the door and lights were neglected. A minute later a series of thumps and a heavy slam shook the upper level of the apartment.

Summer brought the best out in each other, rather the best of their follies.

When the brunt of Winter settled in, the same sleeping conditions were expected to be met, though instead of killing the air conditioner, a heater remained active and desperately worked against the cool breeze that blew around the window’s edge.

It was the first night of a cold front with many to follow and Izaya was layered in thick cotton attire. His comforter was excessively plush, decked in sheets of an unnecessarily high thread-count, and pulled taught. Shizuo worked at the tucked cover to loosen its hold before he found comfort on his side, in a particular position that made his back a barrier while a solo leg stuck out from underneath to air itself.

An incessant tap played a beat upon Shizuo’s shoulder blades.

   “Go to sleep, Izaya.” He drew himself inward to bolster his wall.

   “Honestly, Shizu-chan, did you withhold any further heat complaints just to initiate revenge six months later?”

A rough flip of his form had Shizuo face his bed partner.    “Why, Izaya,” he rolled his vowels, “I thought we had a compromise.”His laugh originated from deep within his chest as his canines exposed in a playfully wild grin.

A glimmer of sentiment shined in the other’s eyes above his lazy smile, accentuated by the tears that formed as Izaya yawned.

   “Oh~ so this isn’t revenge then, it’s just your end of the deal.”

   “Yeah, you got a problem with that, flea?”

Izaya shook his head with a chuckle.    “Just share your heat already,” he lifted Shizuo’s arm and curled into his chest with a wiggle to obtain the best spot.

Shizuo wished he had more will to torture the brat, but the inspiration just wasn’t there. He decided it was more advantageous to pull Izaya tight against him rather than stick to his expired plan.

   “Night,” he planted a kiss against his husband’s temple before closing his eyes to rest, but added a jab against the crook of Izaya’s knee for good measure.

   Izaya squeezed at the hand that rest in his own while he drove his heel into the shin directly behind it, “Goodnight, Shizu-chan.”

16: Do they keep secrets? Lie? Cheat?

I’m too lazy to put a creative spin on my opinion right now, haha. So have random dialogue from Izaya, Shizuo, Shinra, and Celty (in that order) on the matter instead. Don’t judge me, dialogue is easier for me to write on occasion. >>;;;;

“I wouldn’t compare Shizu-chan to an open book. It’s more that he’s an action film without much to provide in the way of deep thought, it’s literally no talk and all action. There’s no space for secrets when he follows a solo track from moment to moment.”

“Ha! ‘Course he has secrets. It’s better that he does or else I wouldn’t be able to tolerate him.”

“Naturally, Orihara-kun lies. That’s what allows others to see him as ‘charming’ or else they would see him as what Shizuo-kun would describe him as: a shitbag, haha. In truth, when he honestly represents his personality is when I consider him at the peak of his charm.

Oh! This was supposed to be lying as it pertains to his relationship! Well, the only way he lies in that regard is that he doesn’t reveal just how much he cares for Shizuo-kun. I’d actually say that Orihara-kun’s love runs deeper which is a reverse of who people would think between the two.

Though it can’t hold a light to how deep my love for Celty runs. Much like the uncharted depths of the ocean would be an unfair competition against the fragile human body, the near unmeasurable leagues of my love would crush anyone who attempted to rival me. The only thing comparable is how much Celty loves me, isn’t that romantic?”

…back to Orihara-kun. He certainly cheats on Shizuo-kun. Do you really think he gave up on that undying love for humankind? He’s way too stubborn to admit that he was wrong with that claim, even though everyone can see past the validity of it. Since he follows that mentality, technically speaking he actively cheats on his spouse. Orihara-kun really is terrible isn’t he?”

“Eh?? Shizuo lying or cheating? I don’t even know how that’s a question! I do think he should have directed his love elsewhere, but I won’t judge his decision. He’s the sweetest man that I know.

…p-please don’t tell Shinra that. I wouldn’t hear the end of it. His will can be terrifying at times.”

I wrote too much for these. ^^;;;

[newrageinc]

Oh, well I'm not sure if anyone wrote one yet but how about a SasuHina Superhero AU? Kind of like The Incredibles.

Hello,

It’s been an embarrassingly long time but… here’s superhero au for day 21 prompt of Sasuhina month ayyyyyyyyyyyy *finger guns*

Day 21: Opposites

She was a hero.

A beacon of hope. A symbol of righteousness and justice. Shefought for the underdog. She shone bright and brought the warmth of the sunwhere she went.

She was light. Thehuman embodiment of the life giving star that shone brightly in the day tolight up the streets and warm the earth to allow it the perfect temperature toincubate and nurture all living things on it. Handpicked by the gods to receivea piece of that star’s power to help keep the peace on her beloved planet.

How could she have allowed herself to succumb to him?

The shadow creature’s pet. Born from the hatred and thedarkness that hides behind the corners of her star’s light. He was a cold andangry force. Unforgiving in his pursuit to bring chaos to her land.

She should hate him.

She should spit anytime she mentions his name.

Instead, she groaned as deft fingers expertly found thefront zipper to her jumpsuit, one hand tugging at the metal as the otherpressed strong fingers into her hip. She tilted her head up towards him,sighing into his mouth when he leaned forward to capture her lips in his. Hehad always been a looming, foreboding figure from a distance. The monsters heunleashed and nightmares he provoked the only signs he was in the area.

But up close.

Up close he was warm, sinewy muscle, hard against her handsas she tugged at the sides of his trench coat, pushing it away from his body sothe she could dig at the hem of his button up shirt. He broke away from hermouth when her cool fingers made contact with the flesh of his stomach.

“Solis,” her alter ego’s name sounded sinful and reverentcoming from his mouth as it did now, in a hushed and gravely tone and egged heron. She pulled her hands from his shirt and started to pop the buttons of hisshirt open with an increasing sense of urgency.

This had started about two months prior.

She had just defeated the latest of his shadowy creationsand was surprised to find he had not disappeared into the night as he usuallydid. Her powers allowed her to glow bright in the darkness of night but even sohis own gifts seemed to cancel hers out. His shadowy figure eating at the edgesof her light as he approached. She had lifted her chin, her golden maskcovering half of her features in the same way his black one did. In her maskedstate, she had a confidence and air about her that she normally kept hidden inher regular life.

“Why are you doingthis, Umbra? What purpose do you have to terrorize our people?”

“I only wish to avengemy brother.”

She had been surprised at the sound of his voice. Low butclear. He sounded young.

“Please do not get inmy way.” He had turned from her then and before she could expand her lightto try to reveal more of him, he had gone.

She had thought of this exchange often in the next fewweeks. Every time he unleashed another monstrosity she was watchful, hoping tocatch him and for another conversation. She got her wish. More times over.

“What happened to yourbrother?” He had kept his distance this time, but she’d made sure to takenote of his position before defeating his monster. Umbra always watched to seewhat would happen even though the end results were always the same. She saw,just underneath his mask, a pair of dark eyes, filled with a melancholy she’doften seen in her own reflection. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

“The light burned himup.”

This had bothered her and Umbra had consumed her thoughtswhich steadily bled into her non-masked life. Her sister had wrinkled her noseat her when she’d brought it up.

“Who cares what Umbra’smotives are? He’s literally a shadow monster? The kind kids freak out about andask their parents to check under the bed for?”

Tonight had been different.

His monster defeated much earlier than usual and helingered, seeking her out much like the first time and how she had been doingrecently. When he was but twenty feet away from her his shadows receded, pullingthe darkness towards him and dissipating into the normal shadows of the night.He’d put his powers aside. She wondered briefly if it was a trap but when hemade no move to come closer, standing still and watching her shine, sherelented. Slowly she had gathered her light towards her, the final glow of herskin dissipating and leaving them both shrouded in moonlight.

When he still did not approach she moved closer, wary of hisstature and foreboding figure even with their powers out of the picture. Shewas on the petite side compared to him and she wondered if it’d seem cowardlyof her to pull the mace from her key chain to keep in a closed fist as she drewnearer. She ran out of time to decide as she stood toe to toe with Umbra. Hisarms held loosely at his sides as he regarded her, dark eyes drinking in herface in a way that caused her face to flush self-consciously. This was thefirst time she had questioned her decision on a white jumpsuit as his eyesraked themselves down across her body in an appreciative manner.

Not to say that she wasn’t enjoying his wardrobe choices asmuch as he seemed to be enjoying hers. His own costume much more simply puttogether than hers with his black trench coat, button down, slacks, and boots. Thedarkness suited him, his pale skin contrasting sharply against the fabric.

“Solis…” She stiffened at the sound of her name. Heswallowed, reaching a hand out towards her face. She winced at the movement andhe paused, hand hovering between them as they stared each other down.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked softly, reaching herhand up to the back of his to bring it towards her the rest of the way. Shepressed her cheek against his palm, keeping it there with her own hand as shelooked up at him. His hands were calloused and rough against the delicate fleshof her face. He licked his lips as he started rubbing small circles into hercheek with his thumb.

“My brother shone with the sun’s light before you.” He saidand her eyes widened at that. He pursed his lips at her. “He sacrificed himselffor them… And for what?” His eyes flashed red with the anger she was used toseeing in his monsters. “They spit on his name and… they’ll do the same to you.Why do you fight for them, Solis?”

She felt her mouth go dry.

She had thought herself lucky. To have been gifted theseabilities. To be able to stave off Umbra and the shadow people’s evil…

But what good was she as a hero if she were onlyperpetuating the pain that brought Umbra to be?

His eyes had softened again and her bravery kicked in as shetook a step closer to him. “I fight for the people I love… If there’s a chanceI can save anyone, I’ll take it.” She could feel her eyes burning with theresolve of her promise to the gods. “Even if it means my own life.”

She’s not sure who moved first, but suddenly she was pushedup against the wall and his mouth was hot against her skin and she couldn’tpush him away. Wouldn’t push himaway.

Not with eyes that held so much pain. Not with how he whisperedher name against her own skin as he trailed open mouthed kisses down her neck.Or when his hands went around the back of her legs and hoisted her up so thatshe could wrap them around his waist as their kisses deepened.

So there she was. Allowing herself to be undressed by thedemon of the city and not caring in the slightest as she panted, chest heavingforcefully as each article of clothing was being removed from both of them. Thegrit of the red brick behind her scratching her back and her arms as shetightened her hold on him.

She could let him touch her like this forever.

But as soon as this all had started it stopped. The brushesof his hands against her skin slowing to a stop as his mouth pressed asteadying kiss to her lips before pulling away. He was breathing just as hardas she was and she could see the regret in his eyes when she opened hers.

“We should stop,” he rasped. “This is a bad idea.” Shecouldn’t help the whine that escaped her and he chuckled at the sound, leaningforward to press his forehead into the crook of her shoulder. “This is a badidea,” he repeated into her skin.

“It is a bad idea,”she murmured as her heart rate slowly came down and her thoughts started toclear from her lusting haze. She sighed, ignoring the throb of her core as she untangledher legs from his waist and he lowered her to her feet. She zipped up the frontof her suit and checked on her mask to verify it hadn’t gotten so askew intheir heavy petting that she’d been revealed.

Umbra didn’t make a move to fix his clothing, only watchedin silence as Hinata put herself together. Once everything was in order sheblinked up at him. “You’re… not going to stop are you?” She couldn’t help thesmall piece of hope that leaked into her tone.

“I can’t…” He sighed, reaching to bring one of her hands upto cover his chest, just above his heart. “Especially if taking the sun awayfrom you means saving you… I can’t.” His heart thumped quickly against herfingers and she allowed herself one final kiss before darting off in thedirection of home.

[ilgaksu]

@badacts is an enabler, @crumplelush is also an enabler, and I’m a loser for history. Here’s part of the ridiculous overblown gay Regency-era aftg AU literally no one asked for, set in Bath, England for the full Regency Experience. For reference: Neil is the son of a Hatford and a Wesninski and orphaned heir to the fire-destroyed Hatford estate. Andrew is an illegitimate boy from the London slums who fled to Germany with his long-lost twin brother after a childhood of abusive orphanages/the death of their mother, then moved back to England, now comfortably middle-class and having erased all evidence of their earlier lives, and works training horses for the gentry. Neil and Andrew now live together in Andrew’s townhouse as housemates (which would have been seen as common for bachelors), and Aaron has moved across town after marrying Katelyn against his brother’s wishes. There’s some historical notes at the end because I’m that kind of person. 

 (cw for period accurate classism, whorephobia, homophobia and riko moriyama, who deserves his own special warning) 

“Good evening, Neil,” Riko says, eyes shining under the light like the opaque buttons of his waistcoat; slippery and miniscule, the black mother-of-pearl of them winking like dead men’s eyes. “I’m surprised you’re showing your face around so soon.”

“I finished my observance in July,” Neil says tightly. In the summer of the city, peeling himself out of the layers of mourning clothes - the blackened shell of them on the floor like snakeskin - had held with it all the relief of rebirth. Neil Josten, his skin singed, his hair catching the light, and Andrew’s eyes watching him careful in the mirror’s reflection, the cool of them like the glass of the same  mirror under Neil’s fingertips. The smudge of them against the silver silent affirmation: I am not Nathaniel. I am not my father’s son. I am still alive.   

“Yes,” Riko says, syllables cut. “That wasn’t what I meant.” His eyes are light on Neil’s face when he says, “After all, we do have ladies present. Their constitutions might be upset by -”

“You know, it’s true,” Neil replies. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Speaking of which, I thought I saw your father about the town earlier this week. Is he still alive, then?”

Riko’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptible but for the blaze of the candlelight nearby and Neil waiting for the scent of a single drop of blood in the water. He says, “My father was visiting, yes. It must be difficult to imagine, what with your own circumstances, but -”

“You’re right, I never needed to crawl to my father so he could bail me out,” Neil retorts, “I was raised to live with my own mistakes.”

“It shows,” Riko spits back. By now, they’re attracting glances. Neil can almost sense Matt standing from the other side of the ballroom. When he risks a look away from Riko’s eyes to check, Matt is sure enough heading their way, making slow but determined progress through the dancers.

Neil breathes in, and then out. He remembers everything Matt has ever said about picking your battles and everything Renee has ever said about graceful retreat, and he especially remembers Andrew stood, cold-eyed and remote, in the corner of their room, saying I need to know if you’re going to keep living like it’s something to throw away. Andrew hadn’t said I can’t live like that or I can’t watch you live like that or I’d rather walk now than have you set yourself on fire, than not make it to you in time to put it out - but he hadn’t had to. So Neil breathes in, and then out, and then closes his eyes, and then turns around and takes a step away.

“Take care,” Neil says, “I’d hate for something to happen to you before the Devil gets his day.”

Riko steps after him. In the reflection of the ballroom’s wide windows, dappled and blurred by candlelight, he’s a shadow spreading over Neil’s back.

“Strange,” he murmurs, voice low but unmistakably clear. “I heard Minyard had gotten his teeth into you, but I didn’t realise you’d walked into the leash.”

In the beat between each word and the next, the shadow becomes a weight, pressing invisibly down on the back of Neil’s neck until he can’t breathe. There’s a word for it: collared. Neil almost has to laugh.

“Don’t say his name,” Neil snaps, which isn’t what he meant to say: he meant to say I’m not his dog or I don’t know what you’re talking about or I’m going to rip your fucking throat out. His voice is a violin string, torn taut and slowly being ripped away from the body of the instrument.

He should’ve expected this. Riko Moriyama made a study of weak spots, and Andrew was less of a weak spot and more of a mortal wound. The hook of him always leaving Neil’s whole life spilling out copper over his own hands. Collared, helpless: it’s the same thing, isn’t it?

“Can you even imagine,” Riko says, keeping his voice pitched low and pleasant. He’s amused, Neil realises. “Nathan must be rolling in his grave.”

“I’m counting on it,” Neil grits out. I am not Nathaniel. I am not my father’s son.

He needs to walk away. He needs to keep walking away. He needs to wait for Matt to come and get him. He needs to find -

“Don’t let me keep you,” Riko tells him now, “Go on, I imagine your friends are beside themselves seeing us so close together. Not to mention your new master.” Riko puts a hand on Neil’s upper arm. It barely grazes him before Neil shrugs him off violently. “It’s a shame. Living on your knees, and you’re still not learning your place.” Neil turns to glare at him. Riko laughs.

“Call me a whore to my face,” Neil says, slowly, “Unless you’re scared I’ll make you answer for it.”

“Oh, Neil,” Riko says, “A century of careful breeding, and then they came up with you. Nobility can’t be whores. It’s not in your blood, though I’m sure you’re trying.” He pauses. “Bastards, though? They’re born to it.”   

It takes Neil a second to hear him, and then a second to properly hear it, through the sudden gutting absence in his head. It’s the second his mother stood there, poised in escape, before she fell through the smoke and down the stairs until she was dead at his feet. It’s Andrew sitting alone in a field from daybreak, the day circling around him, waiting for another stray to come eat out of his hands, the silent admittance in the stillness: I have been scared too. It’s Aaron’s voice in Neil’s memory, Andrew killed our mother, and Neil realising that on some level he had already known, had known all along.

Neil breathes in, then out. And then punches Riko in the stomach. Then he pushes Riko into the side-table with all his weight, sending glasses shattering around him, a splay of broken crystal as Riko crashes to the floor. Someone screams. Riko is on his feet again, whiplash fast; his fist crashes into Neil’s jaw so hard the bone aches, a dull throb, under his heartbeat. Neil, who spent two months in a men’s boxing ring after closing watching Andrew and Renee swap jabs, as perfectly matching as two parentheses, gets in another hit of his own before he feels someone grab his arms and pin them behind his back. The ease of it should be suggestive - wild and out of mind as he is, the arms could be anyone’s. Neil bites them, hard.

“Christ Alive, Neil,” Matt swears, dropping his hold. Neil wrenches away, stumbles free, swings for Riko once more. “Neil, have you gone mad?”

Neil doesn’t pay him any mind, too busy fighting with the buttons of his glove. The leather is a little slippery, damp with a smear of blood. He’s not sure where it’s from. In the end, he yanks it from his hand. Matt, a beat too late, grabs for his arm.

“Neil, don’t you dare -”

Neil throws the glove at Riko. It hits him in the chest, then falls to the ground. Around them, Neil realises, it’s gone entirely silent, a kind of awful, bated-breath silence.

“Pick it up,” Neil snarls, then again, louder. “Pick it up.”

“You’ve never had any manners,” Riko hisses. “You’re a waste of your family.”

“You’re a waste of a body,” Neil tells him. “Maybe if they cut you up, they’d get some use out of you. Pick it up.”

Slowly, Riko bends down. The second he takes hold of the glove, Neil feels all the air leave his chest, almost like relief. Matt goes, “No. No, Neil, you surely can’t -”

“Tomorrow,” Neil says, “I’ll send you the place.” He takes a breath. “I’ll give you the night to find someone to be your second. Start in the gutter. I’m sure you can buy a man.”

Riko smiles, all teeth. Neil keeps his eyes on him as Matt drags Neil away, backwards and through the crowd, anxiety roiling off him like a storm.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve consented to?” Matt asks, all horror.

“I always know what I’m consenting to,” Neil replies. Matt gives him a bleak look.

“This isn’t funny, Neil. Did he hit your head?”

��Scared I won’t make it till dawn?”

“No,” Matt says, “I’m sure you won’t. Renee’s already gone and told Andrew.” The twist of his mouth is telling. “Good luck living through the night.”

*

Historical notes:

The mourning period (or observance) for the death of a parent was typically 6 months to a year, and required wearing particular clothing. 

Hell is empty and all the devils are here is a line from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. 

Duelling in Regency Era England

Body parts for medical study and dissection were in high demand during this era, especially fresh corpses, which led to body snatching - which is what Neil’s referencing towards the end where he insults Riko (’You’re a waste of a body...’). 

[lestrangeimaginations-blog]

How to Create Awesome Headshots

One of the most essential elements to a great company website are awesome company headshots. When I see a website or pitch deck with bad or inconsistent headshots, I cringe. It’s sloppy and not professional, and it carries over to the way people perceive your brand. It’s not worth damaging a professional reputation with amateur headshots. You need headshots with consistent style, expression, wardrobe, location and photographic quality so your team looks pulled together.

Many of our clients get new headshots when they work with us, whether it’s a team of 3 or 60. That’s because headshots are important components of the larger branding picture. When you’re trying to sell who you are as a company in today’s media-driven business world, you need great images of your people. After all, your people are the face of the company.

So no more excuses. It’s time to ditch the iPhone selfies, the dated shots with stonewash blue backgrounds, and pictures taken by co-workers against a brick wall. This post explains what you need to know about getting the shots your company needs to bring out the diversity of each individual in a way that is congruent with your company’s overall brand.

Here are 6 tips to remember when planning your next company photoshoot:1. Work with professionals.

If you work with a branding agency, let them direct and guide your company headshots to align with the vision and style of your brand. They will select the right photographer and help you establish headshot standards for your company. These standards will set the foundation for all future shoots, and ensure consistency as you bring on new employees over time. If you don’t have a branding partner, make sure to hire a professional photographer who knows how to work with people. No, not a friend of a friend with a camera. Someone with real chops who will act like a film director to guide your posing and expressions on set. You don’t want an amateur behind the lens.

2. Establish wardrobe standards.

Everyone on your team should wear something that creates a cohesive branded look. Your wardrobe decisions should reflect your company’s everyday work attire. If you’re a casual crew of jean-wearing folks, don’t overdress and tell everyone to wear suits and ties. Establish wardrobe standards for ladies and gents so the team is on the same page about how to dress for the shoot. Create a wardrobe style guide with tips and examples of what to wear and send it out to all employees at least 2 weeks before the shoot to allow time for personal shopping. To get shots that both you and your team members adore, stress the importance of well-fitting clothing. Our clients love when there is a stylist on set to help with pinning clothes that are too big and advising on clothing choices. Be sure to tell everyone to stay away from crazy or distracting patterns like stripes, flowers, and big geometric graphics — they detract from your face and can cause the photo to become outdated more quickly.

3. Establish a standard facial expression.

Whatever your company’s personality is should be reflected in your facial expressions. If your company is fun and outgoing, ask for big, happy smiles or playful expressions that bring out each individual’s personality. If you’re a going for a more serious or pensive look, try a closed-mouth smile with a softer gaze that looks calm and relaxed. It is very helpful for your employees to know what their expression should be on camera. Your photographer will work with each person to find their “best side,” guide their expression according to the overall goal, and capture a look that’s unique to each person.

4. Create background and lighting guidelines.

Background standards and a finely tuned lighting setup make it easy to add new employees without disrupting consistency. When choosing a location, go with a background that will appear the same over time so that new employee headshots match with the rest. Great options for outdoor shots are on city streets, in front of cool buildings and architecture, and in local parks. If you’re growing fast and headshots for new people need to be taken regularly, you should only take them outside if you live in a climate where seasons don’t have much of an impact. Otherwise, the bare winter trees in Kara’s background won’t match the green ones in Lori’s. If you can’t count on the seasons to create a consistent outdoor background, headshots can be taken in a certain spot inside your office or coworking space near windows, statement walls, or exposed brick. Indoor environmental shots put your people in their element. However, if you have a remote team, you may be better off doing a studio session using colored background paper on white, black, light grey, dark grey, teal, pink or any other color of your pleasure. This is the easiest type of headshot to replicate. Establishing background and lighting standards now will help future photographers adhere to this standard moving forward.

5. Determine a Crop Standard.

One of the best ways to uphold a consistent appearance across each photo is to determine a crop standard. Photos taken from the chest up work well for social media profiles because they can be cropped into a tight, face-featuring square. If you’re taking these photos to be featured on your website, in presentations, marketing materials or in a company portfolio, you have a bit more flexibility. Headshots taken from the waist up radiate an approachable look, and full body photos can appear quite sharp when posed correctly.

6. Hire a hair and makeup artist.

To ace professional headshots, we encourage our clients to have a professional hair and makeup artist on set for both men and women. It’s important to add definition to your features, and to add more makeup than usual without looking overdone. Both guys and gals should come to the shoot makeup-free and with clean hair. Don’t worry, the guys won’t look like they’re wearing makeup — for them, it’s mostly just translucent powder to ensure shine-free skin.

Here are some general tips and best practices to share with your team:Everyone

Wear clothes that are comfortable and that make you feel and look great.

Bring 2-3 changes of clothing to have choices on set.

Clothes should be neatly pressed and should look new or like new (make sure there’s a steamer on set).

Avoid busy patterns, bold graphics, and distracting stripes.

Cream, beige, pastels, peach or yellow colors typically don’t work well on camera.

Don’t cut or dye your hair right before the shoot. A new haircut looks its best after a week, and freshly colored hair can look too vibrant and unnatural on camera.

Do not try or use any new product on your hair, face or body the days before your shoot in case you have a bad reaction to the product.

If you want to whiten your teeth before your session, start as early as possible and use a natural whitening method, or have your teeth whitened by your dentist.

Ladies

The standard corporate look is a suit jacket and blouse.

For a no-jacket casual look, bring solid colored blouses or collared shirts that are darker than your skin tone. Keep patterns to a minimum.

A white blouse by itself isn’t recommended unless you plan to wear it under something.

Don’t wear sleeveless tops or dresses unless worn under a jacket or sweater. Bare arms can be distracting.

Avoid shiny and sheer fabrics.

Keep jewelry simple – small is better.

Avoid statement jewelry that would distract from your face or that looks dated or too trendy. The picture is about your face, not the jewelry.

Gents

The standard corporate look is a suit jacket, dress shirt and tie.

A casual business look can be an open jacket and shirt, collared shirt under a thin sweater, or button-down shirt with rolled cuffs.

Short sleeves are typically not recommended for guys, even for casual looks. Exception to the rule are branded company polos or tshirts.

Wear solid colored shirts or small patterns that are darker than your skin tone.

A white dress shirt by itself doesn’t work well on camera unless you plan to wear it underneath a jacket or sweater.

Bring a v-neck undershirt or no undershirt at all so it doesn’t show.

Make sure your jackets and shirts fit you properly. Not too tight. Not to big. A poor fitting jacket or shirt will be obvious in the photos especially around the neck and shoulders.

Don’t wear shiny ties or fabrics.

The best rule of thumb for facial hair is to commit to your look- either a beard, mustache, or nothing at all. Anything scruffy or stubbly in between is not advisable. If you have a beard, trim it evenly so it’s nicely groomed. If you’re going clean-shaven, get a good shave the morning of your headshot.

After you’ve checked all of these pre-photoshoot to-do’s off your list, you’ll be ready to take professional company headshots that make your employees and your brand look amazing. You may want to get really creative and break some best-practice rules for headshots. We’re all for breaking rules. Just make sure the results are better off for it. Most importantly – have fun with this. It’s a great way to get your team bonding!

[musingmonk]

Total eclipse of the art

I know what an eclipse is. Yet when I looked up, I was startled by the outline of the black moon over an incandescent sun. I was at Madison Square Park and a cluster of people was beginning to form by the fountain where I was standing. A lunch crowd was also milling about, corporate types in blue button downs. None had glasses or seemed interested in the eclipse. An elderly couple dressed in thousands of dollars worth of clothes passed by and I asked them if they’d seen the eclipse. When they shook their heads, I offered my glasses. He used them first and gasped, quickly handing them to her. She looked up and marveled. As they walked away, I offered my glasses to a woman who’d been watching us. Again, she looked up and said, oh, wow! Wow! Wow!

She suggested that I look through a long box a man had set up near a statue. I crossed the park and saw the box and a line of people waiting to peer through it. Standing in line, I noticed an elderly African American man with a cane peering at the box. The owner of the box turned around and noticed him. Gently, he coaxed him forward so he could look. Standing there, I handed my glasses to a dad with a stroller and checked my watch. It was almost two.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that mom had never seen an eclipse so I decided to take the train home. Exiting the train station in my neighborhood, I spotted a Dominican woman who’d worked at Banana Republic at the corner for years. I jogged up to her at the median and asked if she’d seen the eclipse. She seemed annoyed, as if she had better things to do than to look through silly glasses. I handed them to her anyway. She took them and looked up. Suddenly, her face became aglow. She stood in quiet reverence, as if she was seeing an angel in the sky. “I didn’t understand what this was,” she said quietly. “It’s truly beautiful. Wow, how beautiful.” We hugged and something had changed in her, and maybe in me, too. We said goodbye in Spanish.

Walking towards my apartment, I saw a construction crew busily working among pieces of rubble on the corner of 87th and Westend. Not one among them was looking up at the sky. I stood close by until I had eye contact with a tall, black man. “Do you want to see the eclipse,” I asked, offering him the glasses. He smiled and walked over. Placing them over his eyes, he looked again. “Look at that,” he said, “wow. Look at that.” Another construction worker who looked Eastern European was now studying us so I offered him the glasses. The tall man said, “you must look.” The other man acquiesced and as he looked up, I could see the innocent boy that he once was. An eclipse takes us back to that moment when we first saw wonder.

Since clouds now covered the eclipse, I crossed the street. The doorman of a building asked if he could borrow my glasses and then he saw the eclipse, awash in awe. Then he called a janitor over. “Tienes que ver esto,” he said. “De verdad que es bonito,” I added, startling them. They didn’t know I spoke Spanish. I spotted a woman dressed as a nursing aid at the corner. I asked if she wanted to see the eclipse and she said no. But she didn’t move. I looked at her and gently handed her the glasses. Reluctantly, she took them and looked up, standing still. She removed the glasses and looked at me. “I didn’t know what that was. It’s...it’s truly beautiful. Thank you.”

When I finally made it home, mom was sitting down for lunch. “Mom, you have to see the eclipse,” I said. “The moon is covering the sun.” I looked out the window and the sky was cloudy. “I’m hungry,” she said. “You look at it.”

When the clouds cleared away, I insisted, “this will only happen once. The next one is years from now. You must see it. Please come.”

She felt my urgency and walked over. “Don’t look at it,” she said, “without the glasses. Come inside.”

“It’s just the sun,” I said, trying to dispel all the misinformation she’d heard in the past few days.

Suspiciously, she placed the glasses over her eyes and looked up. If there is such a thing as quiet thunder, it would describe what happened when she saw the eclipse. “Oh my god, look at that. How strange and beautiful. Look at that.” She stood quietly. “What is that,” she asked. “The passage of the moon is obscuring the light of the sun,” I said.

When we walked back in, the mood was lighter. She returned to eating and I left, looking for others who didn’t have glasses. Across the street was a family who was using a colander. My glasses created quite a stir. Among them were two elderly women who borrowed the glasses twice each. One looked up for a long time. The other became giddy. I offered the glasses to a third elderly woman who was walking by. When she looked up, she cried.

Suddenly, I understood why I ran home to mom. Yes, I wanted to her to see an eclipse because she’d never seen one before. But I also wanted her to see it because this was the one and only chance she’d ever get to see one. She won’t be here for the next one. Maybe I won’t either.

My final reflection on the eclipse is about class and my mother. You see? During a large event, especially a celestial one, there is a sense among the educated class that everyone knows what is going on and everyone shares the excitement; it’s a community event. The media fans this misconception by publishing articles and photos of large crowds looking up, glasses shining in the sun. Yet there’s a class of people who don’t have access to the same information as the rest of society. They haven’t learned about eclipses, they’re not taught to question or to ask questions. My mother is among them. If you grow up in some rural areas of the world, or you’re poor, no one explains to you what a celestial body is. No one offers you a pair of cool glasses. No one teaches you what to do with a cereal box. Earlier in the day, when I wrote that my mother was told we needed to wear special glasses all day, someone said, “tell her it’s the regular sun,” a feeling of fun mockery in his words. Let this be a reminder that supremacy and superiority are gently related. The world doesn’t know what we know, especially the poor.

If I’m around during the next eclipse, I’m going to organize a viewing party at a nursing home. I’m also going to offer glasses to people who may have no clue what’s happening in the sky. Creating wonder is easy and often free. The job of the artist is to offer the pair of magic glasses.