#the image appeared to me so viscerally

[possibly-pasta]

me and @ceo-of-lesbians praying to Sappho to fly us and all the other girlies to The Island of Lesbos for their big gay parties and so we can oogle the pretty ladies

[widowshill]

r/v + loneliness.

102 / Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca, ch. 4 / 4 / 8 / Art Wallace, Shadows on the Wall / 603 / Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca, ch 4. / 473 / Richard Sherman, Demo: "Lovely, Lonely Man/Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Finale" / 2

[crustyfloor]

A new pop-up store dropped for ALIEN STAGE's 2nd anniversary and wow. It's so sick.

It's Interesting what exactly these experiments are focusing on and monitoring.

Instrument practice

I found it interesting earlier that Till was so tame, more so than he usually is when he's going through experiments, but music, and making music is what he loves doing, So he was fully in his element here. This was probably the only thing he was made to do by the aliens that he at least tolerated.

(Additionally, judging by his collar (orange), he was at least calm. maybe he just isn't fazed anymore.)

//Side note, that head contraption looks familiar BUT this most likely isn't related at least i hope

(It puts me at ease, at least..)

Dance practice

This surprised me, but I suppose Mizi needed more skills.

She looks very startled here, and nervous(?) +It looks like she's doing this while singing. And with that face covering I assume this was a test monitoring her dance balance, precision, etc. At first, I did think it was odd, "Why would Shine put her through that" But alas I was reminded that even though Mizi is the flower of the group she was never untouchable, to Shine, this was the equivalent of teaching your dog to sit and stay.

(seeing this it reminded me of those scenes in movies where the people are dancing, and the music gets faster and faster until they fall. I wonder if she was doing through something similar to that)

Singing practice (?)

Similar to Till she also looks quite calm outwardly, if the machine around her neck is an iteration of the collars they have, then this process wasn't something she liked, or given how intense this experiment looks, this was a test of high-pressure to ensure she always stayed calm during performances (?). Then again this could also be a posture practice given all the structure focused on maintaining her position.

(What I believe was another form of this test was shown before so I think so)

(With her hands in a praying stance I wonder if she was praying to herself or singing a religious song (sweet dream?) It's also interesting that the machinery around her looks like a halo, and she looks so...angelic? holy?)

Image making practice

By image making, I think they made Ivan replicate expressions with his face. Whether this process was painful for him or not...I'm not sure. But it looked visibly uncomfortable, maybe that was the point. (His expression, even in this circumstance is so dubious..)

Ivan, among other things, needed to have a spotless appearance to be successful, his image was a priority given his skills were certainly guaranteed.

I assume the aliens eventually took note of his lack of expression, in the real world this can be a detriment to one's career, so the Aliens had to ensure quality was perfect. (To a more...dedicated level)

Superiority test

'Superiority test' Is very vague.

HyunA is very calm here too, likely sedated in that water with all the tablets on her. I guess this was a test to get an idea of a pet human's strengths and weaknesses, endurance, and temperament to compare and contrast them with others, testing who is more viable for Alien stage?

Another interesting, and sad part about this is that HyunWoo was there, watching his sister through her experiments.

(Also, it looks like both of her legs are normal, no alien leg yet.)

Heart rate variability

And finally, the most visceral of them all. The wording 'variability' makes this all the more sickening, the Aliens were testing his heart hours, testing it at different rates, speeds, and states. And he was in agony the entire time. Even the way he's clutching his chest, it gives me chills. This would've been a completely harmless test in a normal setting, as something quite similar to this can be performed efficiently in real life. But he's being tortured in the process.

This is one of the first times we've ever seen Luka's face so truly clear and unprotected, (understandably so.) He's even crying.

[pin-k-ink]

BENEATH THE SURFACE ⋆✦⋆ urahara kisuke ft. hirako shinji

synopsis ➸ you’ve forgotten all about the lover you once had, memories of hirako erased as if they never existed. urahara, the man entrusted with your care, doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for falling for you—or for keeping you close, far from the past you can’t remember and the man who still lingers in it

tags ➸ posséssive and obsèssive behavior, references to past traùma/memory loss, implications of infídelity, mastúrbation (m & f), dúb-con, fingèring, bitíng, making out, unprotècted sèx, bégging, dìrty talking, manhàndling, creàmpie, it’s pretty vanilla actually

wc ➸ 5.7k

"Oi, Kisuke." Yoruichi's tone was dry with the barest hints of mild exasperation as she spoke up suddenly beside him. "You're starin' again, old man."

Urahara blinked himself from his heated reverie, lips quirking at the familiar teasing rebuke. He didn't even try denying her accusation, letting his gaze linger a moment longer on the scene unfolding across the courtyard.

You danced and darted between Jinta and Ururu, laughter ringing out clear and sweet as you narrowly dodged whatever silly game was unfolding. The simple domesticity of it all shouldn't have twisted something primal and restless inside Urahara's gut as it did. But watching the sunlight gild your features, the wind toying with loose strands of your hair...it summoned forth hungrier, more wretched yearnings.

"Can you blame me?" he sighed, finally tearing his eyes away with obvious reluctance. "The sight is certainly a tempting one."

Yoruichi snorted indelicately. "Don't try that innocent bullshit with me, Kisuke. I know exactly what kind of thoughts you've been entertaining lately." Turning towards him fully, her voice took on a slightly lower register tinged with something almost like concern. "Thoughts you shouldn't fool yourself into thinkin' are harmless little fantasies, either..."

Urahara's grip tightened fractionally on his cup as the images she conjured battered the inside of his skull with uncanny clarity. Flashes of Hirako and the love he held for you in his heart, the adoration and tenderness he freely bestowed upon you. The way you'd so easily fall into his arms, the softness in your smile whenever he came around.

They were a matched set of thunder and lightning then - all explosive passion and white-hot desire detonated with blissful recklessness in those waning hours before Aizen's machinations finally tore both your worlds asunder.

"She remembers nothing of it now," Urahara murmured, aiming for nonchalance yet unable to quite disguise the bitter undercurrent of self-reproach lacing his tone. "Seems rather pointless to linger on twisted ghosts, don't you think?"

Yoruichi's lips curved in a slow, knowing smile utterly devoid of genuine amusement. "Don't feed me that weak shit, Kisuke," she chided, voice pitching low with quiet intensity. "You were the one who watched Shinji agonize over wiping away every scrap of memory she had left - even if it meant erasing their entire history from her mind forever..."

Unconsciously, Urahara's body thrummed in recognition at the visceral reminder, gut twisting hotly with guilt and lingering scraps of disbelief. Even now, decades after Hirako had appeared at his doorstep with you cradled limply against his chest - frail and wracked with hollow, gut-wrenching sobs - the memory still brought bile scorching up Urahara's throat.

"I can't...I don't have the strength to face her disgust or heartbreak if she remembers what happened," Hirako had choked out in a ravaged, trembling rasp that night under the dying throes of that summer moon. "What Aizen stole from her - from us... So please, Kisuke...wipe it all clean. Every scrap, no matter what it costs. For both our sakes."

The weight of your pliant, broken form pressed against Urahara's chest as Hirako relinquished his hold still haunted with searing clarity. More so than even the glittering sheen of anguished tears streaking your savior's anguished features - for amidst the storm of mutual devastation swirling between them, something deeper and more terrible had already begun unspooling inside Urahara's viscera.

An ember of wretched temptation he could scarcely bring himself to acknowledge even now, years after he'd set about systematically erasing your beloved from your memories at Hirako's request through shard after shard of scorching finality.

"She was everything to him, ya know?" Yoruichi continued, eyes gone hazy and distant as she no doubt dredged up her own recollections. "Shinji's light in all that darkness - the peace that kept him grounded while still being wild enough to match his passion step for step..."

Those words were nothing Urahara hadn't confessed to himself under the waning light of too many evenings, drowning in memories that weren't even truly his to indulge. He recalled with perfect clarity the way your eyes used to blaze so radiantly whenever Hirako strode into any space you occupied - luminous and unchecked adoration seemingly etched into every indrawn breath.

And Hirako, in turn, looked upon you as though his entire existence could be charted across the map of your satin skin and contours. A starved man kept alive solely by the reverence and hunger glowing from within your entwined embraces, that unwavering belief and camaraderie more sustaining than any physical fulfillment.

"It's why I've long suspected you kept her close here, all these years," Yoruichi continued in a softer tone, undercurrent of poignant understanding resonating between them. "It was never entirely noble sentiments or promises sworn to poor Shinji, was it Kisuke? At least, not wholly..."

Heaving a weighted sigh, Urahara let the truth slip free of its carefully erected cage at last through parted lips he could no longer fully control. "You know me far too well for your own good, Yoruichi..."

His gaze strayed inexorably back towards your radiant silhouette still dancing along the engawa in the fading daylight's warm glow. Laughter and innocent joys seemed to saturate every molecule of air you disturbed with your movements, leaving a sparkling luminescence shimmering like mirage in the wake of your passage.

"I kept her close because she made things less unbearable - " Urahara paused, searching for the words to encapsulate the sublime, impossible truth he often lay awake drowning in night after night. "After all the years spent in the dark, she was a reminder that not everything's a complete waste. When things started getting rough, it was enough to see her and remember there's still something out there worth holding on to."

Yoruichi remained silent for a long, suspended beat, absorbing the weight of his admission with that glittering, astute gaze that saw far too deeply into Urahara's tattered depths. When she spoke again, it was with a wry, almost wistful humor undercutting the latent concern.

"I get it now. The infamous Kisuke Urahara - disgraced Soul Society prodigy, princeling turned exile, humble candy merchant to the masses - secretly harboring an obsession for the shining embodiment of purity and innocence itself. Doesn't get much more blasphemous than that, eh?"

Her rich laughter rang out across the engawa, a playful yet unsubtle warning shot across Urahara's bow to finish airing his regrets before their charged nature compounded any further. He raised his cup back to his lips, allowing the scalding liquid to linger on his tongue for a fleeting moment of grounding respite before finally uttering his most damning truth:

"Maybe so... but the real sin is that I don't regret my obsession at all anymore, Yoruichi," he said, almost casually. "I know exactly what lines I've crossed, spending every moment wanting something I can never really have..."

The confession hung heavily in the air, laced with an undercurrent of unapologetic yearning that even Yoruichi seemed to pick up on. Urahara didn't bother masking the weight of his stare as it tracked back over to where you laughed and played carefree in the courtyard.

Because as much as he might want to deny it, Urahara knew he wasn't alone in succumbing to the forbidden temptations simmering between you both. No, he'd caught the lingering heat of your curious gazes far too many times to claim ignorance any longer.

Like that morning last week when you'd padded sleepily into the kitchen, hair mussed from slumber and yukata hanging loosely to expose tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. You hadn't noticed Urahara seated at the table initially, too busy stretching your lithe frame with a contented sigh that made his breath hitch audibly.

When you'd finally spotted him, a pretty blush had crept across your cheeks - though you made no move to cover yourself. Instead, your lips had curved into that secret little smile Urahara felt like he alone was privy to lately. Holding his heated stare, you'd quirked one delicate eyebrow in silent challenge before very deliberately dragging your gaze down the length of his seated form with clear appraisal.

"Good morning, Kisuke," you'd purred, the low timbre of your voice hitting him like a physical caress. "You're up awfully early."

He'd swallowed thickly, fighting not to let his eyes linger too brazenly on the tantalizing glimpses of thigh and cleavage peeking through the loose folds of your robe. "Couldn't sleep," he'd rasped out, silently damning how rough his own voice had emerged.

Your smile had only widened at that, eyes glittering with undisguised feminine satisfaction as you'd sauntered closer until the heady scent of your skin and subtle jasmine perfume filled his senses dizzyingly. Leaning across the table, you'd trailed one finger along the rim of his cold tea cup with blatant suggestion.

"Maybe I can help...relax you, Kisuke?"

The molten promise in your tone had very nearly undone him right then and there. But before Urahara could fully formulate a response - whether capitulation or restraint, he still didn't know - Jinta came barreling into the kitchen with his usual graceless racket. You'd straightened casually, as if that heated moment had never even happened, leaving Urahara to stew in his own frustrated arousal as the morning carried on.

Encounters like that were rapidly becoming the norm rather than a rare occurrence. Any shred of plausible deniability faded after Urahara stumbled across you touching yourself in the vacant training room one evening after most of the others had turned in for the night.

The sight of you splayed out wantonly, cheeks flushed and fingers buried knuckle-deep in the slick, welcoming heat of your own cunt...it had stolen what little breath remained in Urahara's lungs. He'd stood frozen, utterly incapable of tearing his eyes away from the mesmerizing display you'd unintentionally offered like the most obscene gift.

When your back finally arched in a perfect bow and those tantalizing lips fell open on a keening cry, Urahara had retreated with mortifying swiftness. But not before he was utterly certain you'd caught sight of his transfixed silhouette in the doorway, hand already working urgently to relieve his aching cock straining against his hakama.

Nights like that rapidly blurred together into an endless cycle of torment and stolen pleasure for Urahara. He lost count of how many times he'd spilled in his own hand after being subjected to another teasing display on your part, or the number of times he'd been forced to excuse himself when the need became too overwhelming.

Yet amidst each delirious high, an undercurrent of guilt and forbidden temptation gnawed with increasing ferocity. Because he knew they were not alone in basking in these heated transgressions, were they?

No, Urahara had caught the first whispers of Hirako's scorching reiatsu brushing against his senses far too frequently lately to claim pure coincidence. At first, he tried convincing himself it was just his guilty conscience manifesting in shockwaves of paranoia and self-loathing.

But then he'd turn a street corner or duck through one of the market stalls while accompanying you...only to catch a glimpse of tousled blonde locks before disappearing like a mirage.

Hirako was watching you. Lurking nearby while unable to fully tear himself away from the most important person in his world. Drawn like a man in the desert to the only source of water that could quench his thirst or deliver his demise in equal measure - because in witnessing Urahara's ultimate damnation, he would either find salvation or destruction.

The knowledge that his one of his oldest acquaintances still clung to whatever tattered scraps of you remained twisted Urahara's gut with scorching guilt. Yet rather than deterring his treacherous thoughts and urges, the forbidden element merely stoked them into an inferno of carnal heat.

Some wretched, masochistic part of him craved for Hirako to see how thoroughly he'd become undone by the radiant presence fate had bestowed into his care. To bear witness to every ounce of depraved worship Urahara was no longer capable of denying as he debased himself in reverent prostration before your intoxicating light.

Perhaps only then, when Hirako had been forced to consume every moment through his own haunted gaze, could Urahara find the absolution and release his blackened soul so voraciously yearned for. Because being the one to irrevocably desecrate that which was most sacred to your former lover would be the ultimate unforgivable sin he'd carry into whatever scorched afterlife fate deigned fit for wretches like him...

Urahara's steps slowed as he neared the entrance to the shop, senses picking up on a distantly familiar reiatsu signature just beyond the threshold. His grip tightened fractionally on the small bundle of provisions he'd ventured out to procure.

Hirako. Here again so soon after his last fleeting visitation.

Steeling himself, Urahara shunted his reiatsu down to virtually nonexistent levels and ghosted closer, every instinct sharpened to a razored edge. He slipped around the back entrance in utter silence, masking his presence entirely as he moved to observe unseen.

The soft cadence of your melodic laughter caressed his ears first, effortlessly guiding his focus through the open receiving area towards the source. Urahara felt his breath stall as his gaze finally found you seated on the engawa, radiant and at ease - and not alone.

Hirako knelt across from you, cocksure grin softening the hard angles of his face in a way Urahara hadn't witnessed in nearly a century. His old acquaintance's expression held terrible, wistful vulnerability as he drank in the simple sight of you animatedly chatting and smiling during what seemed a perfectly mundane conversation between friends.

Only those hauntingly familiar gestures and tender inflections betrayed Hirako's longing to anyone who understood their secret language from before the cataclysm. He leaned in unconsciously whenever you laughed, lips parting in silent rapture simply from your unbridled mirth washing over him. Fingertips traced idle, seemingly innocent patterns along the polished wood in movements Urahara knew were unconscious echoes of past intimacies once mapped across satin expanses with utmost reverence.

Yet despite all the visceral undercurrents simmering around Hirako's unguarded display, you appeared utterly oblivious - conversing and beaming at him as if thoroughly charmed by the roguish yet disarming company of one of Urahara's old contacts.

Urahara's jaw clenched hard enough to creak as a knot of primal possession twisted through his rioting gut. He should retreat, maintain his silent vigil from the shadows rather than infringing upon this rare, fraught reunion transpiring right before his unworthy gaze.

But something kept his feet rooted, compelled him inexorably closer until he could clearly make out the hushed cadences of your voices mingling in the tranquil evening.

"—such a delight as always, Miss [Y/N]," Hirako was murmuring in that velvety timbre that carried equal facets of seduction and soul-scouring guilt through every syllable. "Though I can't help but wonder why a fresh blossom like yourself insists on remainin' around something as tarnished as this shop?"

You laughed again - that high, windchime peal of uncorrupted joy that scorched Urahara's very marrow whenever he had the privilege of basking in it. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that very same question?"

"Ah, touché my dear," Hirako chuckled, fingers drifting infinitesimally closer across the polished wood until they brushed the elegant swell of your hand with clear intent. "Though I think I know why I'll never be capable of straying far from this place for long..."

The lingering curl of suggestion in those final words made Urahara's hackles raise despite himself. Hatred and possessiveness tore through him in equal, blinding measure as he watched Hirako slant closer, knuckles tracing along the vulnerable underside of your forearm in familiar, intimate patterns clearly etched into memory.

Yet you remained oblivious, simply smiling that gentle, open smile that belonged solely to Urahara in his most ravenous late-night indulgences. "Well whatever reasons keep you returning, you're always a most welcome sight around here. Kisuke enjoys your visits."

The words were ostensibly innocent, but they still landed like a slap of ice water against Urahara's reeling senses. You turned then, as if sensing the sudden shift in his turbulent mood through whatever subconscious thread still bound you to the indelible scars carved into his very soul.

When your luminous gazes crashed across the fractal distances, Urahara felt every ounce of fevered possessiveness and unearned claim to your radiance flash to visceral life behind his irises. He stared at you with unguarded, ravenous hunger - every fracture and violation harbored between his anguished conscience fully exposed in that unraveling moment.

You blinked at him, lovely features creasing momentarily in soft bewilderment at the raw intensity searing from his veiled stance. Then you smiled once more in that devastating, oblivious manner and raised your free hand in a beckoning wave Urahara felt sear straight through to his very foundations.

"Kisuke!" Your sweet tones rang out bright and clear, each lilting note bleeding resonantly into every crevice of the shouten. "Welcome back! You'll never guess who's just dropped by to pay us a visit..."

Neither of you noticed Hirako's full-body stillness as he absorbed the seismic shift of your attention now centered solely upon the ravaged creature your luminescence had chosen to orbit so mercilessly. Yet before your plush lips could impart the name unnecessary to voice aloud, Hirako was already smoothly rising to his feet.

"I ought to be going, actually," he rasped, the fractured rasp of his voice a deafening clamor against the oppressive silence now smothering the engawa. "Thank you kindly for the hospitality, Miss [Y/N]. As always, you are a true beacon in the gathering gloom..."

Hirako dipped into a flourishing bow reeking of archaic Seireitei formality and melancholy in equal measure. Then he straightened and aimed a loaded look in Urahara's direction, piercing through the veil of shadows as if capable of discerning every venomous temptation and violation now inexorably etched into his brother's shredded conscience with lurid permanence.

It felt as if hours passed suspended in that deadlocked confrontation between Urahara's rapacious yearning and Hirako's haunted resignation. Until finally, the stoic spell shattered and his oldest comrade turned his wizened, ruined features back to where you'd risen to greet him with usual gentle adieu.

"Goodnight, [Y/N]," Hirako murmured, shouldering past you carelessly as Urahara watched with bated breath. "Sweet dreams..."

Before you could respond or offer whatever brightly confused reply bubbled to your lips, Hirako took full advantage of your proximity to invade it unforgivably. In that moment, Urahara knew he was bearing witness to far more than a simple exchange between former lovers and trusted comrade. He watched, utterly transfixed, as Hirako nuzzled his face with intimate, liquid grace against that same succulent patch of bare skin Urahara knew to be one of your most sensitive erogenous zones.

It was a snatched, desperate movement executed with all the flayed desperation and regret of a dying man reaching out for succor one final time before surrendering to oblivion. Yet despite the furor searing Urahara's nerves raw from within, he remained utterly paralyzed in the wake of Hirako's final silent transgression against them both.

He could taste the bitterness of old, visceral jealousy on the back of his tongue - instincts he thought long buried threatening to lash free. This man knew you in ways Urahara could only fantasize about. Had tasted the divine ambrosia of your surrender and caressed every supple inch in the secret shadows of lovemaking. Owned parts of you utterly that Hirako clearly still mourned the loss of despite the veil of amnesia cloaking your interactions.

You startled of course, cheeks flushing becomingly as you stared at his retreating form in soft, bewildered surprise. Only when Hirako's wasting presence faded to a haunting echo once more did you finally turn your trembling features back towards the immovable specter of Urahara's presence lurking nearby.

"Well!" you huffed out in a shaky, affected chuckle of faint mortification. Your fingertips ghosted along the curve of your jaw in an apologetic caress that made Urahara's gorge rise violently. "That was rather...forward of him, wouldn't you say Kisuke?"

Urahara allowed himself to fully emerge from the concealing shadows then, immolating you beneath the full, ravenous intensity of his regard as he slowly prowled across the engawa like a predator seeking what rightful tribute it had been denied far too long...

"Oh, I'd say that and so much more, my dear," he rasped out in a tone husky and choked by a maelstrom of molten rage and desire too long denied its due. "So very, very much more to unpack from that little...reunion, wouldn't you agree?"

Your eyes widened further at the vibrant, corrosive inflections lacing his words. But Urahara barely registered your pretty bewilderment, too consumed by the righteous fury and twisted lust scorching a path towards his prey at long last.

"He comes by often, doesn't he?"

The seething accusation emerged from Urahara's lips before rational thought could intervene or exercise any semblance of restraint. His strides ate up the remaining distance across the engawa, movements tight and predatory in a way that had you instinctively retreating until your back met the unforgiving wall.

You stared up at him with those luminous, perpetually innocent eyes blown wide in clear bewilderment. "Well...Hirako-san has been visiting more frequently as of late, yes. He's an old friend of yours after all, isn't he Kisuke?"

Any other night, that reminder of your blatant naivete regarding Hirako's true reasons for lingering might have cooled Urahara's vengeful ardor back to a simmer. But tonight, spurred by his withering jealousy and volcanic need, your coy deflections only stoked the inferno raging through his marrow hotter.

"Friend?" He all but spat the word, allowing his reiatsu to flare in a barely restrained surge of crimson hostility. "You really wish to play such games after that display from the man, my dear?"

Urahara closed what little distance remained between your bodies in one measured roll of his hips - inescapably caging you between the solid brand of his torso and the sturdy barrier at your back. You actually flinched at the sudden, aggressive proximity as understanding started to glimmer behind your lovely eyes.

"Kisuke, I-I'm not sure why you're suddenly so upset..." You swallowed thickly, chest rising and falling in rapid pants as he drank in every shaky inhale with ravenous focus. "I...Hirako-san was simply bidding me goodnight as a gentleman would! If he was being too forward, I didn't intend—"

Whatever half-hearted denial you were about to utter dissolved into a breathless moan as Urahara slanted his mouth over yours in a punishing, all-consuming slant. His tongue demanded entry with no quarter for hesitation, claiming the honeyed recesses of your mouth with merciless possession.

He felt you immediately attempt to squirm away, startled and overwhelmed by the intensity of his onslaught. But with a growl of rebuke, Urahara simply crowded closer until the solid cage of his thighs had your lithe form trapped utterly in his scorching orbit.

One work-calloused palm shot up to seize your jaw in an unforgiving clamp when you still tried to twist away. Urahara enforced his unyielding claim with wicked intention until your struggles dissolved into the first shuddering capitulations of surrender.

When he at last showed mercy and broke away, you stared up at him with lips swollen and gaze already hazed by lingering shock and dizzying arousal he'd awakened so abruptly inside you. You started to speak his name again - a desperate attempt at regaining some thread of clarity.

But Urahara quickly silenced your plea by trailing the pad of his thumb over your trembling lower lip in a lazy, suggestive caress. "Don't speak, my sweet. Not when we both know whatever excuses you're so desperately looking for will only stain those pretty lips with shameless little lies."

He relished the way your eyes widened at the uncharacteristically seductive taunt, drinking in your shock like the finest sake as he continued to abuse your kiss-bruised lips lasciviously. Urahara canted his hips into yours in an insistent grind, smirking darkly at your choked whimper of blended dismay and aching need.

"You want this, don't you?" he rasped against the sensitive curve of your throat, stubble grazing in deliciously rough friction. "An opportunity to confess your hidden desires... to finally give in to what’s been slowly taking over that fake purity you hold on to."

His leisurely path of scorching kisses and swirling friction trailed lower with each lush syllable spilling past his taunting mouth. By the time Urahara's tongue dipped into the enticing hollow between your collarbones, you were shuddering with unbridled desperation against the brand of his body.

"K-Kisuke," you whimpered out in a broken, needy keen that stoked his ravenous desires into an inferno. "Please...I don't know what's gotten into you, but—!"

Whatever pathetic entreaty or deflection lingered on your tongue withered into mere shattered static as Urahara's questing fingertips boldly sought out the blazing apex of your thighs beneath your skirt. You cried out at the first searing friction, back arching against the unforgiving shoji screen in thoughtless abandon.

"I think you know exactly what's gotten into me, angel," Urahara growled against the soft swell of your breast now spilling so enticingly from its lacy confines. "You've been too lost in your endless little act to truly see what you've been unraveling all this time..."

With expert dexterity, his calloused fingers sought out your molten, soaked core. Urahara delighted in the ragged cry that burst from your pretty lips at the blunt invasion, hips already writhing against the possessive curl of his finger in a desperate search of more blissful friction.

"Look at how wet you are for me," he cooed, dragging the pad of his thumb across your slick, pulsing nub. You moaned at the friction, head lolling back against the wall with lips parted in wanton invitation. "Even as you try to deny what you've wanted for so long now...you're dripping all over my hand, aren't you, sweet girl?"

Urahara chuckled darkly, adding another thick digit to his wicked torture and drinking in the wanton cry that erupted from your throat. He knew he ought to show some small measure of mercy for how utterly debauched and wrecked you already looked after just a few scant moments of his carnal attentions. But he couldn't resist continuing to torment you, especially when he'd been forced to endure watching you fall apart beneath the tender touch of another for so long now.

"I'll ask again: you want this, don't you, my dear?" Urahara murmured, tone silken and lethal as he crooked his fingers inside you and watched your eyelids flutter shut with pleasure. "You want me, don't you? To finally take and fuck and possess what you've been denying us both for so long."

He punctuated his final declaration with a punishing thrust of his fingers - curling and seeking out your most sensitive spot until your thighs trembled and breathless pleas spilled from your lips. You were so close, and yet still struggling against the truth you'd never be able to escape any longer.

"Answer me, angel," Urahara hissed, sinking his teeth into the fluttering pulse of your throat in a mark he intended to linger long after this heated interlude. "I'll stop if you don't admit how badly you want this. How you've been dreaming of feeling my cock filling you, splitting you open until there's no going back..."

"Oh gods, Kisuke, please," you cried out, voice fracturing as he pressed even closer and let you feel the thick, straining heat of his erection digging into the soft give of your belly. "Yes, yes, I want it. I want you, please just take me already. I need—!"

That was all the affirmation Urahara needed. He surged forward and slanted his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans of pleasure and relief with the same possessive ferocity he intended to brand into your every cell and sense memory.

In the span of a heartbeat, Urahara was yanking down your underwear and freeing his throbbing cock from the confines of his hakama. You keened into the bruising crush of his mouth, hands tangling in his sandy locks as he lined himself up at your drenched entrance.

The first, blinding thrust stole what little breath you had left, forcing your walls to stretch and accommodate his thick, pulsing girth. Urahara swallowed your strangled cries of bliss with a feral snarl of his own, hips canting forward until he'd fully sheathed himself inside the tight clutch of your quivering heat.

"You feel even better than I dreamed, my love," he rasped against the salty curve of your neck, pausing just long enough for you to adjust before his hips bucked up again with merciless intention.

Urahara didn't allow a moment of reprieve, setting a punishing pace as his hands grasped your plush thighs and hiked them high around his waist. The angle allowed him to fuck you even deeper, spearing his pulsing cock into the molten recesses of your cunt and watching the ecstasy play across your features.

"Fuck, fuck, Kisuke, please," you cried, hands scrabbling for purchase against the unforgiving plane of his broad shoulders. Your hips rocked up into his punishing thrusts, the sinful slide of his cock filling you to the hilt over and over again sending stars bursting behind your eyes. "It's so good, gods, you're so deep, please, don't stop!"

Urahara's lips twisted into a predatory smirk, and he slowed his ruthless pace just enough to draw a breathless whimper from your kiss-bruised lips. His gaze devoured the way you were staring up at him, so utterly lost in the throes of pleasure and desire he'd brought you to with such wicked skill.

"You're so tight around me, angel," he cooed, rolling his hips against the slick, molten grasp of your cunt and drinking in the needy cry that tore from your lips. "I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on...but you've been such a good girl, taking my cock like this. Tell me, are you close, sweet girl?"

He punctuated his filthy question by dipping his hand between the rocking crush of your bodies, fingertips ghosting along your soaked, aching sex before finding the sensitive nub of your clit. The breathless cry that tore from your throat nearly undid him, hips bucking into your own once more as he watched your face contort in sheer rapture.

"Y-Yes, I'm close," you gasped, eyelids fluttering open as your hands grasped his biceps with white-knuckled desperation. "Kisuke, please, I'm s-so close, please, I'm right there, don't stop—"

Whatever incoherent plea was tumbling past your kiss-bruised lips melted into a ragged scream of pleasure as Urahara sank his teeth into the supple flesh of your neck and fucked his hips up into your own one last time. You came apart in the span of a heartbeat, cunt clenching and milking his throbbing length until the blinding coil of his release unraveled.

Urahara's climax crashed through him with the force of a tsunami, and he snarled out his release in a choked curse. He continued to buck up into the clutching warmth of your core, fucking his cum deep inside you until every last drop was spent and he collapsed against the shuddering give of your breasts.

Your heart hammered wildly against his ear as Urahara struggled to regain some semblance of control and sanity. He listened to your breathing gradually return to normal, fingers idly stroking your hips in a soothing caress even as his own reiatsu still rippled with the vestiges of his possessive rage.

When he finally mustered the willpower to lift his head from its comfortable perch, the sight of your face stole whatever withering remnants of jealousy and ire lingered within him. Your features were still flushed with the fading heat of pleasure and exertion, and you blinked up at him with the same trusting, dazed innocence that had always drawn him in like a moth to a flame.

"I'm sorry if I was too rough, my dear," Urahara murmured, the pad of his thumb ghosting along the faint indentations his teeth had left on your neck. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but I suppose my jealousy got the best of me..."

You frowned slightly, clearly confused by his words and the apology lingering just beyond them. But the soft, breathy sigh of contentment that slipped past your lips soon banished any lingering doubts.

"It's alright, Kisuke," you soothed, reaching up to gently card your fingers through his sweat-dampened locks. "I'm not sure what came over you, but I didn't mind. Not in the least..."

Urahara hummed a vague sound of approval, burying his nose against the hollow of your throat and inhaling the intoxicating scent of your skin and the lingering hint of his own release. A dark thrill went through him at the reminder that his cum was now dripping from between your thighs, painting the softness of your skin with his claiming mark.

"That's a relief," he mused, nipping at the sensitive skin just above the curve of your breast. "Because I intend to fuck you again the second we're back in my bedroom, and then once more in the morning before Tessai and the kids arrive."

You moaned softly at his blunt admission, hips bucking up against the insistent grind of his cock still buried deep inside you. Urahara smirked, allowing himself a few moments of indulgent pleasure as he drank in the way your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks.

"But… can we sleep a bit first?" You yawned, voice soft and already beginning to slip away towards the beckoning embrace of unconsciousness. It was only then that Urahara noticed the fatigue lines bracketing your eyes, and he couldn't help but press a tender kiss against your forehead.

"Of course, my love," he whispered, gathering your pliant form in his arms and carrying you towards the safety and shelter of his bedroom. "We have plenty of time now to indulge every wicked fantasy you've ever harbored. There's no need to rush..."

Urahara smirked as your breath began to even out and slow into the steady cadence of slumber. He was looking forward to the morning already, and everything that awaited him once you awoke.

Just as he was about to follow you into blissful sleep, however, his ears picked up on one last, murmured confession slipping past your lips.

"Love you, Shinji…"

[calehenituse-brainrot]

Mors

Cale Henituse | Kim Rok Soo x Transported!Reader

A meeting with a transcendental being.

content warning: blood, cannibalism

Sitting on your haunches, you look at the withered flower inside the ripped heart in your palms. You recalled how your chest was a gaping hole, devoid of a heart as well. Your hands trembled as you cradled the heart, wrenched straight from the chest of a god.

It was still in your hands, bathed in blood and eerily similar to a human’s. Similar to yours. If he was a god, why was he so identical to you? Why does he retain the human traits of his previous life after reaching godhood? Was it his way to be tied still to his roots? Was it his way to honor his previous life? Or was he doing this to be like the god you knew, wanting to be closer in image to the people that worshipped him, so they would feel closer to him?

You let out a small laugh at your questions. ‘God works in mysterious ways, I suppose.’

The flower within, a dianthus, was withering. You remember how that god had opened his mouth and swallowed your heart full. Was there something in your heart that he needed? Could his replace yours…?

You stilled for a moment, realizing that you couldn’t even hear your breathing. The withered flower inside his heart seemed to whisper to you, and you felt the temptation to open your mouth. Murmurs began to fill your senses, overwhelming you. The withering flower seemed to speak to you, promising a forgotten power, its decay a testament to the once-mighty deity's fall from grace. 

You opened your mouth, your mind flashing to the memories of your struggles; the raw, visceral moment when you forcibly tore the heart out of the god’s chest. You felt pure rage then and now it lingered as a hollow echo. You felt… empty. That man had once been your father -- a bad one, and you had the satisfaction of beating him to the ground and killing his image. 

What now?

With a deep breath, you lifted the heart to your mouth, the withered petals coated in blood touching your lips. 

“Will you be able to carry that power?”

You snapped, looking up in shock. The space had turned dark and when you looked up, your eyes glimmered with the sight of the universe before you, surrounding you. You felt a pull, the silent summons that drew you towards it all. Where is all?

A force pulled you to look up, and you seem to be looking into the edge of the universe. There was something that bears no form and defied mortal comprehension, an unyielding force that transcended all understanding. Whatever it was, it was an ungraspable enigma, woven into the fabric of the universe. You felt a presence, its weight palpable and its depth seemed to be pressing against your soul. You feel heavy.

Overwhelmed, your breath catches in your throat and your eyes teared up. It was as if the universe had stilled and you held your breath at the weight of it all in a moment of profound reverence.

The God of Death was neither seen nor heard, but felt—an all-encompassing awareness that filled the space around a person, a shadow that danced at the edge of perception. 

He was the very essence of the end, the silence that followed the final breath each dying person takes. 

You realize how small you are, and how your erratic breathing compares to the calmness He embodied. You were a mere spark in His infinite expanse of time. You smiled through your tears. “You’re here.”

His vastness tilted, and though He had no eyes, you felt its attention fixed on you. His voice was not a voice but a cacophony of sensations: waves crashing, a fire roaring, the soft crackle of ice breaking apart.

“I am,” He said to you. His voice seemed to ring in your ears, vibrating through your very bones, carrying with it the faint echoes of all the lives He had claimed as his.

“You’re not like how I expected you to appear,” you murmured, gently lowering your hands as you looked up at the cosmos. He was everything and everywhere all around you at once. 

“Do you expect me to appear like in your little books?” He asked, His tone amused and it disturbs you to know such a great being was capable of understanding you so intimately. 

You nodded. “Yes.”

The galaxies glimmered as He laughed and you watched it all, mesmerized. “You’re… beautiful.”

This god was not like the one you knew. You knew what Death would look like through the novels, but your idea of an ethereal being that greets you in the afterlife never had a face. You imagined Him to have a figure of kindness cloaked in the despair of the end, a ferryman to guide your soul or a looming, austere angel wrapped in glowing robes. But He was none of that. He was not the gentle shepherd you knew nor was he an angel. There was no humanoid form for you to grasp, to hold for comfort at the end of your life.

He has no voice. He needed none. His presence filled the endless expanse of this space, towering like a mountain, shifting like stormy clouds of a night, the edges fraying into a blinding mix of light and shadows. His body -- can you even call it one? -- was composed of dark clouds, flashing as if a storm was brewing deep within. It swirled in front of you, like the beginning of a hurricane. 

You recalled the cold waters, the tilting ship, and the piercing ache in your chest. The stinging pain of slamming and breaking the water surface before you lost your consciousness. “Is it my time? Is that why you’re here?”

He did not reply for a moment, and you felt the universe vibrate. The heart was lifted from your palms and floated in front of you.

“A God is dying,” He said. “These petals were once radiant with celestial light. Because of you, now they are brittle and dark. His divinity is dying.”

“Is it a sin?” You asked him. “Have I sinned?”

“I am not one of your wrathful gods,” He said. “There is no sin for a child who simply wants to live.”

“Take this heart,” He said. “Eat it whole and consume the flower within. You’ll be able to come back to your family. They wait for you.”

You cupped your palms, and the heart slowly fell back to your hold. You look into the withered flower and then back to the universe. You felt the essence of Death, the profound stillness He was able to provide that calmed the storm in your head. You closed your eyes. “You feel so… peaceful. Heavy, but peaceful.”

“Because this is the edge of your existence,” He told you. However it sounded, it sounded so gentle. Forgiving. The universe warped again and an hourglass appeared, the sand being stardust. It was running out of it. This was your lifespan. “There is no judgment that awaits you here. Nothing awaits you here.”

“Will I stay here if I choose not to consume this heart?” You asked. 

The God of Death let out a sound similar to a surprised hum. “No. This is not death. It will be painful and a glorious sight to see your death. You will feel the pain. At this moment, I am being merciful to you.”

You gulped. “I… I don’t want that. Can’t I die peacefully?

“No,” He answered, quiet and still.

“Why not?” You asked, feeling a lump form on your throat. Deep down, you crave for His approval, for His attention. You wanted comfort from the being that will take your soul, and you’d never admit it, but you were devastated. “If I stay… You will be the one to take me. You take everything… At the very least, make it painless--”

The air stilled as He seemed to focus on you. “Do you think of me as a cruel god?”

“So much,” you whispered. “You take everything away and we all suffered from it.”

The dark clouds surround you and you feel the way they wrap around you close, forcing your chin up to face Death. “You mistake necessity for cruelty. My followers think I must love or hate, guide or punish. But I am neither shepherd nor tyrant. I am the ending of things, as natural as the fall of night. I owe you nothing.”

The sheer indifference in His tone—or His essence—shattered something inside you. You had hoped for solace, for answers, for meaning. Instead, you found yourself face to face with the vast, uncaring truth of mortality. You were a speck of dust in the presence of a cosmic storm. You must understand that you are nothing in front of these Gods.

“All things must end. The cycle cannot hold without me. Your grief is yours to bear. It has never been mine.”

You sat in silence, the heavy truth within His words pressing down on you like the weight of the world. For a moment, you felt like screaming your heart out. This is unfair! I did my best to be a good person and I will die a painful death at the end! 

This was callous -- the final moments of your life would be raw, scathing pain that you’ll feel until you die. Death was easy to face, but dying was not something you wanted, much less in pain. Staring at the mass of dark clouds, the fire in your chest flickered and then immediately dimmed.

Whatever you do, it will be futile. Your rage will be futile, your pleas unheard. You are mortal.

You rose to your feet slowly, panting. The God of Death said nothing, watching—or perhaps not—as you grasped for the heart.

The hourglass slowed.

“Consume the divinity,” He said. “Consume it and let it take you.”

You opened your mouth and lifted the heart to your lips. Your teeth sank onto the bloodied, lifeless flesh and a surge of a cold and ancient energy coursed through you. The taste was something you could never have tasted in your living days. It tasted of iron and stardust, horribly bitter with the remnants of a dying divinity. You gripped at the flesh with your teeth and ripped it away, swallowing the chunks whole and each swallow was a step further into the abyss, your soul intertwining with the fading essence of a dying god.

The withered dianthus crumbled in your mouth, its divine energy dissolving on your tongue and it left you with sorrow and tears.

You swallowed the final piece and your gaping chest began to close itself. Your chest burns with the dying embers of divinity that now reside in your soul. You sat there, looking up at the universe with your bloodied mouth, the weight of your action settling into your bones. 

It was slow at first. A burn on your tongue, and then around your throat that had dared to consume such a sacred thing. You gasped, grasping at your throat and then your chest. You let out a pained wail as your chest seemed to have something slithering inside it, moving inside your flesh and skin and causing you to scream in pain.

“I-I can’t--!” You stammered out through pained gasps. “I-I can’t t-take it! Please!”

“Be calm,” Death whispered to you. “Accept your end. I’m here to take you.”

You slumped to the ground, panting as you began to feel faint, the universe warping around you. 

The inevitability of His embrace filled you with a strange, bittersweet peace, a release from the burdens of mortal toil. In the overwhelming quiet, you found a deep acceptance, a surrender to the inevitable cycle of existence. The God of Death, unseen and formless, held you in a silent embrace, a guardian of the boundary between life and the infinite unknown.

And in that sacred moment, where time and space dissolved into the eternal twilight, you understood the profound peace of surrender, the quiet grace of the end, as you were gently carried into the vastness beyond.

Ron sat in the ship, looking up at the starry skies as Archie swam back to the continent. The ship’s gentle motion cradled the two people who lay unconscious on its wooden floorboards, the soft creaking of its timbers mingling with the sounds of the whales swimming. His eyes, weathered by years of witnessing death, gazed upward. Ron could never think he would seek solace within stars, but here he was.

They always felt so cold to him. They were an ancient, eternal beauty, so indifferent to the troubles that Earth and its inhabitants faced. To think something like that was a small part of a vast existence and Ron felt conflicted about whether or not he should feel glad that his sorrows were so small within that existence. He came to the conclusion that he didn’t care.

The night breeze, cool and salt-tinged, whispered through his silver hair, carrying with it the scent of the open sea. He inhaled deeply, drawing strength from the air, his weathered hand resting gently on your hand. Ohn was tucked under your chin, herself paranoid that in the middle of their way home, your pulse would stop beating and she’d lose you again.

Rosalyn was sitting on her haunches, your head placed on her lap as she was nodding off.

Your skin was cool beneath their touch, a stark contrast to the warmth of their love, a love that burned with the fierce intensity of a dying star.

The ship moved steadily, its course unwavering, slicing through the dark waters toward their home. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, the minutes stretching out as if time itself were reluctant to move forward. The stars above shimmered with a light that seemed to pulse with ancient wisdom. 

He turned his gaze from the stars to you, his heart aching with a deep, primal fear. One that he had not felt in a long time.

“Stay with me,” he implored quietly as if he was praying to himself. The night seemed to hold its breath, the stars flickering in silent sympathy.

Ron paused when he saw something move under the coat he had laid on your front as a blanket. Ohn’s ears twitched and she looked up groggily, only to be met with the grotesque sight of your flesh seemingly moving and writhing underneath the coat.

As if possessed, your back arched violently and dozens of thorns burst off your gaping chest, sprouting like tendrils as it moved wildly around.

Choi Han immediately stood behind Cale’s unconscious body, his sword already out as he stared at your body with a guarded gaze. “W-what the--?”

Rosalyn immediately woke up, stepping away from you and watching as your body convulsed even though you were still unconscious. “[N-name]?!”

Your body convulsed wildly, the thorns growing longer as it seemed to be reaching for the skies. Choi Han looked at them all cautiously and turned to Rosalyn. “Should we cut it down?”

“We don’t know what it will do to her if we do,” Rosalyn said. “We should try to contain her--”

Before Rosalyn could finish her sentence, the thorns slowly began to slow their convulsions and retract back to your gaping chest. Its thorns retracted and grew softer, taking the form of ordinary vines as it draped along your body similar to a tapestry, the prettiest hyacinths growing around you like the most beautiful blanket.

Rosalyn hesitantly touched the flowers, checking for any abnormalities to see if they posed any danger. Once she had confirmed that the flowers were safe, she went ahead to check your chest, trying to see if you were bleeding out from what had just happened. She separated the blankets of flowers to see your once gaping chest was now plugged with dozens of vines knotted together. They started from your flesh as if they were your veins, becoming more prominent as they reached your chest and became all knotted together to plug your wound.

“How fascinating,” Rosalyn murmured, her eyes glimmering. She leaned forward, gently running her fingertips along the green vines, seeing how they faded from red as they came from your veins to green like a typical plant.

You were peaceful within your slumber, unaware of the chaos that you had created in the world of the conscious. 

The world was hazy when Cale slowly opened his eyes, the soft glow of sunlight spilling into the room like liquid gold. The rays struck his pale face, painting him in ethereal light as the weight of sleep still clung to his limbs. The sound of the curtains being drawn filled the air, the faint rustle of fabric accompanying the light's advance. Cale winced, raising a trembling hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

A low groan escaped his lips, barely audible, but enough to make Ron turn. The ever-composed butler approached swiftly, his steps as quiet as a shadow. 

“Young Master-nim,” Ron’s voice was calm, a steady anchor in the waking haze. “You’re awake…”

Cale sat up slowly, every movement deliberate as though he was piecing himself back together. He barely had a moment to breathe before warmth crashed into him.  

“Huummannnnn! Stupid, stupid human!”  

Raon’s tear-filled cries filled the room as the dragon clung to him, his small body trembling with relief. Ohn and Hong quickly joined, their soft, furred forms pressing close to Cale, their cries mingling with Raon’s as they buried themselves against him. Their tears soaked into his clothes, their overwhelming relief a storm that engulfed him.  

Cale blinked, disoriented, his hands instinctively reaching out to comfort them. He clumsily patted Raon’s head, his fingers trembling as they ruffled the dragon’s dark mane.  

“Hey now,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and weak. “I’m fine. I’m here.”  

His words did little to stem their tears, but they clung to him as though they feared he might vanish again. Raon sniffled loudly, his round eyes peering up at Cale with a mix of relief and scolding.  

Ron stood nearby, watching the scene with quiet detachment, though a faint glimmer of something softer lingered in his eyes. “Five days,” he said at last, his voice cutting through the cacophony. 

Cale glanced up at him, his own exhaustion still clinging to his features. “How long…?”  

“It’s been five days since we rescued Miss [Name],” Ron replied.  

Cale’s brow furrowed, his voice dipping into concern. “Is she—?”  

Ron’s frown was subtle but heavy. He shook his head. “She’s still unconscious. We’ve done all we can, called every advanced healer there is, but nothing seems to work.”  

Hong pressed his small head to Cale’s stomach, his voice a whisper tinged with worry. “She wouldn’t wake up at all… We’ve tried so hard…”  

Cale’s hand moved to Ohn, gently stroking her soft fur. Her wide eyes shimmered with tears as she rested her head on his lap, her quiet sniffles breaking his heart.  

“I missed you…” she murmured, her voice fragile.  

“I never left,” Cale muttered in reply, his hand lingering on her head as a frown tugged at his lips.  

Ron, ever the vigilant butler, stepped forward, his sharp gaze raking over Cale’s form. “How are you feeling, Young Master-nim? Any pain?”  

“I’m fine,” Cale replied, though his voice lacked conviction.  

Ron’s hands were quick, professional as they checked his injuries, his touch brushing lightly against the faint scar over Cale’s chest—the spot where nature itself had torn into him. The wound was sealed now, but it carried the weight of the battle etched into his very being.  

“I would call that impossible,” Ron muttered, his tone flat yet pointed. “But considering it’s you, Young Master-nim, I will simply choose to believe you… and forbid you from overexerting yourself.”  

Cale arched a brow, his lips quirking faintly. “So you don’t believe me.”  

Ron’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smirk. “Oh, I would never distrust your words,” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with faint sarcasm as he finished inspecting the scar.  

“Everything looks good,” Ron concluded, stepping back.  

Cale sighed, leaning back against the headboard. He glanced at Raon, Ohn, and Hong, their tear-streaked faces now calmer but still clinging to him like shadows. A faint smile played on his lips, though weariness hung heavy in his eyes.  

“Looks like you all didn’t miss me at all,” he murmured softly, his words betraying the comfort he found in their presence.  

Raon’s tail flicked, his voice firm despite the lingering tremor. “Stupid human. Of course we missed you! Don’t say stupid things!”  

Cale chuckled faintly, the sound low and hoarse, but genuine. “Alright, alright. I get it. I’m not going anywhere.”  

And though the room was still tinged with the weight of worry, for a brief moment, there was peace. It wasn’t long before he had to wash up and get ready for breakfast, so he reluctantly got out of bed -- the first time he was voluntarily getting up early -- and walked to the en-suite bathroom attached to his bed chambers.

The warmth of the morning lingered as Cale stood at the washbasin, splashing water onto his face. The coolness jolted his senses awake, washing away the haze of sleep and the remnants of the days spent unconscious. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him—pale, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, a silent testament to his overuse of powers.  

Behind him, the soft patter of paws and the faint swish of a tail broke the quiet. Raon, Ohn, and Hong hovered near the doorway, watching his every move as though afraid he might collapse again.  

“Are you just going to stand there?” Cale asked, his tone light but teasing as he toweled off his face.  

Raon puffed out his chest. “I’m supervising! A mighty dragon never leaves his human unattended after such a reckless stunt.”  

Cale chuckled softly, his breath fogging the mirror for a moment. “And what about you two?” He glanced at Ohn and Hong, who stood quietly behind Raon.  

Ohn shuffled her paws, her ears flicking nervously. “We’re just… making sure you’re okay.”  

Hong nodded, his tail swaying faintly. “You scared us, you know.”  

Cale sighed, running a hand through his hair before turning to face them. “I’m fine, see? Now, let’s go eat before Ron starts lecturing me about skipping meals.”  

Raon trotted ahead, his wings fluttering slightly as he led the way to the dining area, while Ohn and Hong stayed close to Cale’s sides, their small forms a comforting presence.  

The dining room was bathed in soft light, the table already set with a simple but hearty breakfast. Ron stood by, his ever-present smile as calm as the morning air. He stepped forward as soon as Cale sat down, pouring a cup of tea and placing it within arm’s reach.  

“Young Master-nim, the tea will help replenish your energy. Please, enjoy the meal.”  

Cale eyed the tea warily. “If this is one of your concoctions, I’ll pass.”  

Ron’s smile didn’t falter. “It is merely a blend to aid recovery. Nothing more.”  

“Hmm.” Cale picked up the cup but didn’t drink just yet, focusing instead on the plate of food in front of him.  

Raon was already settled beside him, his tail thumping against the chair as he reached for a piece of bread. “Human, eat lots! You need to get your strength back.”  

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” Cale muttered as he took a bite, the warm flavors spreading across his tongue.  

Ohn and Hong sat across from him, quietly nibbling on their own portions. Every so often, Ohn would glance up at Cale, her large eyes shimmering with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. Hong, meanwhile, focused on his food but kept sneaking looks at his brother and sister, as though ensuring they were also eating properly.  

Ron moved silently around the room, refilling tea and occasionally adjusting a plate, his movements so seamless they barely registered.  

“So,” Cale began after a few bites, breaking the gentle rhythm of the meal. “What’s the plan for today?”  

Ron paused briefly, his gaze meeting Cale’s. “Today, you rest, Young Master-nim.”  

Cale raised an eyebrow. “I think I’ve rested enough.”  

“Your body would disagree,” Ron replied smoothly. “And so would those who were left worrying over you.” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward the children.  

Raon, mid-chew, nodded emphatically. “You are resting, human. Don’t even think about using that scary power again. I won’t let you!”  

Hong chimed in, “We’ll make sure you don’t.”  

Cale let out a small sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Fine, fine. I’ll rest. But I need to go see [Name] first.”

“Of course, Young Master-nim,” Ron replied immediately, nodding his head.

“Who’s with her right now?” Cale asked, watching Raon happily stuff his mouth with another roll and Ohn and Hong share a quiet exchange.

“Choi Han,” Raon answered with a cheer, smiling widely. “He said there was someone else like him now.”

Cale blinked. Right. Him, Rosalyn, and Cale himself practically walked down your memory lane after being connected by the powers within that island. Choi Han must be happy and even curious about you now that he knew you were someone from another world like he and Cale was. 

He must be eager to talk with you.

“I see,” Cale murmured between bites. “I’ll see her after breakfast.”

“I’ll go too,” Hong said with a smile. “I want to see her too.”

“We all do,” Cale replied softly, caressing Hong’s head.

For now, things were calm. And Cale would take that small mercy, even if he knew it wouldn’t last. Your room constantly haunted his mind throughout the breakfast, but he didn’t rush himself to it. He let himself rest for a moment with he children after breakfast before they all headed there together.

He figured that Choi Han must have left for breakfast when he got there, because the moment he entered your room, he saw Cage standing by your bed. He approached the woman slowly, seeing the anxious expression on her face. “Miss Cage. How are you?”

“Cale-nim!” Cage greeted, her eyes widening. “How are you? Is everything okay? I heard you woke up today but didn’t think I’d see you.”

“I’m fine,” Cale said, unconsciously placing his hand on top of his chest where his heart resides, feeling the bumps of the ugly scar there through his clothing. He looked down to where you were, seeing you lay on the bed, hair spread out on the crisp, white pillows. Your face was sunken and pale, your body hidden away by the neat sheets which proved that you hadn’t moved at all ever since you were laid down there. 

There was a dip on the foot of the bed, similar to the one he had on his where the kids would sleep. He silently wondered how many times the kids had stayed here with you instead of with him. He looked up, back to Cage. “I suppose you’re here to visit [Name]?”

Cage stared at him, her expression grim. “Y-yes… I had a vision, of some sort.”

She glanced back at you. “I saw Miss [Name] and the God of Death. He took her.”

Cale’s heart felt like it missed a beat, his stomach suddenly aching from the anxiety. “What?”

“He took her,” Cage repeated. “H-he gave her something and she took it and then she just… disappeared. She ended up with him.”

“I’m afraid you’re not being very clear,” Cale said with a frown. “Ended up with him?”

“She’s with the God of Death now, Cale-nim,” Cage said. “She’s dying.”

The dim light of the room cast long shadows, the steady rhythm of your breathing the only sound breaking the silence. Cale sat motionless, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his chin propped on his hand. Raon was curled up on his lap, his small body radiating warmth against Cale’s exhaustion. The dragon’s tail flicked occasionally, a restless movement betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.  

Cale’s gaze remained fixed on your face, pale and serene, like a marble statue. The delicate rise and fall of your chest was both a comfort and a torment—proof you were still here, yet unmoving, locked in some place Cale couldn’t reach.  

Cage’s words echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain: “She’s with the God of Death now. She’s dying.”  

It has been a full week since then. They tried to gather priests and even the Saint, but nothing seemed to help.

His hand absently moved to Raon’s head, stroking between the dragon’s small horns. Raon let out a soft hum, pressing closer to him.

“Human,” the dragon murmured, his voice barely audible. “She will wake up. I believe it.”  

Cale didn’t respond, his fingers halting for a moment before resuming their gentle rhythm. Raon’s faith was unshakable, but Cage’s vision gnawed at him, a dark weight pressing against his chest.  

Ohn stirred slightly near your shoulder, her soft fur brushing against your skin as she stretched her small legs and resettled herself, her tiny breaths mingling with yours. On your stomach, Hong kneaded gently, his rhythmic purring a soothing backdrop to the heavy silence.  

‘Cage said the God of Death took her,’ Cale thought, his frown deepening. ‘What does that even mean?’

The God of Death was no stranger to him—a force that lingered on the edges of mortal comprehension, powerful and merciless. If you were truly in His hands, what could he possibly do? The thought of someone so close to him caught in the grasp of that enigmatic being churned his stomach.  

“I can’t just sit here,” he muttered, breaking the silence.  

Raon lifted his head, blinking up at him. “Then what will you do, human? You’re supposed to rest.”  

Cale didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on your face, searching for any sign of life, any flicker of movement, but you remained still. His hand moved from Raon’s head to his chest, pressing against the scar there, as though willing himself to focus.  

“I’ll find a way,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “There’s always a way.”  

Raon’s round eyes studied him, filled with worry but also trust. “Then I’ll help. We’ll all help. Ohn, Hong, and I—we’ll do whatever you need.”  

Cale’s lips quirked into a faint, fleeting smile. “Of course you will.”  

But even as he spoke, his mind raced. If the God of Death truly had you, he needed answers—and fast. Few beings in the world could meddle with something as enigmatic as the God of Death, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. He never did.

“Human.” Raon’s voice was stronger this time, pulling Cale from his thoughts. “She will wake up. We’ll make sure of it.”  

Cale didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, his hand returning to Raon’s head. “You’re right, Raon. She will.”  

“Will you wait for her?”

Cale snapped his head up, heart lurching in his chest. The voice was cold, unyielding, and familiar—one he’d never thought he would hear so close again. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes locked onto the figure standing by the foot of your bed.

There He was, the God of Death.

His presence filled the room like a thick, oppressive fog. The air grew colder, and even Raon stirred on Cale’s lap, his small body suddenly rigid with unease. Cale didn’t even notice, too consumed by the figure before him. 

The God of Death stood as He always did—humanoid in form, His features barely human, his tall, shadowed silhouette more an embodiment of the unknown than a mortal being. His face, though not quite like a person’s, was lined with a calm, otherworldly beauty, a mask of serene inevitability. His eyes were voids, endless and fathomless, where time and space seemed to converge, swirling like an endless abyss. Yet His gaze was not unkind—merely detached. He was beyond any emotion Cale could comprehend. 

Cale’s chest tightened, but he refused to flinch. He had met the God of Death before, had bargained with Him, but now? Now, with you lying so still and silent on the bed, now with the knowledge that He was planning to take something precious from him? The chill of His presence felt like it was crawling under Cale’s skin, settling into his bones.

"She is not dead," Cale said, his voice low, more a statement than a question. His fingers tightened around the arm of the chair, his pulse quickening despite himself. "So why are you here?"

The God of Death tilted His head slightly, the faintest movement, but it spoke volumes. His voice came again, like the wind itself—a whisper that reverberated in the back of Cale’s mind. 

"She is dying. Whether you accept it or not, the moment I took her, it was sealed." 

Cale’s heart twisted painfully. He swallowed hard, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. "She’s not dying. I won’t let her. You can’t take her from me."

The God of Death’s gaze shifted from Cale to you, still and pale beneath the sheets. There was no pity in His expression—just an infinite calm, a certainty that made Cale feel small in comparison. 

"She has already given herself to me. She will join me and others," He said, His words floating in the air like an inevitable conclusion. "There is no changing this. She will not wake on her own."

Cale’s chest constricted, and for a moment, the silence felt unbearable, but Cale’s focus never wavered from the God of Death.

"Is that it, then?" Cale’s voice cracked but he held His gaze. "You’re here to tell me there’s nothing I can do? That she’s already gone?"

The God of Death did not respond right away. He simply regarded Cale with an almost imperceptible tilt of His head, as if studying him, contemplating the answer.

"Nothing you can do," He repeated slowly, each word wrapped in finality. 

"But..." The God of Death paused, and for the first time, Cale felt an uneasy shift in the air, as if something far darker was behind those words. "Will you wait for her? Will you stand by her side as she fades from this world and into my domain?"

Cale’s hand clenched into a fist. He could feel the warmth of Raon’s scales against his skin, the steady thrum of his heart, and the weight of the room pressing in on him. 

"I’ll wait," Cale said firmly, his voice quieter now but steady. "But I will not stop looking for a way. I’ll find a way to bring her back."

The God of Death was silent for a long moment, as though considering Cale’s defiance. His eyes, though hollow, seemed to glimmer for just an instant—an unreadable emotion flickering in the depths. 

"Your persistence will not change what is inevitable. But..." His voice trailed off, the weight of His words hanging heavy in the air. "You may stand beside her if you so wish. But know this—she will never belong to you in the way you desire." 

Cale’s eyes hardened. “She belongs to no one but herself. And if she wakes... I’ll make sure of that."

The God of Death gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, His presence pulling back just a fraction, but never quite leaving. He tilted His head again, the faintest trace of something almost like curiosity in His eyes.

“Then I will leave you to your vigil. But remember, Cale Henituse—she cannot escape this.”

And with that, the God of Death faded, His figure dissolving like smoke, leaving Cale alone with the weight of the room and the heavy stillness of your slumber. 

The cold remained, lingering in the air, but something inside Cale hardened. He would wait. He would stand beside you, and even if the God of Death’s words held some truth, Cale would make sure you never felt alone. 

He would not let you fade into the void without a fight.

Suddenly, Ohn and Hong sat up, their fur bristling and tails standing stiff in shock, their wide eyes fixated on you. 

Cale’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the slight movement, the slow twitch of your fingers beneath the sheets, a faint flutter of your eyelids. For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it, the hope stirring within him like a flicker of light in the darkness. But then you shifted again, your breath hitching as your chest rose just a little more sharply.

Raon leaped off Cale’s lap in an instant, his wings flaring as he shot toward your bedside. 

"H-human?" Raon’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and hope, his small body quivering with excitement. "Is she...?"  

Cale’s breath caught, and without thinking, he moved closer, his eyes never leaving your form as he knelt at the side of the bed. His hand hovered over your own, as if unsure whether to touch you or let you come back to him on your terms. The room seemed to hold its breath as the seconds stretched into eternity.

Then, a soft gasp—your body stirred again, and for the first time, your eyes fluttered open. Not fully, but enough for a sliver of light to break through the veil that had enveloped you. The warmth in Cale’s chest was overwhelming, and he felt his hand tremble as he finally reached for yours, gently cupping it with his own. 

“[Name]?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from the weight of his anxiety. "Can you hear me?"

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breath, shallow but steady. Then, you blinked, slowly focusing on him, your eyes still clouded with confusion, but they were alive. 

"…Cale?" Your voice was weak, barely a whisper, but it was enough to make his heart soar.  

Cale’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t know if he should smile or cry. Instead, he simply squeezed your hand, his voice a soft murmur of relief. "I’m here." 

Ohn, who had been watching from the side of the bed, let out a relieved whine, nuzzling into your side. Hong, still curled on your stomach, tilted his head and purred softly, rubbing his face against yours in a quiet greeting. The children were no longer anxious, their soft breaths matching the rhythm of yours as they instinctively sought comfort in your revival.

Raon hovered just above the bed, wings flapping lightly in a tiny victory. "Told you, human! She will wake up!"

You blinked again, more clearly this time, and your gaze drifted over to the three of them—Ohn, Hong, and Raon—before finally focusing on Cale. The confusion in your eyes slowly morphed into recognition, but there was something more in them too—a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something even Cale couldn’t quite read.

"What… happened?" Your voice was still weak, barely more than a breath. "Why am I…? I thought…" 

Cale’s heart twinged at the memory of Cage’s words. He fought to steady his voice, to keep his composure as he gently stroked your hand. “You’ve been unconscious for a while, but you’re awake now. That’s all that matters.” 

He hesitated for a moment, casting a glance toward the door as if expecting the God of Death to reappear. But there was nothing—only the quiet hum of life in the room.  

"You’re safe now," Cale continued softly, bending down slightly to be closer to you. "You don’t need to worry."  

The air was thick with unsaid things, but right now, there was no need for explanations. No need to dwell on what had been—only on the fact that you were awake, breathing, here with him.  

The children settled beside you, their presence a comforting weight on the bed, and Raon perched on the edge, eyes full of determination. "I’ll protect you, little [Name]! I won’t let anyone take you again!"  

Cale couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He turned his attention back to you, watching you slowly blink in and out of focus as you tried to make sense of the world around you. He was patient, as patient as he could be in that moment, his hand never leaving yours.  

"Rest," he whispered, his voice softer now. "You’re safe. You’re here."  

And for the first time in days, Cale let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. You had come back, against all odds. And as long as you were here, he would find a way to keep you from ever slipping away again.

You looked up at him, gaze tender and apologetic as tears well up in the corner of your eyes. “I’m sorry… For leaving.”

“It’s okay,” Cale murmured. “You were… blindsided.”

“I was an idiot,” you murmured with a soft sigh, closing your eyes as the tears slowly fell.

“Sleep,” Cale murmured, hesitantly pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ll be here. We’re all here.”

[midnightanxietytm]

Don't think about the dream! (NSFW)

A/n: this one is for @melle-d, so not my lamb, I had a lot of fun with this one, didn't even review it, just wrote. Also, can anyone send me a dollar for totally not related reasons? BRL don't really cover it.../j

Summary: But, since turning immortal, since getting their marvelous ring, Ewen, now known as just The Lamb, has looked forward to death, if only because they wish to see their beloved. Three nights ago though, things changed.

MINORS DNI - nsfw under cut

The Lamb is dreading their death.

Weird thing to feel, most people dread their death all their lives, it shouldn't be a new thing at all for them. But, since turning immortal, since getting their marvelous ring, Ewen, now known as just The Lamb, has looked forward to death, if only because they wish to see their beloved.

Three nights ago though, things changed and they had an… Interesting dream, one that involved their legs spread open and their god pounding them ruthlessly, and they’ve been thinking about it ever since, which was the root of their problem. If they died and ended up in his realm, Narinder would surely read their mind and see everything. Sure, it could be an opportunity to tease a bit, nothing they hadn’t done before, but that dream had been especially intimate and it had evoked a more visceral reaction than even their actual experiences.

Now, standing on the doorway to Anura, all ready for a crusade, for the first time, they hesitate. 

They step in anyways, promising themselves that this time it would be a no-death run.

It was not a no-death run.

There wasn’t much time to think about sex dreams when you’re getting swarmed by fireballs and jumped on by giant frogs, but as soon as they appeared on the summoning circle in front of their god and looked up at Narinder, the dream flashed tough their mind all over, a shiver going up their spine.

They don’t remember how it started, but they do remember the heated kisses, his clawed hands ripping their clothes, as Narinder revealed his own eldritch form; arms and abdomen pure bone, so much taller than them, pushing them into the ground and willing the crown into a barbed-

That all crossed the Lamb’s head before they had the sense to stop it. Oh sacred death they shouldn’t have thought about the dream.

There’s half a second of regret before Narinder speaks, his tone amused; “It matters not how many times you are struck down, as I’ve told you, but are you really that eager to see me, little vessel?”

Something about the way his voice rang through the infinite space brought another shiver to them and all they could think was; Don’t think about the dream, over and over, so no answer left their mouth as they looked to the side with an awkward chuckle.

Which seemed to be a mistake, because then came Narinder’s voice again; “What dream, Lamb?” Another shiver,now as they feel their god prod shamelessly into their mind, like cold tentacles prodding into their thoughts and- Oh lord, wrong train of thought! “It’s pointless to try and hide your mind from me, vessel, I own all of you, every thought of yours should be devoted to me.”

“Oh, believe me, my lord, they are.” They say, but almost regret as their tone gives away all the sinful things running through their mind. Narinder seems to find the memory of their dream just then, and Ewen catches a brief second of surprise in his features.

But then he laughs “Oh poor little vessel.” He says. “You wouldn’t be able to take me on this form.” He leans down and uses a giant hand to pull them closer. “Little Lamb, your desire is also devotion that fuels me, even if I can't personally satisfy them…”

The Lamb’s breath hitches at the implications. “I haven’t… I wouldn't dare disrespect your image, my lord.” They say, looking up through their lashes with big doe eyes and raising a hand to the bell on their neck. It was a pretended innocence, they both knew. The lamb had been not-so-subtly provoking Narinder since they first met.

  “Lamb, you are my vessel, you belong to me, every act of yours, every desire, is devotion to me.” The Lamb exhales shakily, the ring around their neck almost burns. “Go on, show me how devoted you are.”

Ewen raises their other hand and undoes the clasp of their fleece, letting it fall to their feet, then they move to remove their bell, but Narinder stops them. “Leave the bell, little lamb.” They do, and start to unbutton their clothes, all while looking up at their god. His hand was still resting on the ground behind them, and they lay down, leaning against it.

Narinder’s eyes are fixated on them as they spread open their legs, already painfully horny. They started to run their hands over their body, as they had done dozens of times before, but now, with their god watching them so intently, it felt so much better.

They don’t waste too much time, soon they’ve shoved two fingers inside themselves and moved them with reckless abandon, breathing shakily and letting out an occasional small bleat of pleasure. Narinder doesn’t say anything, but he watches them with a grin; three red eyes focused on them.

They decide then that if their god wanted to see their dream, they could show how it went, at least partially.

The crown, eager for sin, moves and transforms mid-air, assuming the phallic shape, with the barbs, just like they had imagined. Lamb slides further down, spreading their legs and raising their hips for their god's better view, and the crown shoves itself into them without hesitation.

  And the god watches; the Lamb’s pathetic bleats and moans fill the silence of death's realm with pleasure, with the hot dripping feeling that is desire. The crown moves slowly at first, but it only takes Narinder a bit of will to order it to move faster. 

The little Lamb rolls their eyes, calls his given name in between a moan and with a dumb satisfied smile on their face. Narinder can feel their devotion, their obsession, dripping like the wetness between their legs. “My lord!” They plead, eyes barely focusing on him. “I'm yours all yours!” They say it like a mantra, a prayer to belong to him and him only. 

They say Death is merciless, but Narinder feels quite merciful as he moves his hand to better support his darling vessel before willing the crown to go faster.

Ewen's mind feels melted; their god, Narinder, was looking at them with the repressed hunger only an immortal could have, the crown inside them was hitting all the right places, and their climax approached fast, so fast, almost there.

They cum with a desperate bleat, the crown finally slows down. Narinder takes in the sight of their perfect vessel lost in bliss; in another time, he would have adorned the little lamb in jewels and have them sit on the arm of his throne during every banquet, then take them to his chambers and fuck him over and over just to see them so beautifully blissed out.

But his chained form doesn’t allow him such things, so instead he allows the crown to return to the Lamb’s head — clean and back to its regular shape —  and nudges the lamb to stand on their shaky legs.

“Return to your duties, little vessel, but remember I'm always watching you.”

  The Lamb gets dressed, still a bit shaky, and is sent back to the cult, knowing that their god would have much to watch during the next few nights.

A/n: A little messy, but I had fun trying to write another Lamb, hope i did it justice.

Where are aym and baal during this scene? Out on a walk or smt idk. Whats the Lamb's genitalia like? Bruh whatever is convenient idc im not good at describing those things lol

[sabertoothwalrus]

OK PREFACING WITH IM SORRY IF I ALREADY SENT THIS EXACT ASK BUT MY WIFI KILLED ITSSLF AS I SENT IT SO IDK IF IT ACTUALLY WENT THROUGH. but in case it didn’t . i know youve gotten this countless times in the past because i blog stalked just in case youve mentioned something similar before but i need to know if you have any specific inspirations when you draw exaggerated expressions specifically like these two images of marcille. ive actually cried laughing over this comic and being able to communicate this type of visceral emotion is such an insane skill and ive followed your art for probably close to a decade through various fandoms so watching you develop this style has been fucking awesome and epic. like i cannot articulate how funny these are to me i just need you to understand i look at this comic to inspire me to draw now. the closest comparison i can draw to the feelings they evoke are like those mspaint reaction images and also mspaint tails i included for reference even though you probably know exactly what im talking about anyways but its actually so much harder to do that intentionally when you study art. also i lied you literally don’t even need to answer this i just had to let you know how obsessed i am over your silly comics and now ive written out a whole ass discussion post about it. im sorry if this is weird at all i think my daily prescribed amphetamines r wearing off and i know this is such a dumb specific thing to fixate on and im so sorry if its not something you want to hear about your art. ive just always seen that as an artist this type of expressive stupid silly style is something that comes after a significant amount of time and practice and study and style development despite being “simple” in theory. its just so cool to have worked with your own style so much that youre able to go “off model” from it and still maintain consistency with the rest of the piece. i said it already and im sorry this is actually rendundant now but the ability to communicate such raw emotion somehow decreases from at its height when someone is a beginner artist learning how to proportion and keep a steady line and what looks “normal” but somehow it all comes full circle because taking all that experience and using it to almost return to where you started but in a fully informed and intentional way so you can make choices to draw characters like this when the situation calls for it is just dhcidogakgoshfhw. i think i need to cut myself off or im going to talk in circles im sorry tumblr user sabertoothwalrus i just am fascinated by your style and progress and the years you’ve dedicated to art can be seen in so many places but this is just one that stands out to me specifically.

MMMMM what a fun question!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I think it's just Letting A Drawing Be Bad. I definitely think the people that struggle with this the most are people who have genuinely very pretty art styles, to the point of being kind of perfectionist about it. and to Draw Funny often means Drawing Fast and Weird. Pretty is kind of the antithesis of funny (unless being pretty is the punchline). do drawings that make yourself laugh. tracing/lining funny sketches almost always makes them less funny.

one of my favorite types of humor is when it skews more deadpan, actually. This is one of the reasons I love Adventure Time. minimal expressions and flat line delivery + absurd context is a really good combo. the key to comedy has more to do with contrast! if your drawings are allllll crazy ren & stimpy all the time, they're not funny anymore cause it's just "normal". if it's all subdued UNTIL it's extreme, and vice versa, then it's funny. The reason this comic is so funny is because of the complete lack of any expression. I feel like the one you sent of Marcille shouting "WHAT" is funnier when you know how much she tries to be dainty and feminine and delicate, how much she values her appearance, and how averse she is to "gross" or "weird" things.

something I find really annoying (and this is with comics/animation in general, not the expressions themselves) is when the joke goes on for too long. Like you'll have the joke, then the punchline, and THEN the characters reacting to the punchline??? Like the author didn't trust that their audience would find the joke funny, so they basically drew in a laugh track. But, this is distinct from a character's reaction being the punchline (like how the examples you gave from my Marcille comic are). MY POINT IS sometimes expressions aren't as funny on their own as you think, and context can affect how you feel about it!

as far as inspirations go!

my own face! even if I don't have a mirror, I like making the expressions myself so I can "feel" where the points of tension on my face are, and it gives me a sense of what to exaggerate.

my brother's art, believe it or not! we've been trying to make each other laugh with our drawings since we were kids, and he's really good at it.

ATLA has some great expressions

OK KO has been a reallyyyy good source for me lately. That show is so tailored to my sense of humor and the expressions and line deliveries feel exactly like the kinds of things I'd come up with. The tone, timing, and art style are all really close to the tv show pitch I'm working on, so when I feel like I've "strayed" too much from it (like after drawing a bunch of dungeon meshi, and my art feels tighter and... idk "manga-ier"?) I like to go and watch a couple episodes of OK KO to loosen back up

A lot of things like OG Spongebob, Calvin & Hobbes, the Simpsons, Chowder, etc etc

memes in general. if it makes you laugh, keep it in mind

and lastly, I wouldn't say I ever try to mimic funny expressions I see. Like if I watch a show for inspo, I'm not pausing it to copy specific drawings, I'm just trying to notice patterns and pay attention to what about it I find funny.

talking about being funny is really bizarre and I dunno if it makes it lose some of the magic. Ultimately it's something you can't think about too much, and just gotta go with your gut.

[andshesaidwhat]

Cherry - Clay Beresford

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six |

Summary: After the boundaries are pushed a bit too far, you and Clay agree that you both need to be more careful about adhering to the rules going forward. That lasts for all of about ten minutes…

Warnings: angst, descriptions of sex work, alcohol consumption, dry humping, coming in pants, nipple play, the pining is strong as ever.

Playlist | Masterlist

After another week went by with no sign of Clay, you began to wonder if he was busy with work or if he had just finally decided that you weren’t worth his time.

This was why you hadn’t wanted to be involved with someone like him. You didn’t like how much it consumed your mind. He was all you were able to think about lately.

You had replayed that last meeting in your head over and over, cursing yourself for pushing it so far but craving to feel that fire again. You hadn’t even touched him, but that connection had still been the most visceral thing you had ever felt.

You stared at your reflection in the vanity mirror, wondering how you’d let yourself fall in this deep. You knew better than to get roped into the romantic ideology that men like him subscribed to, but things with Clay felt…different.

“He’ll be back, babes,” Frenchie spoke, coming up behind you and resting her chin on your shoulder.

You held her gaze in the reflection of the mirror, softly sighing as you playfully rolled your eyes.

“I’m not worried about that, French,” you told her, shrugging dismissively. “He’s just a customer, that’s all. He’s no different than any other patron here.”

“Except for the fact that he owns a multibillion dollar corporation,” she said, quietly. When she saw your wide eyes, she scoffed, “What? I have eyes, doll face, I can recognize a celebrity when I see one. Besides, he’s been plastered all over TMZ enough times that he could get rich from the royalties, alone.”

“He…” you paused, glancing around to make sure the other dancers weren’t listening. “He just wants some privacy. I don’t think he wants it getting out that he’s spending so much of his time in a place like this.”

“You mean you don’t think it would fit his lovely public image?” Frenchie joked, snickering as she nudged you. “I’m joking, Cherry-pop. The man has every right to live his own life without it becoming the next big news story. You don’t have to worry about me running my trap. The other girls, however… They may not talk, but they’re certainly waiting for their turn with him. If you’re truly so tired of him, maybe you should let one of them take him off your hands.”

You felt a sudden spike of anger as the bitter taste of jealousy settled on your tongue. Frenchie smirked knowingly at you, laughing quietly as she shook her head.

“Just a customer my ass…” she snorted, walking over to sit down at her station. “You want my advice? Rules are meant to be broken — and I’m not just talking about the club.”

Her words sank in, settling heavy in your chest as you looked away from her. You sighed, shaking your head as you busied yourself with touching up your hair and makeup.

Sal walked into the back, clipboard in hand, and he idled on over to you. He looked up, glancing between you and Frenchie as he sensed the tense atmosphere.

“I don’t wanna know,” he said, sighing. “You’ve got a customer, Cherry. Room four. The kid’s gonna buy this whole place out sooner or later. Dunno what you’ve been doing to the boy, but keep doing it.”

As Sal walked off, you felt your heart begin to race. He was here. Oh, god…he was here. You didn’t know whether to feel ecstatic or to crumple in a complete panic. You settled for a dazed middle ground as you took one last look at your appearance and adjusted your lingerie set.

“Mr. Admirer awaits you,” Frenchie teased, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You glared at her with a huff, feeling your palms growing sweaty.

The hallway seemed to go on forever as you made your way down to the looming door of room four. With a shaky hand, you reached for the handle and pushed it open.

Your breath escaped you as you walked into the room and met the gaze of his dazzling blue eyes. Your heart was in your throat and your feet felt rooted to the ground. You had thought a week would be enough time for the effects to wear off…but no.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you said, quietly.

Clay’s eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed as he spoke with just as much tenderness, “Cherry.” He walked toward you, his movements slow and deliberate. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve thought about you every day since we last saw each other. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come back.”

The confirmation that he’d been thinking about you as much as you’d been thinking about him tugged on your heart.

“I was beginning to think you’d ran for the hills,” you joked — though your voice betrayed your doubt. You held his gaze until it became too much to bear, then you looked away and cleared your throat. “We, um…we may have pushed the boundaries a bit too far the last time we met. Going forward we should probably stick to the rules.”

“Yes,” Clay agreed, nodding. “We need to respect the boundaries.”

His eyes told a different story, however. They burned with desire, his gaze lingering on the curves of your lips. His fingers twitched by his sides, as if itching to reach out and touch you.

“I’ll try to behave,” he confirmed, his voice hoarse.

“Thank you,” you said, biting back every urge to say fuck it and break every goddamn rule in the book. “Besides, this will give you more time to ask your questions and tell your stories.”

“Oh, I have a story to tell you, Cherry,” he smiled, moving to sit down on the couch. His eyes never left yours as he leaned forward, propping his elbows onto his knees. “It’s a story about a boy who fell for a girl, but couldn’t have her. He would do anything to be with her, but she was out of reach. He would dream of her every night — of the way she looked at him and the way she made him feel. He would wake up every morning hoping that she would be there, waiting for him…but she never was.” He paused, his gaze intense as he looked at you with longing. “The boy would wonder — was it all just a dream? Is this a dream, Cherry? Are you just a dream? I’m beginning to think that I’ve made you up in my mind as some sort of psychotic delusion.”

You tried to ignore the way your heart pounded as you smiled at him, a hint of laughter in your voice as you asked, “You think I’m made up?”

“I think that maybe I’ve created you in my mind,” he breathed. “Maybe you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

You stared at him for a moment before you said, “Stand up, pretty boy.”

Clay rose from the couch and moved to stand in front of you, his body tense with anticipation. He was ready to do anything you might ask of him.

“Yes, Cherry?”

You moved closer until you were a breath away from him, peering up into his eyes.

“I may not be able to touch you, but there are still ways that I can prove to you I’m real,” you told him. “Can you smell the subtle hint of perfume on my skin?”

Clay’s eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. The sweet, faint scent set his senses ablaze as he sighed.

“Yes,” he whispered, his eyes opening to lock onto you. “I can smell you.”

“Good,” you smiled, leaning up to let your lips hover near his ear. “Can you hear my voice?”

“Yes,” he nodded, shivering at the soft sound of your whispers. “I can hear you.”

You walked around his frame, moving behind him as you stood on your tiptoes to gently blow on the back of his neck.

“How about that? Can you feel that?”

“Yes,” Clay gasped at the tickle of your breath, feeling goosebumps erupt onto his skin. “I can feel you.”

“See?” You grinned, walking back around him until you were stood in front of him again. “I’m real, pretty boy.”

Clay’s gaze was locked on you, his heart thudding inside of his chest. He could see you — the way you batted your lashes, the way you smiled at him.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips as he whispered, “I suppose you are, Cherry.”

“Good,” you smirked. “Now that we’ve got that settled, why don’t you pour me a glass of that champagne you brought.”

Clay breathed out a laugh as he turned toward the ice bucket. He grabbed the bottle, popping the cork and picking up a glass. His hands trembled slightly as he poured the drink, watching the bubbles fizz to the top.

“Here you are, Cherry,” he said, handing out the glass for you to take.

You held his gaze, smiling as you reached for it. You weren’t paying close enough attention. Your fingers grazed his as you took the flute from him and you gasped, letting go of the drink as it fell to the floor with a loud clank.

Electricity zapped your fingertips. The touch was so small, but it had happened. You had touched him. After weeks of building up boundaries, your skin had finally touched his.

Your chest heaved up and down as you stared at him, wordlessly. His eyes were wide, his own breaths coming out in ragged pants. He could feel the electric current between you.

“Cherry,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

“I…” You attempted to speak, but words fell short. You were stuck in his gaze, feeling the remnants of his touch on your fingertips. So light, and yet…it was the catalyst to undo the final shred of your resolve.

Your eyes wandered down to his lips. His full, perfect lips…

“Cherry,” he breathed, his own gaze following suit as he leaned closer to you. “Please.”

There was nothing you could do to stop your body from moving on its own accord as you reached up to grab his face, bringing his lips down to yours.

Clay instantly sighed into your mouth, wrapping his arms around you to pull you close to him. His warmth enveloped you as he parted his lips, his tongue pushing past to taste yours.

The world around you melted away as your bodies melded into one another. The spilled champagne was long forgotten and the music faded into the sound of ragged breaths between you.

You were both lost in the moment, in the sensation of your lips touching, in the thrill of breaking the rules — of giving into your desires.

You pressed your body into his, relishing in the contact. You tried to memorize the way he felt against you — the way his hands roamed, the way he held you, the way he tasted.

He kissed you like he needed you — like yours was the only air he could breathe.

Without breaking the kiss, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him backwards until the back of his legs hit the edge of the couch. He stumbled, falling down against the cushions and bringing you with him. He groaned as you straddled his lap, wrapping his arms tighter around you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as the kiss grew more intense. Your nails gently scraped at his scalp, earning a small shiver as his breath hitched. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, gently biting down on it.

Clay moaned, his hips surging upward as he pulled you closer. His large hands wandered up to brush over the cups of your bra, squeezing softly.

You whimpered against his lips, arching into his touch. You were craving more, craving him.

His fingers traced across the thin fabric, tugging lightly at your nipples. His actions elicited a soft cry from your throat and he hummed in satisfaction. He used his thumbs to circle the sensitive buds, letting his tongue dance against yours.

It was ridiculous how natural this was for him. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to play your body like an instrument he’d known his entire life.

You moaned into his mouth, feeling the arousal pooling between your thighs at his teasing touch. You could feel the ache burning within you — the need, the desire.

You adjusted in his lap until you could feel his erection pressing up against your core. You ground your hips down against him, gasping at the friction of him pressed up into you.

Clay groaned, his eyes snapping open to meet yours. The blue in his eyes was nearly non-existent, his pupils blown with lust. The intensity of his gaze would’ve made your knees buckle, had you still been standing.

“Cherry,” he panted, his voice hoarse. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you breathed, grinding against him. “God, I want this.”

Clay grabbed your chin, moaning softly at your response. “Then take what you want,” he demanded. “Show me how much you want me, Cherry.”

You held his gaze as you slowly moved your hips, watching his eyes flutter at the sweet friction. You leaned forward and captured his lips again in a slow, passionate kiss. You grabbed his chin and tilted his head, kissing across his jaw. You trailed your lips down his neck, nipping and sucking at his pulse point before soothing the area with your tongue.

You moved your mouth up to his ear and whispered, “You feel so good, pretty boy.”

Clay’s eyes rolled back as his head lolled to the side. He kept a firm grip on your hips, dragging you back and forth against his crotch.

“Yeah, Cherry,” he groaned through heavy breaths. “Feels so fucking good.”

Your soft moans against his ear caused his hips to buck as his mouth found yours again. You could feel the constant friction beginning to stir a steady thrum of pleasure that was building in the pit of your stomach. Clay gripped your ass, kneading the flesh as he moved you faster against him. He returned your kiss with urgency, the desperation he felt evident in the way he devoured you.

“Fuck,” he panted. “You’re going to make me come like this.”

You held his face, giving him a knowing smirk as you continued to move against him. His eyebrows were knit together as he tried to ground himself, but the pleasure was too intense. His hips met yours at a particularly delicious angle and a whine escaped your lips. His eyes darkened further as he repeated the action, both of you desperately chasing a release. You gripped onto his shoulders for leverage, gasping for breaths as you felt your body humming with need.

Both of you were teetering on the edge, nearing the precipice. He rested his forehead against yours, holding your gaze as the space between you was a mingle of breathy moans.

He thrust upward, meeting you movement for movement as your bodies moved as one. The need to finish this, to reach the peak of pleasure, overwhelmed you both. You were caught in a dance of pleasure, of desire, of hunger. You danced with abandon, solely focused on the connection between you.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, pushing you further. “Finish the dance.”

You shivered the moment you heard the word baby slip from his lips. You whimpered, biting down on your lip as he coaxed you closer to the edge.

“I want you to finish it with me,” you panted, trying to hold on to the little restraint you had left.

“Anything you want, baby,” he nodded, a low moan sounding in his throat. “Anything you want.”

His hips surged up at the perfect angle, hitting you exactly where you needed it. He repeated the motion, reaching up to gently cup your face.

“Let go, Cherry.”

You held his gaze as your body soared over the peak, falling into a fit of pleasure as you gasped. Clay watched with rapt attention as you came, the sight alone sending him to his own release. He let out a strangled groan as he buried his face in your neck, clutching you tightly as you both rode out your highs.

Moments passed, your breathing ragged as your bodies both moved in sync. Finally, you both relaxed against each other. He pulled back, looking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes.

You held his face, tracing his swollen lips with your thumb before capturing them in a slow kiss. He hummed, contentedly, returning your kiss with sweet devotion as his hand cupped the back of your head.

The world was hazy as you both pulled back, gazing into each other’s eyes. You struggled to catch your breath, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

“Cherry,” he breathed, caressing your cheek softly. “That was…”

“Incredible,” you finished for him, smiling softly.

Despite your better judgment, you laid your head down on his shoulder and buried your face in his neck. You inhaled the musk of his cologne, breathing him in as you relaxed in his arms. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, holding you close as he gently ran his fingers through your hair.

You knew that this was a mistake you’d be sure to regret, but you wanted to bask in the affection. You hadn’t known such comfort in so long…

“Tell me another story,” you whispered, clutching the fabric of his shirt in your fists — as if he’d fly away if you didn’t hold him down.

“Okay, Cherry,” Clay smiled, stroking your face with his thumb. “How about the story of a young boy who grew up with a dream to make something of himself — to continue a legacy. He worked hard, chased his dreams, and eventually found success…” he paused, his fingers trailing up and down your arm, “…but even with all of the fame and fortune, he still sought something more.”

“Why did he want more?” You asked, tracing the buttons of his shirt with your finger. “Was he unhappy?”

Clay’s smile faded slightly, his eyes losing their playfulness. “No, not unhappy,” he said, softly. “Just lonely.” His fingers intertwined with yours, his thumb rubbing your palm. “He found himself successful, but it wasn’t enough. There was a void he couldn’t fill, no matter how many people surrounded him. Then, one day, he met someone…”

You sat up in his lap, facing him. You held his hand, playing with his fingers as you waited for him to continue. He watched you intently, his heart in his throat.

“He met someone who made him feel alive,” he continued, softly. “Someone who saw past the fame and the facade. It made him realize that…maybe he’d been chasing the wrong legacy all along. Maybe a life well lived is less about the fortune, and more about the people you’d want to share it with.”

You held his gaze, feeling the threat of tears sting your eyes. You opened your mouth to respond, but the shrill ring of the timer sounded — signaling the end of the session.

“Shit,” you cursed, grimacing. You looked at him with apologetic eyes and said, “I have to go work the rest of my shift.”

Clay’s heart sank at the sound — the sudden reminder of reality. He didn’t want you to leave. He didn’t want the moment to end.

“Yeah,” he whispered, softly, his voice filled with disappointment. “Work.”

“Don’t worry, pretty boy,” you told him, holding his face in your hands. “You’re the only rule breaker I’ll allow.”

You leaned down to place a gentle, slow kiss to his lips before climbing off of his lap. Your body immediately missed the warmth he provided. You felt hollow, having to step away from him again.

“Thanks, Cherry,” he whispered, smiling sadly. “I’ll hold on to that.”

He stood up and straightened his clothes, trying to shake off the lingering sensations.

You couldn’t help but glance down at his crotch, stifling a giggle at the wet patch that had formed on the front of his pants.

“You should, uh…you should probably cover that,” you laughed biting your lip.

Clay blushed, his eyes dropping down. He groaned, an embarrassed smile pulling at his lips as he untucked his shirt to hide the evidence.

“Yeah, I should,” he murmured, his cheeks pink.

You couldn’t resist reaching up to kiss him one more time. He sighed against your lips, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. He kissed you like he may never get the chance again. You could feel it down to your toes as he poured himself into this fleeting moment.

You pulled back and rested your forehead against his as he peered down at you.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He held your gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, giving you space. He knew you had to get back to work, and he respected that. Still, a part of him wished you didn’t have to go.

“I’ll see you around, pretty boy,” you said, taking one last long look at him before leaving the room and returning to the real world.

You missed him the moment he was out of sight. You wanted nothing more than to run back into that room and tell him to take you away — but that wasn’t a story you could write for yourself.

You changed into a clean costume, but you could still feel his touch against your skin. You never wanted to wash that feeling off of you.

When you walked back up to your vanity, Frenchie looked at you with a shit-eating grin.

“You little rule-breaker,” she whispered, poking your arm with a laugh. “The smell of sex is practically wafting off of you, babes.”

You couldn’t help but blush, frantically shushing her as you looked around. Realizing that nobody else was paying attention, you bit your lip and looked back at her.

“Do you think I’m taking a huge risk, French?”

“Yes,” she nodded, without hesitation, “and it’s about time you did.”

You sat back in your chair as her words sank in, unable to shake the feeling that this was the start of something that would change your life forever.

By the time you were gathering your things and getting ready to clock out for the night, Sal met you in the back with a wad of cash. You took it from him, seeing a tiny piece of paper sticking out between the bills.

When Sal retreated back to the front with a grunt of acknowledgment, you grabbed the paper and unfolded it.

For Cherry,

From Your Pretty Boy.

Your heart fluttered. Your pretty boy. The implications of that word alone were very dangerous.

You gasped as your turned the paper over, bringing your hand up to your mouth.

Across the back, he had scrawled his phone number. You stared at it long enough that you could have committed it to memory. Those numbers stared back at you, daring you to risk everything.

You wouldn’t call him. You couldn’t call him. That would mean breaching every rule in the book — both the club’s and your own.

No matter how badly you wished that they could, your worlds could not collide. There was a reason why Romeo and Juliet ended in tragedy. You both existed on opposite sides of life.

If you were to bridge that gap, to cross that divide, it would surely be your ruin.

————————————————————————

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[gothamite-rambler]

"I'm a poison... I couldn't save them," Nightwing cried, the fear toxin invading his mind.

A/N: Whelp, I cried while writing this… I kind of regret knowing so much lore about Nightwing, but that song from Epic the Musical: The Wisdom Saga really felt right for him, and I got this idea from a TikTok video too. Yeah, it fits perfectly. Love you, Nightwing.

Context: Scarecrow escaped Arkham and released a stronger strain of his fear toxin.

In the ensuing scramble of fear affected Gotham citizens and the batfamily trying to ease the insanity, Nightwing's mask is knocked off... and every fear, regret and shred of guilt is unlocked from his buried memories.

Barbara (on comm): Nightwing? Nightwing, can you hear me? What are you whispering?

Nightwing (whispering, slightly louder): All I hear are screams.

Barbara (worried): Nightwing, it’s not real.

Tarantula (in his head): Nightwing, get away from the ledge!

Nightwing stepped into the middle of the road, staring blankly ahead. His hands trembled with fear as he noticed a knife on the ground. In the pandemonium a stray weapon laid on the ground— but to Nightwing it was a visceral reminder of his worst nightmares. He picked it up, not as a weapon, but as a lifeline to his fraying sanity.

Red Hood (standing behind his brother): Nightwing, get out of the road.

Nightwing (voice trembling with fear and guilt): You don’t know what I’ve gone through… You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed…

Red Hood stepped back, confusion etched across his face as he observed Nightwing staring at his shaking hands, stained with phantom blood. His grip on the knife tightened, wavering between the urge to use it and the desperate fight to resist.

Nightwing: Every comrade I once knew… Every friend… I saw them die… And all I hear are screams.

Silence enveloped him, Barbara and Red Hood begging him to break free from the horror unheard. Yet, the only voice haunting him was that of Tarantula’s—it seeped into his mind like poison. She was behind him… she was too close.

Tarantula (in a fake sweet tone): It will be fine, dear. Come back inside, dear. Love of my life, come back to paradise.

Red Hood (who appeared as the Tarantula in Nightwing's confused and frightened mind) took hold of his arm. To him, it was a gesture intended to pull him to safety and offer assistance, but in Nightwing's eyes, it felt like an attempt to hurt him once more. He recoiled, wrenching his arm free and stepping back in fear. All he could see was her—the woman who had exploited him at his most vulnerable.

Nightwing (clutching the knife arm in fear): Please… don’t hurt me.

Red Hood (confused): Hurt you?

What he hears…

Tarantula (Circe lines): Think of your past, and your mistakes. They'll be the last mistakes you'll make.

Tarantula (as Red Hood) stepped closer, but Nightwing could only cling to the knife as his breathing grew heavier.

Nightwing: Please… Tara- Catalina… Stay away from me.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, her heart aching to be there to help.

Red Hood: Catalina?

The image of Catalina grew clearer before him, her malicious smile reminiscent of that night weighing heavily on him. The pain surged as he brought the knife closer, the blade just inches from his skin.

In reality, Red Hood's heart raced as the truth dawned on him. He remembered the whispered rumors about this woman who had shattered a hero’s life—he never learned the hero's name.

Red Hood: Nightwing… were you…?

Nightwing (clutching the knife): Let me close my eyes.

Tarantula (as Red Hood spoke to Barbara, demanding to know who Catalina was): I know your life’s been hard; I’ll stay inside your heart.

Nightwing (closing his eyes): All I hear are screams…

Tarantula (creeping closer): I love you, my dear. I love our time here. Life would be so much worse—

Red Hood (but all Nightwing hears is Tarantula): Life would be so much worse if you had died.

Nightwing (forcing back tears): Just let me close my eyes.

Red Hood: Please stay away from harm. Stay in my open arms.

Nightwing (trailing off): All I hear are—

His eyes widened as he noticed the knife rising toward his chest. But then he froze in horror as he saw a young Jason standing before him—the brother he failed to save, the one he discovered was gone too late.

Young Jason: This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms.

Another familiar face appeared—Tim Drake at the age of loss, the moment he lost his mother.

Young Tim: How much longer 'til your luck runs out?

Nightwing: I’m sorry…

His mother emerged next, a visible head wound marring her beauty, her smile faltering, hands clasped as if praying.

Mary Grayson: Waiting, waiting, waiting… My baby boy, I’ll be waiting.

Nightwing (the knife trembling in his grip): I... took too long...

Young Jason: Whatever we face, we’ll be fine if we’re leading from the heart.

Within that torment, a version of Barbara materialized, a gaping gunshot wound in her stomach clawing at his heart.

Young Barbara: How much longer 'til the show goes south?

Nightwing: I can’t go on…

Current Red Hood (trying to remain calm): Nightwing, stop.

Barbara (on the comms, trembling): Nightwing, wake up!

Current Red Hood: Oracle, I got this!

The cacophony of voices began to overlap, engulfing him in chaos as he clutched his hair with one hand, the knife locked tightly in the other. Panic surged within him, his breath coming in quick gasps. Red Hood, witnessing the depth of his brother’s despair, realized the danger—the knife was raised, and his brother was on the verge of self-harm.

Current Red Hood (begging): Nightwing, fight it, please!

All he could hear were screams—cries, death—an agonizing paralysis that made him feel utterly helpless.

Nightwing (resigned): This is the price.

Tarantula (baiting him): We pay to live.

Nightwing (mindlessly): The world does not.

Tarantula (smirking, her voice more demonic): Tend to forgive. Do it… plunge the knife into your chest… for them.

Young Jason (bleeding): No matter the place, we can light up the world. Here’s how to start.

Young Tim (sobbing): How much longer…?

Young Barbara: Until we all fall down?

Mary (bleeding): Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Nightwing raised the knife higher, Red Hood's eyes widening in terror, sensing this was his only chance. He lunged toward his brother, but all Nightwing could perceive was his bleeding younger brother.

Young Jason: Greet the world with open arms, greet the world with open arms.

Nightwing tried to scream, but it came out as a weak whimper, charged with terror as he prepared to cut into his own flesh. Just as he was about to plunge the knife, something seized his arm, intervening in time before the blade could find its target. It was an embrace, but not Tarantula's—real and solid. The haze around him shifted from the ledge to the stark reality.

He wasn’t on that precipice anymore; he was in Gotham, in the heart of the street, the air thick with fear toxin. Red Hood, masked for protection, was the only one holding him. Nightwing trembled, fear and rage intertwining, the remnants of Scarecrow’s toxin gnawing at his mind.

Nightwing (voice trembling): Poison… I’m poison.

Red Hood (comforting his sobbing brother): You're not poison. You're nothing she told you. It’s okay… bro, I’m here. She isn’t here to hurt you… Nobody will hurt you.

Red Hood tightened his grip as Nightwing slumped forward, sobbing against him.

Nightwing (reflecting on those he lost or failed to save): I couldn’t save them… I couldn’t save them.

Red Hood (his typical jaded tone giving way to desperation): I don’t know if you can hear me, but you did everything you could, and you’re a hero. You’re one of the few people I can genuinely call a true hero. Please, don’t let the toxin take you down.

Nightwing (desperate, convinced he’s all alone): Forgive me… Forgive me…

Red Hood: I forgive you… because you're my brother and I love you.

Nightwing drew a deep breath, feeling a wave of calm wash over him. Though his mind was still shrouded in darkness, the presence holding him anchored him in reality, slowly dispelling the nightmarish visions that threatened to consume him.

Short Pt 2 coming soon

[bullet-prooflove]

5000 Follower Celebration: Postcards From My Heart - Terry Silver x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @thedeadsingforme @eddieslut69 @mia1653 @kimbergoldess

Companion piece to:

Attention - Terry hasn't been paying you enough attention.

Distance - Terry and you struggle with emotional distance as the embezzlement case continues.

Prequel to:

Twenty Four Hours - You come home from your trip to spend 24 hours with your husband.

The embezzlement investigation takes hold when Terry reports the crime to the FBI. He’s spent months trying to untangle it on his own and now it’s gotten to the point where he’s forced to hand over all the details to the authorities or risk looking complicit.

The unfortunate part to all of this is that he has to make himself available to investigators, which means he has to stay in the city while you undertake the gallery tour across Europe you’ve had planned for over a year now.

Ever since the exhibition with the paper airplanes went viral, galleries from around the world have been requesting both you and your artwork’s presence at their venues. They want to discuss the programs you’ve been undertaking and how to implement them in their own locations whilst showcasing your paintings.

You end up going alone and it kills Terry because things between the two of you, they’re still not entirely right after the night you asked him if he was seeing someone else. He’s tried to be more attentive but the embezzlement it’s eating up both his time and his energy. He doesn’t even get to see you off at the airport because he’s trapped in a meeting with federal investigators. You don’t say how much it disappoints you but he feels it viscerally as he tracks your flight right out of his orbit.

He worries that this trip, the distance between the two of you, it’ll be the thing that kills your marriage especially when he misses three of your calls in a row over a series of days. He tries calling you back but with the time difference, you just keep missing each other.

When the postcard arrives his heart sinks, it’s an image of the small chapel where the two of you married in Tuscany. He’s filled with an intense sadness because this was the real reason he wanted to take the trip, he’d been planning to surprise you, review your vows there and then the whole thing had gotten fucked up and now you’re barely exchanging texts.  

By the time the postcard arrives from Paris you’ve been gone almost a fortnight. Terry’s eating breakfast alone, preparing for another lengthy day of depositions when the call comes through.

“Guess where I am.” You say as you appear on the screen and something in Terry’s chest just settles.

After so many missed connections he’s been dreading this call because he’s adamant it’s going to be the one where you tell him you’re done with all of this but then he sees the expression on your face and for Terry, it could light up an entire room.

“Tell me.” He urges, his voice soft and you alter the camera to show him the bench in the gallery where the two of you met. You zoom in closely and there’s a tiny heart with both of your initials drawn in the corner in black sharpie.

“Georgia,” He says fondly. “Did you deface a bench in the Louvre?”

“I’m hoping they kinda take it like a Banksy.” You tell him before turning the camera back so he can see your face. “You know how he just turns up, graffitis something and then disappears. I’ve been doing it everywhere we’ve been together on this trip. I even tagged the church.”

“You did not!” He smiles because he realises what you’ve been doing whilst you’ve been on tour, you’ve been marking your relationship, making it indelible. He can’t describe how that makes him feel, to know that you’ve been thinking about him, that you’ve been leaving the evidence of your marriage on landmarks all around the world.  

“I did.” You assure him. “Right on the pew you got a little handsy that time whilst we were waiting for the priest.”

“You were wearing that white sundress.” He reminds you, propping his chin up on his hand. “Can you blame me for defiling you in a church?"

You blush then, the pink tinge climbing your cheeks because he’d made you come on his fingers on that pew, it had been embarrassingly easy because you’d gotten off on the deviance of it all.

“You look tired.” You say quietly as you settle yourself on the bench. “How are the depositions going?”

“Monotonous.” He tells you with a weary smile. “I feel like it’s taken ten years off my life.”

“Do you need me to come home?” You ask him, the concern evident in your features. “I’m sure there’s a flight I could grab…”

The fact you’re willing to cut this trip short if he needs it, it speaks volumes about your headspace about the relationship, just like your actions have. He can’t ask you to return to him, not when you’re doing such excellent work out there, not when you’re having so much fun.

“No baby girl, don’t come back until you’re ready.” He murmurs before he props his phone up against the salt shaker. “Now tell me more about your travels.”

Love Terry? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[greenthena]

Buck up, Hamlet!

***Trigger warning: Death and taking your own life in the context of Shakespeare***

Aziraphale likes Hamlet. Likes the play so much, that he bats his eyelashes at Crowley until the demon performs a miracle to make the mopey Prince of Denmark more popular. Well, good job, the both of you, because four hundred and some odd years later, you still can't get through repertory auditions without some bugger hoisting a skull and starting that monologue. Not that I don't appreciate Hamlet from a structural and analytical perspective. And the Prince of Denmark is a character most actors would sacrifice several toes to play. But it's dark. It's not a fun one.

So why does Aziraphale like it so much? Why's this fluffy little angel so Hell-bent on one of Shakespeare's tragedies? Join me, friendly Good Omens scholars, and let's suss some shit out.

Crowley adamantly dislikes Shakespeare's tragedies. "This isn't one of Shakespeare's gloomy ones, is it? Arghhhh. No wonder no one is here," he complains, wilting like a floppy noodle. Of course, it doesn't take much for Aziraphale to weasel the demon into miracling more people into the audience. But Crowley makes a point to say that he "still prefer(s) the funny ones" as he's leaving The Globe.

Crowley, I would argue, goes to the theatre to escape his real-life situation. He's a bloody demon who, when he's not stationed on Earth, literally goes to Hell. And it's not a nice place. Crowley's everyday life (particularly when he's not around Aziraphale) revolves around pain and suffering--whether its his or someone else's is insignificant. What matters is that regularly sees and experiences tangible, visceral representations of tragedy in his actual existence. Of course he prefers Shakespeare's funny ones! They're a reminder that the world and the human race that he's accidentally become so attached to is full of more than torment and affliction. Crowley doesn't appreciate Shakespeare's tragedies because they're an extension of his own suffering, with which he's already intimately familiar. For Crowley, attending a Shakespearean tragedy is like picking a scab. You already know you've been injured and fussing with the damned thing only makes it worse.

This is not the case for Azirapahle. As an angel, he's not allowed to have any scabs, much less pick at them. Like Crowley, he sees suffering in the world. He knows that humanity is constantly facing difficult odds, and even the most wonderful of human lives eventually ends in death. But unlike Crowley, Aziraphale works within a system in which there is no gray space--and therefore, no room for an angel, an agent of the side of righteousness, to experience doubt in the Ineffable Plan. The Heavenly model is to deal with problems by pretending they don't exist. Heaven has an image to maintain, after all. Like, the sheer amount of repression we see amongst the Heavenly Host is honestly terrifying. I'm thinking about the way in which The Metatron frames the Fall and damnation of a third of the angels. "For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happen twice, makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem." It's so cold and removed because to process something so traumatic would not fit the image of Heaven. So it's neatly boxed up and packed away into a soundbite that better fits Heaven's corporate brand.

Aziraphale's suffering is certainly no less than Crowley's. The angel's trauma is repressed. It's cloaked in shining bright hallways of pure angelic light. It's hidden behind false words and tight smiles. It's communicated passive-aggressively by abusers who still have the angel caught in their web of control and manipulation. At least Crowley's trauma is visible. When he fell, the demon took on a new appearance that physically demonstrates his suffering. He has access to feelings of anger and frustration and he's allowed to express these things because he's a demon. He doesn't have to be good.

Since Aziraphale is not permitted to own his emotions and his trauma, he outsources them. He enjoys Shakespeare's tragedies because they give him the opportunity to achieve second-hand catharsis. He may not be able to admit that he's suffering, but he can experience Hamlet's pain vicariously.

***Reminding you of that trigger warning, folks!***

And this is where we get to the question, "To be, or not to be?" This is the moment in S1 E3 when Aziraphale interacts with Richard Burbage, and shouts out, "To be! Not to be! Come on, Hamlet, buck up!" He says this with this coy little smile, obviously trying to get a laugh out of Crowley. But it's indicative of a more serious dilemma that the angel, himself, must parse out. In Shakespeare's play, Hamlet's query is expressed as he wrestles with the choice between life and death. Essentially, it's a contemplation of suicide--a dark part of humanity that Heaven manages by eternally condemning those who would risk it. However there's another way to read this question, not as life and death, but as agency and the lack thereof. We think of "to be" as the choice for life and "not to be" as the option for suicide. But the only way in which Hamlet can express his agency is by taking control of the one thing that truly belongs to him: his own life. So when asking this question of an eternal being, what exactly does it mean, "To be?" What does it mean for Aziraphale to express agency in his immortal existence?

In Western thought, we tend to divide things into binaries: right and wrong, black and white, good and evil...to be or not to be. Back in the Garden if Eden, Crowley first introduced Adam and Eve to the idea that they had a choice. The serpent presented two options, obey or disobey God's authority. Though I think a better way of looking at it would be to say, passively accept your role or have agency in your fate. This is Crowley's method. He never pushes temptations upon you. He just wants to make sure you know all your options.

Like Hamlet, Aziraphale is presented with the choice of, "To be or not to be?" He can sign on the dotted line and follow Heaven's authority or he can be an angel with agency, an angel that goes along with Heaven as far as he can. And though Aziraphale still struggles with how exactly free will pertains to angels, Crowley shows him time and time again that he has options--he can make his own choices. From the very first interaction between the angel and the demon on the wall of Eden, Crowley (ever the optimist) knows there is hope for some meaningful connection with Aziraphale, because the angel makes a choice for himself: he gives away his sword. And from that moment, Crowley realizes that this angel might be just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

It's no wonder Aziraphale gets attached to the tragedy of Hamlet. It allows him to observe and process the darker and more difficult emotions that he, as an angel, struggles to manage. And perhaps more importantly, the Prince of Denmark's famous soliloquy mirrors of Crowley's method of temptation, wherein the demon simply reminds him that he has a choice and that, even as an angel, he can find ways to express his agency.

[alyrasturnz]

matt thinking he'd be the best ghost face killer is my roman empire. like yes you would be bby!!! you would also be the hottest one there

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎CHERRY WAVES

❐ summary » in a chilling tale of obsession and regret, a small town is haunted by the legacy of ghost face, a masked figure whose reign of terror left scars both seen and unseen. amidst the shadows, y/n discovers the hidden wounds of those she thought she knew, unraveling a web of secrets and lies. as the past and present collide, the boundaries between victim and villain blur, leading to a final confrontation where the true face of fear is revealed.

❐ pairings » ghostface!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » heavy gore, insanely violent, mentions of blood, stabbing, carving a heart out, severing a face, skull stabbing, chest stabbing, neck stabbing

❐ a/n && w/c » 400 specialll! THIS TOOK ME A THOUSAND TRIES???? TUMBKR KEPT FUCKING DELETING THIS I ALMOST PISSED MYSELF I SWEARRRR. if this flops im gonna quit THE TARA IN THIS FIC IS NOT TARA YUMMY • 5.68k

a harrowing scream erupts from your lips, reverberating through the air like a mournful echo. tears cascade down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you stare at madi's lifeless body sprawled before you. the stark reality of her death sears into your soul, each heartbeat pounding in your ears like a relentless drum. the world around you seems to fade, leaving only the haunting image of her still form.

her face was a grotesque canvas of horror, completely severed and meticulously carved out, leaving the flesh on her skull barely clinging to the bone. the macabre artistry of the mutilation was both horrifying and surreal, as if some malevolent force had taken perverse pleasure in defacing her humanity.

her skin hung in loose, grotesque folds, blood continuously spilling out in a relentless torrent. her face was a horrifying canvas of raw, exposed musculature, completely devoid of any semblance of normal skin. the entirety of her visage was drenched in crimson, a macabre display that left no trace of her former appearance, only the stark, visceral reality of her suffering.

her body was an eerie shade of pallor, a ghostly white that seemed almost otherworldly. crimson rivulets of blood streamed down her face, tracing morbid paths across her lifeless features before pooling onto her pale, lifeless form. the stark contrast between the vivid red and her alabaster skin created a chilling tableau of death and despair.

the scene was a nightmarish tableau, a grotesque display that twisted your insides and left you feeling profoundly nauseous. it was an assault on your senses, a visceral horror that gnawed at your very core and left your heart aching with an unbearable sorrow.

with sobs wracking your body, you staggered closer to the grisly tableau, each step a harrowing journey towards the macabre scene of the kill. the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground seemed to shift beneath your feet as if recoiling from the horror that lay before you. your heart pounded in your chest, a relentless drumbeat of dread, as you forced yourself to confront the unspeakable carnage that awaited.

you knelt down in front of madi, your legs trembling as if the weight of the world bore down upon them. your lips quivered, a soft whimper escaping as you reached out with a shaking hand towards her face—if it could still be called that. the touch was met with the warm, sticky sensation of her blood, clinging to your skin like a haunting reminder of the life that had been so violently torn apart.

you turned your head to the right, your vision blurred by the torrent of tears streaming down your face. through the watery veil, you could just make out the faint, haunting silhouettes of writing on the wall, the letters dancing and distorting in your tear-filled eyes, as if the very words themselves were weeping with you.

you hastily wiped your tears away with the rough fabric of your sleeve, the motion swift and desperate, before pushing yourself to stand.

"true beauty lies within," the haphazard scrawl declared, the letters smeared and uneven, as if inscribed with a trembling hand. it was written in what you could only assume was madi's blood, the crimson ink a chilling testament to her final moments.

you cast your gaze downward, where her makeup lay scattered across the floor, a chaotic mosaic of colors and textures, each item a silent witness to the turmoil that had unfolded.

you furrowed your eyebrows, a deep crease forming as your mind grappled with the cryptic message. what could it possibly mean?

but then, like a bolt of lightning piercing through the fog of confusion, realization struck you with sudden clarity…

in the dimly lit room, the tension was as thick as the shadows that clung to the walls. everyone was huddled together, their whispers a murmur of suspicion and fear, each casting furtive glances at one another in a desperate attempt to unmask ghostface.

nick's eyes flitted nervously around the room, scrutinizing each face in turn. his gaze finally came to rest on madi, who, with an air of unsettling calm, was nonchalantly retouching her makeup.

“madi? seriously? right now?" nick exclaimed, his voice a turbulent blend of disbelief and frustration, each word dripping with incredulity.

madi looked up, her expression a complex tapestry of indifference interwoven with threads of mild annoyance. "what? just because there's a killer on the loose doesn't mean i can't look good."

the room fell silent, the absurdity of the moment slicing through the fear like a knife. nick shook his head, struggling to comprehend how she could remain so calm—or so vain—at a time like this.

you let out a soft gasp, your breath catching in your throat as you brought your bloodied hands up to your mouth. the sight of the crimson stains on your skin sent a shiver down your spine, the metallic scent mingling with the air around you, creating a haunting reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded.

but soon, nick, matt, chris, tara, and nate came rushing in, their hurried footsteps echoing like a storm of urgency through the corridor.

"we heard your screams. are you okay?" chris said, but his words were cut short by a gasp that escaped his lips as his eyes fell upon madi’s lifeless body, the sight rendering him momentarily speechless.

you turned to them with tear-filled eyes, the tears still streaming down your face like a relentless torrent. "she's dead," you whispered, your voice barely audible, choked with the weight of grief.

as the reality of the situation sank in, uncontrollable sobs began to spill from your lips. seeking solace, you ran up to matt, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, burying your face in his chest. his presence was the only anchor in the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

his hands gently descended onto your back, tracing delicate, soothing circles on your skin. he allowed his chin to rest lightly atop your head, a silent gesture of comfort and reassurance amidst the chaos that surrounded you.

»--•--«

nick's voice shattered the oppressive silence like a thunderclap, raw and fervent. "i didn't fucking do it!" he bellowed, his words reverberating through the room, laden with a mix of desperation and fury.

the fire crackled, its flames dancing and casting flickering shadows across the walls. everyone was seated in the living room, the warmth of the hearth enveloping them as they exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken thoughts and lingering tension.

"it just seems awfully suspicious, nick," you hissed, narrowing your eyes at him. suspicion dripped from your voice, each word weighted with doubt and mistrust. you leaned in closer against matt's embrace, seeking both comfort and solidarity.

matt's fingers traced gentle, soothing circles on your upper arm, a silent gesture of support amidst the tension. the room seemed to hold its breath, every eye fixed on nick, waiting for his response.

"i mean… she did die with her face carved out, and you were the one who mentioned seeing her apply her makeup the other day," you said, your words laced with a mix of incredulity and accusation. you shrugged slightly, as if the weight of the implications could be so easily dismissed.

nick's face flushed with a volatile blend of anger and frustration. his eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as he tried to control the surge of emotions. "just because i noticed doesn't mean i'm guilty! you're grasping at straws," he retorted, his voice trembling with indignation.

"everyone, calm down," nate interjected, stepping between you and nick with a composed yet firm demeanor. "we need to maintain our composure and approach this with a clear, rational mind."

tara's eyes welled up with a torrent of emotion, her voice trembling as she softly said, "i love you all too much to accuse anyone. please, let's not tear each other apart." her words hung in the air, a poignant plea for unity amidst the chaos.

matt crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping across the room with a determined intensity. "but we have to figure this out. madi deserves justice," he declared, his voice resolute and unwavering.

chris nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room with a scrutinizing gaze. "we can't just ignore this. someone here knows more than they're letting on."

nick threw his hands up in exasperation, his frustration evident in every gesture. "why are you all looking at me? i just pointed out something i noticed. that doesn't make me guilty," he protested, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and bewilderment.

you took a deep breath, striving to maintain your composure. "it's not just about noticing, nick. it's about the way you said it," you remarked, your voice steady yet filled with underlying tension.

nick shook his head, his voice cracking with disbelief. "i can't believe you're turning this on me. we've been friends for years," he uttered, his words laden with the weight of betrayal and sorrow.

"you killed my best friend!" you yelled out, tears finally streaming down your face. the raw emotion in your voice reverberated through the air, a heart-wrenching cry of sorrow and betrayal.

as matt pulled you closer against him, his fingers gently weaving through your hair, he tried to offer some semblance of comfort. his touch was tender, yet it couldn't quell the storm of emotions raging within you.

the room seemed to close in around you, the weight of your grief pressing down, making it hard to breathe. each tear that fell was a silent testament to the bond you had lost, a bond that could never be replaced.

"I. didn't. kill. her." nick gritted through his teeth, each word punctuated with a seething intensity. fury and frustration flashed through his eyes, a tempest of emotions barely contained within his steely gaze. his clenched fists trembled, as if the sheer force of his denial could alter the reality of the situation.

tara stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of her plea. "please, let's not jump to conclusions. we need to support each other right now," she implored, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and desperation. her words hung in the air, a fragile bridge of hope amidst the chaos, beseeching everyone to hold together in this moment of uncertainty.

nate nodded, placing a comforting hand on tara's shoulder. "tara's right. we need to stay united and figure this out together," he said, his voice steady yet infused with a quiet determination. the warmth of his touch was a silent reassurance, a promise that they would face the trials ahead as one. his words were a beacon of solidarity, urging everyone to find strength in their unity and resolve.

the room fell into a heavy silence once more, each person grappling with their own thoughts and the weight of the situation. the air grew thick with unspoken words, as the gravity of the moment pressed down on them all. shadows seemed to lengthen, and time itself felt suspended, as everyone wrestled with their inner turmoil and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

nate surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he endeavored to piece together the fragmented puzzle before him. suddenly, his hand shot up, and with a voice tinged with both curiosity and suspicion, he asked, "wait… tara, do you truly love us enough to withhold blame? or are you merely the one who feels secure enough to refrain from casting accusations?"

tara's face flushed with indignation, but she took a deep breath, striving to maintain her composure. "nate, that's not fair. i love all of you, and the last thing i want is to start pointing fingers. we're all in this together, and accusing each other without any proof is only going to tear us apart," she responded, her voice a delicate balance of restraint and fervor. her words were a plea for unity, a call to rise above the chaos and hold fast to the bonds that connected them, even in the face of uncertainty.

but nate remained unconvinced. "think about it. if you were guilty, you’d be the last person to point fingers, but if you felt secure enough, you might attempt to steer us in the wrong direction," he argued, his voice edged with skepticism. his words cut through the air like a blade, probing the delicate fabric of trust that held them together, casting a shadow of doubt over tara's intentions.

matt, who had been quietly observing, finally broke his silence. “hold on. if we're going down that road, then maybe it's chris. he's tara's boyfriend. He wouldn't ever kill his girlfriend, so she feels safe enough to not point fingers at him." he stated, his voice a measured blend of logic and caution. his words introduced a new layer of complexity, weaving yet another thread into the intricate tapestry of their predicament.

chris's eyes widened in shock. "are you serious? y’know what, tara's right—this isn't the time to start turning on each other," he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and urgency. his reaction underscored the fragile state of their unity, a reminder that sowing seeds of doubt could unravel the tenuous bonds holding them together in this critical moment.

tara turned to chris, her eyes pleading. "chris, tell them this is crazy. we need to stick together," she implored, her voice a delicate blend of desperation and resolve. her gaze bore into him, seeking an ally in the storm of suspicion, a beacon of solidarity amidst the encroaching darkness.

chris nodded, stepping forward to address the group. "listen, everyone. tara and i are innocent. we’re just as confused and scared as the rest of you. pointing fingers without evidence is only going to make things worse. we need to work together and find out who the real culprit is," he declared, his voice a steadfast anchor in the turbulent sea of their predicament. his words sought to quell the rising tide of suspicion, urging unity and collective resolve in their quest for the truth.

the room fell silent as everyone grappled with the new accusations, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. the air seemed to hum with unspoken fears and doubts, each person wrestling with their own inner turmoil, the weight of suspicion pressing heavily upon them all.

»--•--«

the darkness enveloped the basement like a thick, suffocating shroud. the only beacon of light pierced through the abyss, emanating from the small, trembling glow of your phone’s flashlight. it cast long, eerie shadows that danced and flickered on the cold, damp walls. you and nick moved cautiously, each step echoing in the oppressive silence, as you strained to make out the shapes and objects hidden in the murky gloom.

"discover anything?" you inquired, your voice reverberating slightly through the cavernous space as you meticulously sifted through the disarray, your fingers searching for the elusive power box amidst the chaos.

"no luck," nick mutters, his voice tinged with frustration as he kicks a cardboard box, sending it skittering across the floor. he collapses into an old, creaky chair, the wood groaning under his weight. burying his face in his hands, he mumbles a string of curse words, the sound muffled and weary.

you clenched your jaw, the tension palpable as you continued to sift through the mess. "y’know, for the record, i still don’t trust you," you said, your voice edged with a mix of determination and lingering suspicion.

nick looked up, his eyes narrowed into slits. "oh really? well, that's just great. because i'm not exactly thrilled about being stuck down here with you either," he retorted sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface and spilling over in his words.

"you think this is fun for me?" you shot back, your voice rising with indignation. "i wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your brilliant idea to check the basement in the first place!"

nick’s eyes flashed with anger as he stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back with a loud scrape. his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire body radiating tension. "my brilliant idea?" he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "if it weren’t for me, you’d still be upstairs, fumbling around in the dark like an idiot!"

"at least i wouldn’t be stuck down here with someone who’s more interested in complaining than actually helping!" you fired back, your anger flaring like a wildfire. your voice echoed off the basement walls, each word laden with frustration and bitterness.

"oh, i’m sorry," nick said sarcastically, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "i didn’t realize you were such an expert in power boxes. please, enlighten me with your vast knowledge!" he crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as if to give you the floor, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and disdain.

"you know what, nick? just stay out of my way," you spat, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. you turned your back on him, dismissing his presence entirely, and resumed your search with renewed determination, your movements sharp and purposeful.

"gladly," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. he moved to the opposite side of the basement, each step a declaration of his disdain. the tension between you both thickened with each passing moment, a palpable force that seemed to fill the air around you.

but then, you heard an agonizing scream that pierced the silence like a knife. you and nick snapped your heads towards each other, eyes wide with alarm, before quickly dashing up the stairs. your hearts pounded in unison as you raced towards the source of the harrowing cry.

you glanced to your right and saw chris standing in the middle of the hallway, his presence both startling and unexpected. your heart began to race at a hundred miles per hour, each beat echoing in your ears like a relentless drum. the hallway seemed to stretch infinitely, the air thick with an unspoken tension, as you took in the sight before you, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

"chris?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you inched closer to nick. each step you took felt like an eternity, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. the air between you and chris seemed to crackle with tension, every inch of the hallway charged with an almost palpable electricity.

chris slowly turned to face the both of you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. the raw emotion etched on his face was unmistakable, each tear reflecting the turmoil within. the silence between you all was heavy, laden with unspoken words and the weight of the moment, as his gaze met yours, revealing a depth of sorrow that words could scarcely convey.

your gaze fell upon tara's lifeless, limp body, sprawled on the cold ground. her chest was grotesquely cut wide open, a gaping wound that starkly contrasted with the stillness of her form. the scene was a macabre tableau, the sight of her mutilated chest sending a shiver down your spine as the gravity of the moment settled heavily upon you.

the dim light barely illuminated the gruesome scene before you. tara's lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes wide open in a haunting stare, as if frozen in the final moments of sheer terror. the shadows danced eerily around her, casting an ominous pallor over the room, each flicker of light revealing the stark horror etched into her features.

your breath caught in your throat as you noticed the gaping wound in her chest, where her heart should have been. blood was everywhere, pooling around her and smeared on the walls in grotesque patterns.

but it was the message scrawled in her blood that sent a shiver through your very soul: "a big heart won't get you to the sequel." the macabre tableau was a chilling testament to the brutality of the act, each word dripping with a sinister foreboding that seemed to echo in the silent room, amplifying the sense of dread that gripped you.

your eyes widened in horror as you saw tara's heart, gruesomely placed in her own hands, as if mocking the very essence of her being. the room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the weight of unspeakable tragedy.

shadows seemed to stretch and writhe on the walls, and the oppressive silence was punctuated only by the faint, echoing drip of blood, each drop a reminder of the horrific scene before you.

you took a step closer, your feet feeling like lead. the details became clearer, each one more horrifying than the last. the jagged edges of the wound, the way her fingers were wrapped around her own heart, the lifelessness that had overtaken her once vibrant eyes.

it was as if a twisted artist had taken their time, ensuring every detail was perfectly macabre. the scene unfolded with a grotesque clarity, each element meticulously crafted to evoke a deep, visceral dread, as if the very air around you conspired to amplify the horror.

the walls seemed to echo with silent screams, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. you could almost hear tara's voice, her laughter, her kindness—now silenced forever.

the message on the wall was not just a taunt; it was a cruel testament to the brutality of her demise. the room seemed to pulsate with a malevolent energy, each shadow whispering of the unspeakable violence that had transpired, leaving behind a haunting silence that spoke volumes of the terror and suffering that had been inflicted.

your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of the horror that lay before you. the room seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, as if the very walls were alive with the darkness that had claimed tara.

you knew this was just the beginning, and the nightmare was far from over. the shadows seemed to dance with sinister intent, and the air grew thicker, suffocating you with the weight of unseen horrors yet to be revealed. the very fabric of reality seemed to warp, as if the room itself was a living entity, feeding on your fear and despair.

“nick!” chris yelled out, snapping you out of your trance. you quickly looked back, watching in horror as ghost face approached nick. the knife glinted wickedly in the dim light before plunging into nick's neck. his eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping as he gasped.

ghost face twisted the knife with a cruel precision before pulling it out, and nick crumpled to the side, his lifeblood spilling out in a gruesome arc. the scene seemed to slow, each moment etched into your memory with agonizing clarity.

his body was slumped against the wall as ghost face kneeled down. “like they say, always go for the head, smartass,” ghost face growled, his voice dripping with malice. he brought the blade up to nick’s forehead, the steel glinting ominously. with a brutal, unrelenting force, he shoved the knife in, and you cringed at the sickening sound of nick’s skull cracking. the noise reverberated through the room, a gruesome symphony of violence that left an indelible mark on your soul.

a pathetic sob escapes your lips as you watch chris run away from the scene. the sound is weak and broken, a testament to the overwhelming despair that has gripped you. each step chris takes feels like a betrayal, his figure growing smaller and smaller as he flees, leaving you alone in the suffocating darkness. the weight of the moment crushes you, your sobs mingling with the echoes of your shattered hope.

ghost face looked up at you, his gaze piercing through the dim light. your eyes widened in terror, heart pounding in your chest. without a second thought, you turned and bolted down the basement stairs, each step echoing your frantic escape. the shadows seemed to close in around you, and the air grew colder with every hurried breath you took, as if the basement itself was a labyrinth of dread, eager to consume you.

but the darkness was impenetrable, shrouding everything in a thick, inky blackness. you stumbled blindly, your steps faltering until you tripped, the ground rushing up to meet you with a jarring thud.

you felt your ankle twist with a sickening snap, pain searing through your body. an agonizing scream tore from your throat, drowning out the subtle, menacing sounds of ghost face's careful descent down the steps.

you quickly scrambled away, desperation fueling your movements, until you collided with a cold, unforgiving metal box. the impact sent a jolt of pain through your skull, eliciting a soft groan. your eyes went wide with a mix of shock and fear as the reality of your predicament settled in.

you quickly stood up, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from your injured ankle. with a determined grimace, you hobbled over to the power box, your fingers trembling as you fumbled to switch it on, hoping for a glimmer of light in the oppressive darkness.

the sudden burst of light was almost blinding, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut against its intensity. as you slowly reopened them, you glanced over your shoulder, bracing yourself for the sight of ghost face looming behind you. but to your astonishment, the space was empty, devoid of his ominous presence.

you slowly made your way towards the heart of the basement, each step marked by a pronounced limp as your injured ankle protested with every movement.

you looked down, a gasp escaping your lips as your eyes fell upon nate's lifeless body sprawled across the basement floor. how had you missed such a harrowing sight when you were with nick just moments ago?

your eyes slowly traveled up the wall, where the words "welcome to act 3" were scrawled in a chilling crimson. the realization struck you like a thunderbolt—this was nate's blood, marking the macabre message.

your lips part, but before a single word can escape, you find yourself abruptly pulled back, your spine pressed firmly against ghostface's chest. the cold, unforgiving blade of his knife rests against your neck, its presence menacing yet not breaking the skin. "don't scream, baby," he growls, his voice a sinister blend of threat and dark amusement.

your body turns ashen, and your eyes flutter shut as a solitary tear traces a path down your cheek. "matt…" you whisper, your voice quivering with a mix of fear and disbelief.

"that's right. surprise, baby," he smirks beneath his mask, his confidence palpable in the charged air. with a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he tilts his head, the dark eyes behind the mask gleaming with malevolent amusement.

"did you truly believe you could escape me?" he taunts, his voice dripping with a perverse sense of satisfaction. he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, as he runs a gloved finger along the edge of the knife. "you should have known better."

you swallow hard, your throat dry as you struggle to steady your breath. "matt, please… this isn't you," you implore, your voice wavering with desperation. "you don't have to do this."

his grip on the knife tightens, and he leans in closer, the mask mere inches from your face. "oh, but it is me," he whispers, his voice a chilling, eerie echo that sends shivers down your spine.

he releases his grip on you, compelling you to spin around and face him, your head shaking in disbelief. with a deliberate motion, he lifts the mask off his face, revealing a smirk that sends a chill through you. “you just never saw this side of me," he says, his voice dripping with a sinister satisfaction.

"i know you," you insist, your voice trembling and on the verge of breaking. stepping closer, you reach out, your hand hovering near his, as if the mere touch could pull him back from the abyss. "i know there's still good in you, buried beneath all this darkness."

he lets out a low, mocking laugh. "good? maybe once, but not anymore." he pauses, his confidence wavering just a fraction, his eyes flickering with a momentary doubt. "you think you can change me with your words?"

you hold his gaze, even through the mask, your eyes unwavering. "i believe in you, matt. i always have," you whisper, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

for a moment, the knife wavers, and you can feel the internal struggle within him. the smirk falters, and his breath hitches, betraying the storm raging inside. the man behind the mask is fighting a battle with himself, one that you hope he can win, as his eyes flicker with a glimmer of the person he once was.

"you don't understand," he says, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "i've done things… terrible things. there's no going back for me," he whispers, the weight of his past deeds pressing down on him like an insurmountable burden, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of his actions.

"everyone has a choice," you reply softly, your voice like a gentle breeze cutting through the tension. "it's not too late to make the right one, to turn the tide and find redemption amidst the shadows of your past."

he steps back slightly, the knife still in his hand but no longer pressed against your neck. "why do you care?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, laden with confusion and pain. "after everything i've done, why would you still care?" his eyes search yours, seeking an answer to the question that has haunted him for so long.

"because i know the real you, matt," you say, taking a cautious step forward, your voice unwavering. "the you that wouldn't hurt me. the you that can still change, the flicker of humanity that remains beneath the shadows of your actions."

his grip on the knife tightens as he glares at you, the intensity of his gaze palpable. "i'm gonna kill you. i have to," he growls, his voice a volatile mix of anger and desperation, each word dripping with the torment of his internal struggle.

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. "then do it," you say, your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you like a raging river. "kill me."

for a moment, there's silence. the knife wavers in his hand, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, even through the mask. "why aren't you scared?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly, a quiver that betrays the storm raging within him.

"i am scared," you admit, your voice soft but unwavering. "but i also know you, matt. i know you won't do it. beneath the fury and the pain, i see the man who still has a choice."

"don't be so sure," he snaps, but there's a hint of doubt in his voice, a subtle tremor that betrays his facade. "you don't know what i'm capable of, the depths to which i can descend."

"i know enough," you reply, taking a step closer. "i know that deep down, you're still the person i care about. the person who wouldn't hurt me. beneath the shadows and the rage, i see the flicker of the man who once held my trust."

his hand shakes, the knife lowering just a fraction. "i don't have a choice," he whispers, more to himself than to you, as if trying to convince the ghosts of his past rather than the living soul before him.

"there's always a choice," you say gently, your voice a balm to his troubled mind. "and i believe you'll make the right one, for within every heart lies the power to choose its own path."

he looks at you, the mask concealing his expression but not the turmoil in his eyes. the knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor, and he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "i can't do it," he admits, his voice breaking like a fragile whisper in the wind. "i can't kill you."

but just as you begin to hope, he suddenly lunges forward, his movements desperate and wild. he grabs the knife from the ground, tears streaming down his face, and plunges it into your chest with a trembling hand.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice choked with anguish, each word a dagger of its own. "i had to."

you gasp, your eyes wide with shock and pain, as the cold embrace of mortality begins to take hold. with trembling fingers, you reach out to touch his face one last time, a gesture filled with both sorrow and love. "i forgive you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a breath against the wind. "i always will."

and with that, you fall to the ground, your body weak, leaving him alone with the crushing weight of his actions. the room seems to grow colder, the silence almost deafening, as he stands there, paralyzed by the enormity of what he has done. the echoes of your final words linger in the air, a haunting reminder of the irrevocable path he has chosen.

pathetic sobs wracked his body, salt tears streaming down his face as his knees buckled beneath him. he collapsed onto the ground, his fingers trembling as he gathered the remnants of blood from his knife, the metallic scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the hardwood floor. his gloved hand pressed against the floorboards, a futile attempt to steady himself amidst the chaos of his emotions.

“you were always pretty when you cried,” the bloodied message declared, each letter a grotesque testament to the anguish etched into the very fibers of the floor. the crimson ink seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a chilling reminder of the torment that birthed such words.

taglist -- @imwetforyourmom @meatballzerz69 @pinkishpearls @thedangerousalleyway @sturniolo0bsessed @muchloveforhacker @stinkytinkywinky @jetameivous @everleiqh

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Rsync corrump linkdump

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

As per the uje, I've arrived upon a Saturday with a backlog of links that I have not managed to squeeze into the week's newsletters/blogs, so it's time for another linkdump, 22nd in an erratic series. Here's the previous 21:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

Let's start with some seasonal material, and by "seasonal," I of course mean Hallowe'en. Yes, August is the official start of Spooky Season, and yes, I am a monster for insisting on this, but being a monster is the point of Spooky Season (which is what differentiates Spooky Season pushers like me from the creeps who insist that you need to start prepping for Xmas in late September – they're monsters, too, but Yule Monsters are bad) (with the exception of Krampus).

I was a monster kid and now I'm a monster adult. It all started when I was bitten by a radioactive Haunted Mansion at the age of six:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/10/22/how-a-haunted-mansion-addict-fell-in-love-with-the-greatest-ride-on-earth/

I am a sucker for all things monstrous, and so I was intrigued when I got a book of "creepy-cute" stickers in the mail from a publicist at Simon & Schuster:

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Creepy-Cute-Sticker-Book/Gaynor-Carradice/Creepy-Cute-Gift-Series/9781507222515

"Creepy-Cute" turns out to be an official designation, embraced by the illustrator GaynorCarradice, who has created several books on these lines, featuring her chibi/monster crossover creations, which do exactly what it says on the tin, by which I mean, there's some genuinely creepy stuff in the mix, along with the cute.

It's when the cute pastels rub up against the gore, skulls, eyeballs and other visceral viscera that these illustrations really kick off some heat – I've rounded up a few of my favorites here:

https://craphound.com/images/creepycute.jpg

One of the surefire signs that Spooky Season is upon us is that the (sometimes NSFW) Tumblr account Halloweenlandmotherfucker emerges from dormancy with a stream of images of vintage Hallowe'en cards (these were a thing!), photos of people in costume and other delightful visual novelties:

https://www.tumblr.com/halloweenlandmotherfucker

Monster culture isn't just for Hallowe'en, of course. The ancient and noble tradition of compiling and publishing bestiaries is alive and well, thanks to RPGs. In the beginning, there was the D&D Boxed Set, with its Monsters and Treasure booklet:

https://www.americanroads.us/DandD/ODnD_Monsters_and_Treasure.pdf

Then came the Monster Manual, the first hardcover D&D book, succeeded by the Fiend Folio, which featured Charlie Stross creations like the githzerai and slaad, Indeed, there was a whole, iconic library of hardcovers that fit perfectly in an oversized backpack that I dragged everywhere so that I could obsessively read and re-read them.

Eventually, these gave way to new hardcovers with new rules as well as new corporate owners (Wizards of the Coast, then Hasbro), culminating in the release of the Open Gaming License, an "open content" license that was a) grossly defective; b) largely irrelevant; and c) hugely controversial in 2023, when Hasbro terminated it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/12/beg-forgiveness-ask-permission/#whats-a-copyright-exception

The Open Gaming License purported to license out game elements that weren't copyrightable (rules, tables, etc), as well as material that you could likely use under copyright exceptions like fair use:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/01/beware-gifts-dragons-how-dds-open-gaming-license-may-have-become-trap-creators

And worst of all, it was revocable, so games publishers who tooled up to publish supplements and sourcebooks based on the OGL could have the rug yanked out from under them at any time (that time turned out to be early 2023).

Hasbro's OGL rug-pull had three salutary effects:

I. It gave gamers a crash-course in what was – and wasn't – copyrightable in an RPG design;

It encouraged game developers to look beyond D&D's OGL rules and into truly open (and often superior) alternatives; and

It inflicted so much reputational harm on Hasbro that, 20 months later, they announced that they would release a new set of D&D rules under the Creative Commons Attribution Only 4.0 license:

https://www.dicebreaker.com/games/dungeons-and-dragons-5e/news/dungeons-and-dragons-2024-srd-wont-be-another-ogl-fiasco

Now, CC BY 4.0 is a real-ass license. Notably, it corrects a defect in the earlier versions of the CC licenses that gave rise to a class of predatory copyleft trolls like the odious Pixsy:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

If Hasbro follows through on their promise, the new CC materials will kick off with the 2025 release of the next edition of the Monster Manual:

https://dungeonsanddragonsfan.com/new-2024-dnd-monster-manual/

It's wild to think that tabletop RPGs are now a cutting-edge way to learn about digital policy, but on the other hand, D&D arrived in my home around the same time as my Apple ][+, which was also around the time I first heard the name Ronald Reagan (rest in piss).

The legacies of the 80s – RPGs, digital technology and Reaganomics – cast a long shadow. Last month, many of us discovered the hard way that Reaganomics – specifically, the embrace of monopolies as "efficient" – has produced a world of unimaginable brittleness. Millions of people around the world found themselves cut off from ATM cash, flights, hospital care, and many other essentials thanks to the Crowdstrike Blue Screen of Death outage. While many of the explainers have focused on how Crowdstrike fatfingered a software update that crashed all those computers, there's been a lot less commentary about how it is that one company had it in its power to do so much harm.

Writing last week for EFF's Deeplinks blog, my colleague Rory Mir tackled that (far more important) issue:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/07/crowdstrike-antitrust-and-digital-monoculture

Market concentration – monopoly – is the common thread wound around so many of our daily horribles. Think of the tech billionaires who threw in their lot with Trump last month. How did they get to be billionaires? Monopoly power. Remember back in 2017, that notorious photo of the tech industry meeting at the top of Trump Tower, with Peter Thiel at Trump's left hand?

https://techcrunch.com/2016/12/14/donald-trump-meets-with-tech-leaders/

People were appalled that this group of corporate leaders, who between them controlled virtually all the technology in our lives, would debase themselves by paying fealty to this buffoonish would-be dictator.

But far more consequential was the fact that you could fit everyone who controlled all of our technology around a single table. Once everyone important to an industry can fit around a single table, it's only a matter of time until they find a table to sit around, and that's when it all starts to go wrong. As the Communist firebrand Adam Smith once wrote, "People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public, or in some contrivance to raise prices."

Enshittification starts with market concentration. This is a subject I'm going to be going very deep on next Saturday, when I give my Defcon keynote, "Disenshittify or die! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification":

https://info.defcon.org/event/?id=54861

When I give that talk – and afterwards at my book signing – I will be wearing an N95 mask, just as I did last year. Why am I wearing a mask? Two reasons: first, Long Covid is a horror. One of the best writers I know – a living legend – recently told me that their book-writing days are likely done because of Long Covid brain fog.

A new Lancet article gets deep into the science of Long Covid:

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S014067362401136X

The principle author of the Lancet article is Oxford health professor Trish Greenhalgh, who gave an excellent lay summary in her newsletter:

https://independentsage.substack.com/p/long-covid-a-dystopian-game-of-pinball

In particular, Greenhalgh describes why some people don't get Long Covid, and some people do – and, most important, explains why the fact that you didn't get Long Covid last time doesn't mean you won't get it next time:

https://independentsage.substack.com/p/long-covid-a-dystopian-game-of-pinball

So I don't want to get covid, and so I'm gonna wear a mask. Because masks fucking work. A new study reveals just how well they work:

https://www.thelancet.com/journals/ebiom/article/PIIS2352-3964(24)00192-0/fulltext

The study shows that wearing any mask, even without knowing how to fit it well, offers substantial protection against both contracting and transmitting covid. Even better: wearing an N95 (even without paying attention to correct fit) offers "near perfect" protection against covid:

https://today.umd.edu/n95-masks-nearly-perfect-at-blocking-covid-umd-study-shows

I didn't get covid at Defcon last year, and I didn't get it at HOPE, and I didn't get it on our family vacation in July – all events where friends got sick. The difference? I wore a mask. Which works.

OK, I need to go work on my Defcon speech some more, so I'm gonna sign off, but I will leave you with just one more link, the wonderful new public domain image search tool, Public Work, which crawls and indexes the Met, the NYPL, and other sources:

https://public.work/

I rely on public domain, CC and other freely usable clip art to make the collages that accompany this newsletter/blog's stories. While I have very little talent in the visual arts, I'm getting steadily better. I mean, look at this amazing image I womped up for last week's story on Bitcoin bros' election campaign finance fraud:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53893519593/in/album-72177720316719208

You can see a collection of my recent collages in my Flickr gallery for them:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/albums/72177720316719208?sd

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/03/smorgasbord/#creepy-cute

Image: Anne Lindblom (cropped) https://www.flickr.com/photos/kajsawarg/3600415175

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[tumbleweed-run]

Ethereal

Kinktober Day 25 Pregnancy

It didn’t matter how many times he saw her lately, Gale’s breath caught each time. When he thought of Tav the image his mind conjured up was still the woman he met, so it was a small thrill every time she appeared in the room. She was still absolutely stunning, but the fact that she was now carrying his child did something to him viscerally. 

The pregnancy was far enough along that there was no denying it. Even while fully dressed, anyone with eyes could tell Tav was carrying their child. Gale had spent much of the early months laying in bed with her caressing the growing mound that was her belly. Now he enjoyed allowing his hand to stray to her stomach, occasionally blessed with the little sensation of tiny feet against his hand. 

“Getting any work done?” Tav teased from where she’d paused by the door, undoubtedly watching him watch her. 

Gale glanced down at the mess of parchment in front of him, “not important.” 

She laughed and walked over to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “What were you thinking about?”

“How lovely you look carrying our daughter,” Gale answered almost immediately. 

He heard the huff from above him, an amused and exasperated noise all rolled into one. “You’re so sure about that.”

“I have it on good authority that Morena Dekarios has correctly guessed the genders of the last 5 pregnant women she’s encountered,” Gale explained for probably the hundredth time, “and Mother took one look at you and declared that our child would be a girl.”

“Is that authority Morena herself?” Tav teased had disappeared further behind him.

Gale turned and found she had settled onto the seat on the terrace. The setting sun caused her skin to glow and Gale was momentarily frozen in awe. She looked every part the goddess right now, glowing both on the inside and the out. Luckily he knew that beneath her ethereal visage laid a very human heart. Tav’s humanity was some of his favorite parts of her, making her better than any god. 

“What did I do to earn the right to love you,” he asked surprising himself, the words leaving his lips before they’d even entered his brain. 

Tav smiled and rolled her eyes fondly. “You’ve been yourself and that’s all I’ve ever wanted,” she said insistantly.

Admittedly they had this conversation at somewhat regular intervals. Gale would likely never accept that he was worthy of loving someone like Tav. But everytime that black urge to prove himself in increasingly grandiose ways she was there to reel him back in. Reminding Gale that she loved him exactly as he was. 

He rose from his seat and went to her. Instead of taking up the rest of the space on the seat, Gale knelt before her. Placing a hand onto the swell of Tav’s stomach he leaned forward and pressed a kiss. He was rewarded with a thump against his hand. Gale chuckled and delivered another kiss.

“I can already tell this one will be a handful,” Tav said fondly placing a hand over Gale’s as another kick fluttered against her skin.

“Alright little girl,” Gale said with mock sterness, “give your mother a rest.”

Another eye roll above him but when he looked up Tav smiled and he was once more struck by her beauty and his luck. 

“Let me worship you,” Gale asked softly. 

Tav blushed at his request, eyes darting around, “not out here.”

“No one will see,” Gale tried to reason with her, more than happy to cast them some cover. 

She shook her head still. 

“Alright,” Gale conceded, “then lets go inside.”

“Uhg,” Tav whined, “I just got out here.”

Gale laughed in response and took Tav’s hands before rising to his feet, “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

Tav allowed him to pull her to her feet at that promise. “You better.”

Gale lead her back inside and then further into the house towards their room. He’d considered using the couch in the study but knew their bed would be much more comfortable for her. His desire to touch her was easily outweighed by his desire to make Tav comfortable. 

Once they got into the room Gale made quick work of her clothing. Unable to resist Gale leaned down and pressed yet another kiss to her bare stomach. Tav laughed and playfully pushed at his shoulder. 

“I’m beginning to worry you might like be pregnant a little too much,” she accused even as she climbed onto their bed and settled against the mound of pillows that was beginning to take over their bed. 

“I enjoy your body in all of it’s states,” he told her as he followed. 

Gale pressed apart her legs slightly so he could kneel between them. He leaned up and captured Tav’s lips with his. She sighed into the kiss, raising up so she could deepen it. Gale was happy to let her lead for a while, resting his hands on either side of her face. The second Tav’s lips parted his tongue chased it’s way inside. He licked at the soft earthy flavor of the teas she’s begun enjoying lately until he found the flavor that was uniquely hers. They went on like this for several minutes until she was making soft noises into his mouth. 

Gale broke away from Tav’s lips in order to trail kisses down her neck and across her collar bone. She relaxed back, seemingly happy to allow him his time to worship her. He trailed down into the valley between her breasts and she arched her back towards him. Taking the hint Gale kissed upwards until he could draw one of her nipples into his mouth. Tav gasped, hand raising up to thread into his hair. He swirled the nipple with his tongue, his hand raising up to gently caress its twin. 

Tav moaned, legs spreading slightly in response. Gale gently pressed on of his knees forward against her core. She moaned again and ground down against his leg almost immediately. He released her nipple from his mouth and turned his attention to the other side. In the last few weeks she’d been nearly insatiable in bed, a perk of this stage of pregnancy she’d assured him. A perk Gale was all to happy to take advantage of. 

When he’d spend enough time worshipping her nipples, Tav was writhing near constantly and he could feel her arousal seeping into the fabric of his pants, Gale allowed his kisses to trail lower. He spent a few moment kissing along her stomach before sliding his hands beneath her hip. Sliding back down the bed Gale gently pulled her after him until she was laying. 

“Do you need a pillow?” Gale asked even as his lips trailed ever lower. 

“Gale,” was Tav’s only response, a plea. 

He sat up then and looked at her. “Do you need a pillow for under your hips?” He repeated.

Tav huffed, rolled her eyes, and grabbed a pillow out from the pile that was now above her head. “Yes, here,” she handed it to him.

Gale quickly helped work the pillow under her hips before returning his lips to the exact spot they’d left. Tav settled further into the bed with a contented sigh.

She was so delightfully wet when Gale finally made his way between her legs. Tav whimpered at his first lick between her folds, legs spreading even more. He was only happy to oblige to her silent request. He took his time licking every inch of her, swirling his tongue just inside her entrance. She moaned, hand finding its way back into his hair.

Gale gripped the pillow and pulled it forward so her hips tilted up a little more. “Good?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, tugging softly on his hair trying to guide his mouth back down onto her. 

Gale was laying flat on the bed now, hands resting under Tav’s thighs keeping them spread. As he lowered his mouth to her clit she cursed and rocked towards his lips. Gale’s hips rutted against the bed in response, his aching cock demanding attention. That was as much as he was willing to indulge it, his sole focus on sucking and licking at Tav’s clit. 

She was unreserved in the sounds spilling from her lips. Moans and whimpers spilling out around the melding of his name and various curses. It was music to Gale’s ears and he moaned against her cunt. Tav gasped and pulled him closer enjoying the vibrations. Gale continued to moan as he licked, showing her just how much he loved his current position. Tav writhed and cried out above him as she came against his mouth. 

Gale happily lapped at her under the waves of her orgasm stilled. Only then did he push up to sit back on his knees. Looking down at her he realized he was mistaken, she was truly ethereal now. Skin flushed, eyes dark with arousal as he hair fanned out a halo above her head. He wanted this memory burned into his brain forever, he would gladly forget every incantation to be allowed that. 

“Gale,” Tav whispered, raising her hand to him after allowing him to look a her for several moments. 

“I’m here,” he promised taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. 

“Yes but I want you up here,” she said and tugged at his hand until he leaned back over her to press a kiss against her lips.

“And here,” Tav continued, dragging a leg behind his thighs until he leaned forward, rocking his clothed cock against her core. 

Who was he to deny her? Gale stripped as quickly as possible, eyes only leaving Tav when they absolutely had to. 

“Like this?” He asked leaning over her when he was done, allowing his cock to brush against her folds. 

“No,” Tav shook her head and pushed at his shoulders. 

Gale sat back confused. Tav sat herself up and shuffled her body to the side of where she’d been. “I want to be on top,” she insisted. 

“Are you sure?” Gale checked even as he shuffled his body into the space she’d just vacated. 

Tav nodded and as soon as he stopped moving she threw her leg over his waist. She settled back until his cock was nestled between her legs, not inside just yet. Tav slowly rocked her hips against him whimpering each time his cockhead bumped against her clit. His hips followed her movements after a little, chasing after every one of her movements. Gale was happy to be like this for a while, lazily thrusting between her folds. 

Tav was the one who grew impatient. Planting one foot into the bed she rose up and grasped his cock by the base. Gale knew her well enough to place his hands on her hips and when she began to sink down onto him he forced her to move slowly. She tried to glare at him but her eyes were heavily lidded in pleasure with each little bit he allowed her to sink down. Slowly they went until she was settled flush against him. Gale bit his lip in restraint as he wanted to allow Tav a moment to adjust

“I’m not fragile,” She insisted rolling her hips with him deep inside of her. 

“Yes, but you are precious,” Gale reasoned, voice rough. 

Tav didn’t try and argue only continued to roll her hips. Gale granted her a few more moments before releasing her hips and gently rocking up into her. Tav quickly rose up and then allowed herself to slide back down his cock. Each time she did this she swiveled her hips slightly. Gale thrust up into her as she quickened her pace, one hand resting on his chest for support. 

She slowed eventually, movement becoming less smooth, she groaned in frustration. Tav’s muscles undoubtedly were growing tired. Gale planted his own feet into the bed and held onto her hips. He fucked up into her, taking over the motions entirely now. He could no longer tell who was making what noises.

Gale came first, hips thrusting up harder than he meant. He then pinned their hips together, a habit that would likely never die, as he filled her. Gale held her there until his orgasm faded. He quickly moved his hand, pressing two fingers between his skin and her’s until he found Tav’s clit. 

He worked it, quickly using some of his cum that had begun leaking from her as lubrication as he rubbed. She squirmed cried out, fingers flexing on his chest until her nails broke the skin. He kept up with his fingers until only a little while later Tav came again, cunt spasming against his softening cock. She collapsed against him as she came. 

Gale gently rolled them onto their sides so her stomach was no longer trapped between them. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. Tav leaned her head further against his lips and sighed happily. 

[toomanyideasandfandoms]

Hello!

I have come to add my subpar ideas to the Death-Seeking Creator (which I will shorten to DSC for my own sanity) AU! Ignore them if you'd like!

Someone else mentioned the adrenaline junkie aspect, but what about other stuff that they've (maybe) evolved into, given their godhood likely having effects on their organic parts?

For example, what if dying is now the only way they can sleep?

I can see Teyvat or maybe even their own biology trying to keep them safe by altering them to need less sleep, as well as making them more alert and heightening their senses.

This, however, has gone a bit too far - they can't sleep anymore due to all the deaths they've suffered, body so keyed into survival mode that they can't physically find it in themselves to rest no matter how hard they try, and drugging them doesn't work anymore after Kaeya's sleep potion escapade.

The longer they're alive, the more and more unstable they become due to the restlessness, leading them to seek their next 'nap' even more desperately.

After like three weeks without a death, they just scream 'I can't take it anymore!' and self-delete with a sharp rock or whatever, only to then pop up somewhere else bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having just experienced the equivalent of a full night of rest.

Or what if it's that they don't experience hunger instead, after who knows how many poisonings and attempts to eat being interrupted by the sudden appearance of an executioner?

Decadent, exquisite, utterly perfect meals are being laid out at their table once they've been 'accepted', only to touch absolutely none of it since they just can't feel hungry when they've been awake too long.

Yet as soon as they revive, they're practically starving, shoveling whatever slop is around into their face with the mindless urge to sate the bottomless pit in their stomach, half-mad with the returned urge.

This has led to them occasionally just showing up in the middle of the wilds post-mortis and joining a pack of friendly animals in eating a dead thing, much to the horror of the local populace and probably their 'acolytes'.

Bonus points if they offer said horrified onlookers a piece, like, 'want some? You can kill me after if you finish it all :)' just because they viscerally enjoy traumatizing their shitass betrayers.

But that's just my dogwater take. I can't make you do anything with it. Feel free to salvage parts of it and make something infinitely more useful.

Omg you devious devil I absolutely love all of this!!! Gold star for you!

While I haven't really thought about that particular aspect of DSC, I definitely can see some of this happening! Plus you are right to suggest that them being a god would mean they have no use for sleep or eating. Though I would believe that it's mainly their survival instincts, something they choose to ignore or even override once fully submerged into death seeking, that is to blame for this. Once they've been accepted they just refuse to do so because they want it to lead to another death (which wouldn't happen since they lost the need for it once isekaied).

Also that image you described of the creator eating a dead animal with a pack of animals is absolutely amazing. While it doesn't fit DSC too much I absolutely can see that for more of a wild animal creator au, one where they aren't being hunted but because of the fear of potentially being hunted they decided to become one with nature. Eventually ending up evolving into something more beastlike and even losing the ability to talk since it's not needed. Oho imagine the look of awe the characters would have seeing their creator becoming intuned with Teyvat.

[ayakashiz]

Thoughts on Alien Stage FINAL Round

This is gonna be more of a word salad of my raw, biased feelings after watching R7 (with some leftover R6 thoughts) rather than a coherent, comprehensive analysis. Till’s death so far has been the most devastating to me, because I fail to see the meaning or reason behind it, story wise. Sua’s death was a catalyst to shatter Mizi’s rose colored glasses and open her eyes to the cruel reality of their world.

Ivan’s death was the climax of his character arc, both meant to show us his mask finally breaking and a release of his true emotions, and to be a turning point for Till to move forward (I will get back to this). It was also a sobering reminder of the dangerous and unforgiving system the characters live in, shattering the false sense of security built up during All-in and therefore raising the stakes for the upcoming rounds. 

Even Hyunwoo’s death had a similar effect as Sua’s on Hyuna. It fundamentally changed her, exposed her to the ugly side of Anakt Garden and Luka’s true nature (also a direct product of said abusive system).

But who or what did Till’s death change? What did it tell the audience that it hadn’t been told before and what purpose did it serve the plot? His death traumatized Mizi and brought her back to reality, but we had seen that before with Sua. It highlighted Luka’s absolute command of the stage, his power-play and the joy he gets out of asserting dominance over his competition; but that point had already been made very clear in R5. He even used the exact same tactic to win.

I love tragedies, and the beauty, the climax of tragedy is the catharsis it provides. It’s defined as “the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions”, and this is what R6 managed to accomplish perfectly. Granted it still left me with many unanswered questions, but the purpose was clear. 

Till’s death in contrast left me feeling empty. It lacked buildup and catharsis, and in my opinion it stripped the previous round of its initial impact in the overall story (bear with me).

I was excited when I heard about vivimeng’s interview where they stated (very paraphrased) something along the lines of Alien Stage being a story about love and grief, and how the living are affected by those that they have lost. 

We see the way the grief of Mizi possibly being dead affects Till to the point he loses the will to keep fighting for survival in R6, and then we see how shocked and horrified he appears while witnessing Ivan’s death, not as a concept or possibility but something tangible happening right in front of his eyes. This sets the audience up to wonder how that grief (and Ivan’s actions) will affect him, how it will make him question his assumptions about Ivan’s goals and intentions, because they were never able to understand each other in life.

And don’t get me wrong, I did love the way his trauma from Ivan’s death was shown in such a raw way in R7, the memories of him filtered crimson red and Ivan’s hypocritical mocking of Sua coming back to bite him, because unlike what he assumed Till did care, so much so that it ironically contributed to his demise.

What I didn’t like was that, because R7 happened immediately after R6, Till never had time to sit with that grief, never even had time to process it. He didn’t get a chance to look past the visceral image of a friend dying in front of him and question why Ivan acted the way he did, why he decided to throw the round. (Even if Luka’s provocation scene still went the exact same way, it would have hit so much harder if we had some context as to why Till’s reaction is so strong to the point of a nosebleed, beyond the obvious shock and stress of a life or death situation.)

I would have loved to see Till do some introspection, even if it concluded in anger, frustration and confusion. And possibly regret, in some form. Regret is an overarching theme in Blink Gone’s lyrics, full of cheerful proclamations of living in the moment and forgetting the burdens of the past, while Till is clearly still haunted by it. And yet, such regret isn’t shown anywhere. 

This would have been the perfect moment to learn about Till’s POV of the meteor shower scene. Sure, it was an event that affected Ivan more deeply, but I find it very hard to believe that Till (arguably the one who was tortured the worst being in segyein captivity) doesn’t reminisce about it, doesn’t ponder about what would have happened had he made different choices, especially after Ivan’s death. Even the lyrics of the song “the dark crimson air embraces us, lifting our spirits, and the fiery thrill blazes out to the sky” are a blatant callback to it, so I’m surprised none of it was utilized visually or narratively.

Of course, it’s a short video and perhaps challenging to cram everything into a single round but alas… that wouldn’t have been an issue if Till hadn’t been killed off right away. 

Another regret to explore could have been how he was never able to get close to Mizi when he had the chance. He expresses this in his yearbook message to her, and we know he wants to, but his own shyness and perhaps inability to see Mizi eye to eye rather than put her on a pedestal was ultimately his biggest self-imposed obstacle. I would have also loved if Till lived long enough to realize this. Grief (over Ivan and Sua respectively) could have been a vehicle for Till and Mizi to truly connect as friends. I was really looking forward to how their relationship would develop once Till was able to look past his idealized version of Mizi and see how she has grown from that bubbly, sheltered little girl he knew in Anakt. He witnessed some of this in R5, but I don’t think it ever truly sank in.

Overall it was such a missed opportunity to show us Till's perspective and inner world outside of his adoration of Mizi, which is the only POV we ever get from him (I know we might get a comic with his thoughts the same as Ivan and Sua, but this will no longer influence the main story or be acknowledged by the remaining characters either way).

And while the same could be said about Ivan’s character, and I definitely have many questions left about him (which I hoped would be answered via Till), it makes more sense for his POV to be so Till-focused because the nature of his love is obsessive. Through Ivan’s POV we also learn a lot about his inner world, how he sees himself in comparison to others, his self hatred, how his fascination with Till stemmed from finding in him what he thought he himself fundamentally lacked, how he carried a strong desire to connect and be acknowledged by Till but his ability to form attachments in a normal way was stunted from the way he grew up, how he regretted this as an adult, how his near-death experience cemented his masking and complacency as a survival mechanism and how this very thing that helped him survive ultimately kept him isolated, etc etc. A lot was shown about him as a character in two MVs.

And even if Till’s feelings for Mizi had a more innocent, boyish nature (as stated by vivimeng), I would have liked to get a deeper insight into how they began, how and why Mizi became his light and muse and driving force. Of course it’s easy to come to a conclusion, but this is something I wanted to learn from Till himself. There’s also this whole untapped potential and exploration of his most brutal, explosive side, the one capable of turning his former classmate into a sacrificial lamb with zero regret for the sake of expressing his feelings, the one wild enough to risk death or punishment breaking an alien guitar just to get Mizi’s eyes on him. The genius. The mad artist.

There was such a huge buildup of Till being a wild card, the one to finally threaten Luka’s unshakable number one place because of his unpredictability, the one pet to challenge the status quo. I wish the trauma of Ivan’s death had awakened some of that madness, too. 

Rather, the progression of his emotional state struck me as a bit confusing (at least before Mizi showed up). Nothing had changed for the better after R6 and on the very contrary, things had just gotten exponentially worse. Not only was Till already in a depressive state over Mizi, he just watched Ivan die, assuming R7 took place only hours after R6. And yet at the start of the MV he appears very much in control and fairly unbothered up until Luka’s taunt throws him off balance and the reality of his weakened mental state comes through.

There was no narrative progression to how he went from point A at the end of R6 to point B at the start of R7.

I’m not sure if the intention was to show Till being in denial and trying to drown out his feelings but not only did it not come across as intentional but that would also be such an un-Till thing to do. He’s officially described as the most sensitive and emotional of the cast, and he isn’t good at or I think even capable of masking or hiding his feelings to the degree Ivan does.

It also feels like a step back for Mizi’s character development. She spent weeks (months??) with the rebellion and now knows how to use guns and grenades, what it takes to sneak past security and the risks of being seen. Yet when she reached for Till’s hand in the crowd she was back to R1’s blind optimism, rather than the anxiety she showcased before setting off to the rescue attempt.

Even if she had managed to pull Till off stage before the bullet got him, they would still be alone and unarmed (or not nearly sufficiently armed) in a crowd full of segyein. It was far from a victory yet.

I do LOVE how there was a role reversal though, with Mizi fiercely trying to protect him the way Till spent his whole childhood doing, refusing to leave him behind even if that compromised whatever Hyuna’s main plan was (which has been confirmed NOT to be a rescue mission from the start). I reckon also that she was probably so desperate and relieved to see the last of her friends still standing after losing everyone that for that moment she lost sight of the harsh lessons she had learned previously.

There are many wonderful things about the MV too. The art direction is INSANELY good, the use of the flashing colors of the stage to match with Till’s emotional state, the incorporation of the instruments, the beautiful quality of the animation that keeps getting better with each release, and the way they managed to make it so emotionally gut-wrenching despite the absolute banger that is the song. 

I’m glad that Till at least got to die in the arms of someone he loved and felt safe with, being cradled with the gentleness he was deprived of his whole life.

That said, the episode still left me feeling quite empty and disappointed, personally. I’m disappointed that Till’s character was discarded so early. Even if he was to be killed off in the end, I would have wanted them to postpone it a bit longer, give us a bit more time to watch him grow and learn about him and make his death something more meaningful than shocking. 

I’m disappointed that his death was the last nail on Ivan’s coffin, because Till was the only other character who could have carried his memory and give the audience a different perspective from Ivan’s extremely black and white, biased one. I’m disappointed that those answers that the audience was eager to learn were just left as a footnote on Patreon, which makes me feel like they never really planned on elaborating on it in the main story. Though who knows, maybe we’ll get a comic or supplemental material in the future.

I know the series is unfinished, and a lot can still change. I’m still deeply invested in finding out what will happen, especially since Hyuna is one of my absolute favorite characters (who now I’m also terrified for).

Many of my opinions may change with the new releases, but this was my impression now, with Blink Gone as a stand alone MV. I also wanna reiterate that I’m extremely biased because Till is a character very dear to me and I feel like he brought so much life and spunk to the story, so it just seems a little bleaker without him in the picture. 

To be honest the more I marinate on the thought, the more I’m inclined to believe that Mizi was always intended to be the last one standing, and that the plot just took a turn different than my expectations. Either way I’ll be along for the ride and wait for all new updates on Friday.

I refuse to put on my ‘Till is alive’ tinfoil hat because I just cannot handle more heartbreak, lol. But there was that tidbit of information about Sua having a loyal fanbase demanding her revival, so that tells me it is possible in the ALNST universe. There’s also that ‘joke’ comic on Patreon with Mizi spoiling the whole plot (iykyk). So we might actually get to see at least some attempt at Sua’s revival. Who knows!

Anyways I have yapped even more than I did after R6, so I’ll leave it here. If you made it this far, feel free to share your opinions or predictions!