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fanwarriorfictions · 7 months ago

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Not Again - Part Seven

Summary: Y/n has figured out how to go home. Azriel is desperately trying to hold on, no matter how much it burns.

Warnings: slight descriptions of burns and wounds, angst

Series Master List

-Part Seven-

Azriel was pissed. He had been told by Rhys that she’d figured it out, that she was setting up the portal, that she was leaving at any moment. Something vicious and sharp had punched him in the gut when his brother had reached out with his mind to say those words and there was this instant anger that over took him.

Azriel had left mid conversation with Cassian, ignoring his confused shouts as Azriel launched into the sky. Flying straight for the house of wind.

She was going to leave, any second and she would be gone, and he didn’t know why there was something screaming in him not to let that happen. He’d promised her that she would go home, that he would do everything he could to get her there, and yet his mind and shadows were screaming, stay, stay, don’t let her go, she can’t leave, stay, stay, don’t leave.

Azriel slams onto the balcony, knees barking in pain but he doesn’t care. He’s running down the hall, following this invisible string that tugs him towards her. He’s barely registering where he’s going, left and right, down the steps, right and left, through the halls, towards her. She’s leaving, she’s leaving and I’ll never see her again.

The door is open, voices fluttering out to meet him and he takes a single second to compose himself. Azriel forces each ugly emotion into a box, locking it away behind the mask of the shadowsinger.

“That was quick,” Rhys smirks as soon as Azriel walks into the empty room.

They’d cleared out the furniture of the spare bedroom, a bucket of black paint in the center of the floor. Kneeling before it is Y/n, a thick brush in her already paint stained hand. Her arm is bandaged, dark red seeping through the white cloth, and suddenly he can smell her blood everywhere. It envelops him, and this primal part of him snarls, eyes searching for the threat, to protect her from whatever dared to harm her. He shoves that down, down, down.

“You’re just in time for the party,” she grins, looking him in the eyes without that hesitation he’d seen last night, and he can see the genuine light in them, the happiness, it’s enough to calm the raging beast inside him, just slightly.

“Why are you bleeding?”

She holds up her arm, “old spells seem to require blood for almost everything. We mixed mine in with the paint to make it easier.”

He so badly wants to tear into her for trying to just leave without a word, slicing her arm halfway open to do it, to yell and yell, and yet he sees that spark in her and he can’t, “you figured it out.”

Feyre holds out a piece of paper to him, a sketch in the center of it, and Azriel examines the strange mark. It almost looks like a doorway, an arch, he’s half tempted to tear it to shreds.

“It should have been obvious,” Y/n says, standing up from the ground, “it’s so simple I’m almost mad I didn’t get it sooner.”

She stands at his side, paint stained hand reaching over his arm to trace over the mark, “It looks almost identical to unlocking, which is one of the first things my mom ever taught me, I looked over it so many times. But it’s so simple, stupidly simple that I overlooked it again and again. Didn’t help that the spell is in this ancient language I’ve never seen or heard, even Amren didn’t recognize it.”

She looks up at him, eyes shining so bright that he can’t help but give her the faintest smile. Her eyes dip to his mouth, grin faltering just barely, a brief look passing through her face, Azriel almost convinces himself that it’s longing. If he was delusional he’d think that maybe she’d think twice about leaving, about leaving him.

“How do you open it?” Rhys asks walking around that archway, “or does it just do it on its own in a few minutes?”

“A little more blood and a spell,” she says, unwrapping the bandage on her arm, “I need to write the name of the place or person I’m trying to see.”

Azriel’s nose flares at the smell of her blood, he can’t even look as she dips her fingers in the wound and starts to draw out the marks on the floor, whispering the name of her home over and over.

You look like you’re ready to scream, Rhys says into his mind, don’t tell me you’ve grown attached so soon.

Mind your own business, Azriel growls back.

It takes her several minutes to draw out the word, meticulously examining every curve and line to make sure it’s absolutely perfect. He wants her to hurry up, to slow down, to stop all together.

“Alright,” Y/n says as she stands, “that should be it.”

She takes the Walking Dead from Feyre, who steps away and into her mate’s side. The High Lady curiously watches, glancing at Azriel like she’s connecting pieces in her mind. He’s half tempted to give her the same warning he’d given her mate.

Y/n starts to speak, voice straining over the foreign words. They sound harsh against her usually soft accent. Her face scrunches, almost as if she’s in pain, and Azriel can feel it in his own throat. She doesn’t sound like herself, the words turning to rasps.

Faint green light starts to flare from the painted gate, and Y/n’s voice cracks on the words. A salty tang hits the air and Azriel sees the tears falling down her face.

“Stop,” he says, taking a single step closer.

She doesn’t, she keeps going and the center of the gate turns green. The room turns unbearably hot, hot wind swirling round and round, and Y/n’s eyes get a glassy far away look. Something was wrong, this wasn’t right, wrong wrong wrong.

“Y/n stop!”

She can’t hear him, she can’t hear Rhys and Feyre shouting on the other side of her. Azriel can’t hear them either he realizes, he’s in a shield of air, trapped inside with no way out. Sweat slides down his skin, his wings tucking against him, his shadows hiding beneath. The air slices through his skin, drawing his blood.

She’s stuck there in the center of it, the words she screams turning to a garbled mess, like her throat was being shredded from the inside out. The book in her hands glows bright green, illuminating her face in the sickly color. The gate is dark, that green light being eaten up from the inside, something lurks on the other side and he’s sure it isn’t the beautiful Terrasen she had told him of.

“Y/n let go!” He pushes towards her, heat blasting his skin, “Let go of the damned book.”

He reaches for her, a brief moment of panic hitting him as he touches her scorching hot skin, burning his already scarred hands. For just a moment he’s transported back to that dark corner his half brothers had found him in, to the feeling of oil coating his hands, to the smell of his burnt flesh in his nose. Everything in him recoils, trying to get away from that heat, but she’s right there, tears running down her face. She’s in so much pain, he can feel it in his own chest, pain, pain, pain.

Azriel screams as he wraps his arms around her, trying to pry that cursed book from her hands but her grip is like iron. Every part of him is burning, begging for him to let her go, let whatever it was on the other side take her. But he won’t, he can’t, he screams and screams and begs her to let go of the book, pulling her to his chest, yanking on that string, pleading with the Mother to let her go.

“Please,” he sobs through his teeth, “let go, just let go, Princess.”

Burning, he was burning alive. He wasn’t sure he’d even survive, and if he did her body would be imprinted into his wherever they touched. Screaming, begging, burning and burning and burning

Princess please, he begs, the words not even making it past his lips as he screams, “let go, please, let it go!”

He yanks harder, holding her burning body to his own, “Where’d you go, Princess? Come back, please just come back to me.”

And like a switch had turned off, her hands relax and that Mother forsaken book falls into the inky darkness below, disappearing as the portal closes around it.

She collapses, body still burning into his. Azriel hears screaming, he can’t tell if it’s his or Feyre’s as that shield of air collapses and lets the High Lady and Lord in. Rhys is yelling something, Azriel thinks it’s his name but he can’t tell. He doesn’t know anything, anything but pain and the female in his arms.

Azriel dreamt of fire. Oily slick all over his skin that lit on the tip of a match, burning and burning, it wouldn’t stop no matter how he screamed or how he begged. It kept burning, the scars on his hand melting away till there was nothing left but bone. He’s reaching, flesh melting away, reaching through the flames towards a female on the other side of the dark room, she’s burning, she’s the match to his skin, but he keeps reaching for her.

Everything hurts, his skin, his throat, his heart. That’s the first thing he registers as he wakes, the second is pure panic.

His eyes fly open and he’s searching, sending out shadows, looking for the burning female. It briefly connects that he’s in his bed in the house of wind, that the sun is peaking through the drawn curtains.

“Relax, brother.”

Azriel’s eyes find Cassian sitting in a chair beside his bed, “Where is she?”

Cassian sighs, leaning forward in his seat to rest his arms over his knees, “Why am I not surprised? She’s okay, she’s sleeping in her room across the hall.”

He feels it then, the tendril of shadow that sneaks through the gap in her door, it finds her, and it wraps around her wrist, a tether between them that he can feel right next to his heart.

“How long have we been out?” Azriel asks, his voice rasping.

Cassian hands him a glass of water off the nightstand, “You’ve been in and out for almost two days now. I got here with Madja after you and Y/n collapsed. You went half feral when I tried to take her out of your arms to let Madja look at you. It took both me and Rhys to hold you down, you were screaming at us to let you go, to not touch her. I think you told Rhys you’d rip his head off if he got near her.”

Azriel didn’t remember any of it, he only remembered the pain and the fear as he’d held her, “How bad was the damage?”

“Not as bad as it should be, with the way you were screaming, Rhys wasn’t sure there’d be anything left of you.” Cassian frowns down at the bedsheets, no doubt imagining just that, “Madja was able to heal most of the burns already, the few on your chest will take longer but she doesn’t think they’ll scar to badly. Rhys has a theory that even when she was possessed by that damned book Y/n was able to put a shield between you two, trying to protect you. I think you’re just a lucky bastard.”

“How is she?”

At that his brother’s eyes shutter, and the panic is back in Azriel’s chest. No, no, she had to be alright, she was there, on the other side of that shadowy tether, breathing, alive. He’s pushing himself up off the bed, ignoring the screaming pain beneath the bandages across his chest.

He snarls, “Cass tell me-“

Cassian holds up his hands, “Just please promise me you won’t freak, okay?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Azriel asks, forcing himself to breathe, to calm the hell down.

“She was burning up, her internal temperature was so high, Madja was scared she would burnout,” Cassian describes slowly, “we had to keep filling up the bath with cold water, it would steam and disappear almost instantly. It took hours for her temperature to drop enough for Madja to even touch her to begin examining her. Physically, she’s mostly fine, there’s some damage to her vocal chords, some burns along her arms and back that will heal in time. But she hasn’t woken up, not once since she collapsed. Rhys and Feyre can’t get past that protection spell on her to check on her mind, they don’t know when she’ll wake up.”

There’s a silent ending to the sentence that his brother won’t say, and Azriel can infer it on his own based on the half broken look Cassian gives him. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s yanking on that tether. She’s there on the other side of it, alive, she’s alive, she’s alive. He repeats it over and over as the panic locks up his whole body, as Cassian’s unspoken words echo through his head.

They don’t know if she’ll wake up.

It was a battle of wills to get up out of his bed. Cassian was about ready to strap Azriel to the gods damned thing when Az had used a shadow to throw his brother away from him.

“That’s not fair!” Cassian struggles against the creature, “Madja said you needed to rest. You’ll go and open up your wounds and end up with a damned infection!”

Azriel grimaces as he stands up, “I don’t care.”

“Az! Damnit,” Cassian groans, “You stubborn bastard, sit the fuck down.”

Azriel ignores him, limping towards the door on unsteady legs, body screaming in pain at each step. He didn’t care, he needs to see her, to see with his own eyes that she was okay, to scream at her to wake the fuck up so he could scream at her again for being so reckless.

“Mother help me I swear,” Cassian breaks away from the shadowy hold, “You’re not even dressed for gods sake.”

He was in his undershorts, upper body wrapped in white bandages. It was good enough.

Cassian swears loudly as Azriel almost falls, wrapping his arms around his brother to keep him upright. Azriel groans when his wounds come into contact with Cassian’s arms. It was agony.

“I told you,” Cassian growls, “Now will you please just lay down.”

“No. Just help me over there,” Azriel snarls, Cassian opens his mouth to argue and Azriel sends him a pleading look, “Please, Cass, I need to see her, I- please.”

His brother searches his face, whatever Cassian sees in his eyes has him sighing, “Fuck, fine, fine. Put your arm over my shoulder.”

Azriel complies, letting Cassian support most of his weight. They struggle through the door and across the hall, her door opens, revealing a irate Mor.

“You couldn’t have put some pants on first?” She opens the door wider to let them in, “You two are loud enough to be heard across the Sidra, fighting like a bunch of dogs.”

Azriel ignores her, finding the sleeping female in the center of the room. She looks small, frail, swallowed whole by the humorously large bed. The only indication that she’s even alive is the slight rise and fall of her chest, the beating heart he can feel from across the room. His shadow is still wrapped around her wrist, caressing the pulse point, counting each beat.

He pulls away from his brother, moving slowly across the room where he basically collapses on the edge of her bed. His scarred hands reach for her, replacing that little shadow. Her hand is so cold between his, a stark contrast to the raging fire she’d been days ago.

“We’ll be in the hall,” Mor says softly behind him, “let us know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t register the door opening and closing behind him, just stares at the beautiful female beside him. Her face is relaxed, no pain, no tears, no sign that anything is wrong. Yet she still sleeps.

She’s dreaming, dreaming, sleeping, she’s dreaming of you, his tendril of shadow whispers in his ear, her heart skips when she hears your voice.

His fingers find that pulse point on her wrist and he whispers, “hey there, princess.”

There’s the smallest flutter beneath his finger tips and he could cry. She could hear him at least, she wasn’t locked away from him.

“I could scream,” he says, keeping his voice low, only for her to hear, “could scream and scream at you for being so reckless, for jumping into the flames head first, for almost getting yourself killed-“

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, “You are not leaving me, not like that, we will get you home safe and sound, but you’re not dying on me, you’re not allowed to do that to me.”

There was something there on the other side of that little string of fate. So he wrapped his hand around it and pulled, ripping it towards him, tying it to his heart.

“Come back,” he begs, “you’ve got to come back.”

He pulls and and pulls and pulls, “Where are you at, princess?”

And there, on the other side of that shadowy string, he feels the faintest tug.

Tag List-

@inloveallthetime , @microwaveallthedemons , @nayaniasworld , @thecraziestcrayon , @fightmedraco , @blackgirlmagicforever , @nikt-wazny-y , @fangirlloza010 , @thisiskaylin , @wolfgirl624 , @khaleesihavilliard , @fluffy-bnny , @mariahoedt , @durgenyx , @glitterypirateduck , @byyalady , @amberlynn98 , @ferrarisbitch , @a-cup-of-nightshade , @breella

#I’ve had this scene in mind for the last few chapters #acotar #acotar x reader #azriel #azriel x reader #rowaelin daughter #rowaelin #not again #a court of thorns and roses

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awful-little-goose · 2 months ago

Note

howdy!! I’m here to bring you fanart! mostly just silly sketches I did at 5am :3

Esis ate a forever Menticid Mushroom brownie and now she’s high forever 💔

Bonus doodle of a portrait of me (my fursona) while drawing this:

Also sorry if this was long!!! Hope you enjoy!

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT KIND OF UGLY NOISE CAME OUT OF ME AT THE FOREVER WEED BROWNIE COMIC WHAT THE HELL

ISIS AS A REALISTIC RAIN FOREST FROG (also you’re so good how did you know I based Esis’ design on specifically that family of frog whAT)

you are TOO funny, you must be contained at ONCE or else I’ll EXPLODE

Also your fursona is SOO CUTE, I love fursonas that are like- furry feral beasts, so GOOD HM!! and thank you thank you thank you for the art AAAAA

Here’s a doodle of your fursona about to beat mine up with a giant hammer ✨

#cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl oc #tw weed

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factual-fantasy · 8 months ago

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22 ASKS!! :DD THANK YOU!! :} 🎉🎂🎉

GASPPP!! :DDD I'D LOVE TO!! :}} 💖💖

I've actually been thinking a lot about Louis and his story lately! Though, since drawing is rather taxing on me atm I haven't gotten around to making him a character study post.. Like I did for Cuttlefish.. BUT!! I have still made some story bits for him anyways! :DD 👇👇

I had this idea that he used to be an ordinary flavored cookie of some kind. And he used to live on land as this washed up fisherman that was really down on his luck.. he had lost his job, his home, his arm.. he had no friends.. no family.. nothing. He was really lost and alone..

Its around that time he was somehow welcomed aboard Seafoam's ship. It was just Seafoam, Octo and Ellie at the time. Louis found great comfort and security with this crew. He had never felt more welcome and wanted in his life.. This environment started to break down Louis' anxieties and depression overtime. Slowly turning him into the more jolly and boisterous Louis the crew knows him as today.

But things would take a seemingly bad turn when a curse befell Louis. Turning him into this half cookie, half crab beast. Louis' body had changed significantly, the biggest change being his huge crab arm. Now, most cookies would consider this ghastly new form to be what its intended to be. A curse.. But Louis.. actually didn't mind the changes. In fact, he liked his new body. Quite a lot! And though his new crab arm did cause him quite a bit of aches and pains.. and also took away his ability to swim.. he honestly considered it an upgrade!

Where before he had a missing arm and was completely useless in combat.. now he had this huge intimidating claw in its place! With his new found strength and power, he was a force to be reckoned with! Not only that, but he didn't see his new body as ugly, he thought he looked AWESOME! So he also got a major confidence boost too!

In present day, Louis is a confident, sociable, and all around happy person. And he gives all the credit to Seafoam and his crew for his new found zest for life! :}} ✨🦀💖✨

Anyways-- thank you for taking interest in Louis! :DD rn drawing is rather challenging for me, but I hope to draw him again someday soon! Maybe I can go back and make him his own character study post like I wanted to! 👀👀

I KNOWWW WAAAAAAA 😭😭😭💖💖💖💔💔💖

@pink088

XD Bibi would probably use it to make a cold glass or water for me🥺💖

And hey, thanks for the cake! :DD No doubt Cici will devour it XDD (Bibi allows it)

I suppose if I really wanted to I could learn how. But I don't want to turn my hobby into a job..

I made my first post on December 19th, 2018!! :00 That's roughly 4-5 years or so!

I use FireAlpaca! And I use a xp-pen 13.3 pro tablet ✨✨

As for that Undyne and Papyrus post.. The story behind it is, that Papyrus is from a different timeline. And in his original timeline.. Undyne is dead.. Now, this other Undyne knows that her Papyrus, the "real" Papyrus, is somewhere else in the underground. So this Papyrus is an imposter. She questions this imposter. "Who are you, and why do you look like Papyrus?" She waits for this imposter to answer.. But Papyrus has no words.. since his Undyne died, he hasn't heard her voice in a very long time... he's too shocked to speak..

I DO have a YouTube channel, and I was intending to make animations for it... but I lost my drive. Animations get stolen A LOT. And Animations take a ton of time to make. I was discouraged.. why would I spend so much time on something, if its more likely to be stolen?

Though I have been thinking about making sketch animatic memes... maybe once my health improves I could try to make one-

And hey! Don't worry about my arms, I can make several whether I'm feeling good or bad! :D

AND AAA THANK YOU!! :DD I'm glad you like him and noticed his eye details!! :}}}

(Post in question)

XDD Jangles is chaotic enough to sleep hanging upside down tho lets be real-

@yourstrulylightstar283 (In response to this post)

:DD Bibi gives his thanks!

@cudlycorncornsworthcoberson (In response to this post)

XDD I know right?? Another year has already come and gone, its crazy to think about! :00

And don't worry, I've been focusing all my energy on taking care of myself and drinking lots of water! 👍👍

Awe! Thank you so much!! :DD Right now the main thing I'm battling is my poor mental and physical health.. but I have high hopes that things will improve soon! :)))

@the-woomyverse (Post in question)

:DD Thank you! I'm glad you liked them!! :}}

As for Ludwig and Morton, unfortunately they don't have a lot of story built yet.. but I'm working on it! <:D

Ludwig is intended to be the eldest sibling, and heir to the throne. He's the "Prince of the Koopas". That post shows Ludwig seeming nervous.. and unsure. I'm experimenting with Ludwig taking his role as heir very seriously.. but its stressful. He feels like he's under a lot of pressure and has a loooot of responsibility to look forward to..

Though I'm kind'a going back on that a bit. The canon Ludwig seems pompous and a bit arrogant. Maybe I should keep some of that but in a positive way? I imagine that Bowser wouldn't force Ludwig to do this if he didn't want to. And I imagine that Kamek would have done very well to prepare Ludwig for his future kingly-hood.

What I mean by this is. I think a more.. confident, and level headed version of Ludwig would be appropriate. Rather than a pompous snob or a nervous wreck. He could be a young prince with a lot of wit and discipline. A price that is bound to make a fine king. 👑

For Morton I'm afraid there's even less story built for him 😭💔💔 Right now the main thing I'm experimenting with is Morton having some form of melanism. (Its a mutation where animals are born with excess pigment in their skin. Making their fur/hair/skin very dark/black when it otherwise would not have been.)

I could experiment with Morton not liking this aspect of himself..? Maybe it makes him feel out of place or insecure..? Though I doubt any of the individuals around him would have judged him or treated him differently at all for it.. even his siblings.

Idk, I just need some more time to think about him I suppose! <XDD Sorry!! 😭😭

Thank you!! :DD

@untitled-7613 (Post in question)

Thank you! :DD I'm glad you like them!! :}}

And Jimmy was a lovely gift, though I didn't create him! The factual fam is mostly intended to be made of characters that I can take credit for-

(Note- Jimmy was a nice gift, but please! I stand by only wanting comments <:} 💖💖)

@tallchest13-blog

Dawww, as far as I'm concerned, you've followed me twice! At least in spirit! XD

@couchwow

Hergn... but that takes efforttt... how about you tell me what you like about it first? :0

@neo-metalscottic

No problem!! :D And I wonder that about K Rool. I didn't actually realize that he would be very similar to Bowser.. hmm. Well, I'm thinking that even if he is close to Bowser in size, Bowser's got him beat by his fire breathing ability XDD And King/Big Koopa's overall could just be a tougher species-

As for the Super Stars, they have about the same status as the 1-Up Mushrooms. They are this extremely rare Power up that seems to only show up when its needed.

I've been experimenting with the toad people worshiping 1-Ups and the Delfino people worshiping Super Stars. These bizarre and wonderous powerups that are strongly tied to the prophecy and what not. They're also related to how Peach and Daisy became royalty..

Its a lot of complicated word spaghetti atm but the point I'm getting at- is that there is definitely more than one! And they are so powerful and so.. seemingly sentient, that they are seen as almost.. like.. these holy beings that bring about future events.

I haven't rambled about all that biz yet becuase I cant find proper words to figure out what I'm even thinking <XD Gonna need some more time on that one!--

And yes yes yes! The Commander is still around, and AWWW!! Is he really?? :DD That's so sweet! Thank you so much!! :}} I haven't thought much about what role he's played in raising the Koopalings, though I really should. While he isn't there to actually help raise them, he's always been around as they've grown up. Whether it be following Kamek around or doing some kind of work around the palace.

When it comes to Bowser returning injured.. I wonder. part of me thinks that he wouldn't return right away, so maybe his injury wasn't seen by the Commander. But the news of his defeat would certainly be bone chilling. Commander would be more tense around the palace. And probably extends his night watches a bit longer in an attempt to better protect the Koopalings..

On the last note, Yes! I do plan to redesign him once again XD or at least update him a little- Though drawing is very challenging for me atm.. so that'll have to wait a while!.. <XDD

@littlelightfish

WAAAA THIS ASK GAVE ME LIFFFEEEE!!😭😭💖💖💖 NO ITS NOT TOO INTENSE THE ONLY THING THAT IS INTENSE IS MY PURE JOY AT READING THIS OVER AND OVER WAAAHG THANK YOU SO MUVHCHH!!!💖💖💖💖😭😭💖💖

As for your questions! <XD --I've been thinking more about Tuna's character over the past few days and this got me thinking even more! :D

I imagined that when Tuna started out he was a real brat. Not super great to be around. He had some bottled up stuff for sure and was real rebellious and resistant to authority figures. Nobody was really willing to deal with his crap and always pushed back, which just made him more bratty.. for a while Seafoam wasn't sure what he was gonna do with this kid..

But then he reached some kind of middle ground with Ellie.

I have several ideas in mind for how this could go.. but I'll ramble about this one first- XDD

Ellie has thick skin and could tolerate the snarky remarks he made. She also didn't push back, even through she very easily could have. She knows that this kid has some serious inner battles and he doesn't need her snapping back at him.

And like some of the things you mentioned, it started out with Tuna just bumming around in the kitchen. Since Ellie could tolerate him she never kicked him out. Making the kitchen kind'a like a space where he could.. "get away" from the rest of the crew, in a sense..

Ellie was the first person to crack that outer shell of his. Providing him a consistent source of comfort, with her food and the quiet kitchen.

After some time the snarky remarks or comments would slow down.. over time he just resorts to standing around and watching her cook. Getting closer and closer.. eventually asking questions. "What are ye makin..?" "..what's that do..?" She would always reply genuinely. And as gently as she could considering her usual monotone voice <XD

Eventually it turns into "..where'd you learn to cook?" "..how long have you known Octo..?" "..do you trust Cuttlefish.?"

She could say kind things about the crew which gets Tuna to lighten up around them. "Octo seems mean but actually he's just blah blah blah..." Next time he interacts with Octo he's less tense. "Seafoam is genuinely as kind as he seems. If ye can trust anyone, its him." He starts listening to Seafoam more..

These interactions would continue to develop more and more. I don't know if he'd ever be able to help her cook anything- considering how strict she is about it <XDD But although I have several more ideas for this, I like this idea of Ellie really softening him up over time..

WAAHDH WALL OF TEXT--- Thank you again so much!!! :DD It makes my heart very happy to hear that you love Tuna and Ellie so much!! 🥰🥰

(Sorry for not being able to transfer your cookie gifs to this post! <:0)

Hmm.. that makes me wonder if the cookie run characters have.. cookies. Like, small cookies that THEY eat.

Something tells me they don't.. Which makes me think that seeing someone eat a normal cookie would still be horrifying! <XDD

@mrslilysnow

Awe! Thank you so much! :DD Such a pleasant and wholesome message to read, truly. :}}

I'm working out my feelings with the fandom.. tbh I think I'm just in a place where my emotions are all outa whack. And I'm just avoiding anything and everything that upsets me. 💔

I'm sure in a few weeks when I get my health back on track I'll feel better about the Octonauts fandom. Perhaps I'll even return with more updated designs! XD

@radicalrainbow

:DDD THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! I'm so glad to hear that!! :}}}

And huh.. its been a while since I've drawn the FNAF string beans hasn't it? Once I can get my health back on track I should draw them again! <XDD

@lampylamperson

Blue!💙💙 :DD Specifically shades similar to what ever this one is XDD 👇👇

:000....... FISH! :DD

@canonickero

SLJFKSJF THAT DISCRIPTION OF THE PIC XDDD JHASKDEJHV

And thank you! This makes me feel a lot better XDD

@beryl-shade

I think the cookie run games have cake/dog things..? I'm assuming the crews pet would be one of those :00

As for the names you've suggested, I love Patty, Pretzel, Muffin and Cornbread XDD such great names! :DD

#my response #factual fam #bibi #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run ocs #my ocs #octonauts #undertale #deltarune #super mario bros

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ghcstao3 · 2 years ago

Note

Absolutely loosing it over the idea of Ghost sneaking around to see what Soap is doing on leave. He gets jealous/insecure seeing him set up a date/picnic etc. Can't get it out of his head, has to know who John is getting things for. Stalking only for Soap to call out to Ghost while hes waiting-

"'Knew you were here the whole time, Lt. Join me? I brought tea." (or something along those lines).

-🤺

what a silly thing for ghost to do. also so real. love it

Ghost hadn't ever thought of himself as the jealous type until he met John "Soap" MacTavish.

Truly, he hadn't ever had reason to be the jealous type before Soap. Nor does he now, really, but of course the man who brings out the best in Ghost also has to bring out the very green-eyed worst. It's upsetting.

And impossible to ignore.

His envy begins with smaller things, like the casual touches Soap offers to just about anyone, or the smile he always seems to be wearing when Ghost wishes it were just him such a thing was reserved for. It's an ugly feeling that only grows worse with time—but what else can Ghost do but stand in the sidelines and feel miserable for himself? Soap has always and will always deserve better than Ghost.

But even if Ghost's jealousy gets to the point where it's a constant, overbearing presence, he does his best to manage it well. He does manage it well.

On base, that is. Surrounded by other soldiers, his colleagues, and always with something more important to do, Ghost is able to tame the beast that Soap has brought life to.

Then they're sent on leave. Horrible, ever-dreaded leave. The entire 141, including Price for once. And suddenly Ghost's envy cannot be shoved aside for menial tasks and conversation, not for long, at least. Being on his own doesn't bode well.

So he decides he'd visit Soap. Sort of.

The train ticket booking is on impulse. Ghost finds a hotel room even knowing where Soap lives, because he doesn't know if Soap would want to see him.

He's... pathetic, really. Utterly hopeless.

By the time he's mustered any courage to actually show up at Soap's front door, Ghost happens upon the man on his convoluted route there.

Well, happens upon is a strong term. It's more like Ghost sees Soap from afar, sitting on a park bench with his journal, and plants himself far enough that Soap wouldn't see him, but Ghost would still be able to watch.

Forgive him, for being so nosy.

Ghost isn't sure what overcomes him, when Soap eventually stands and Ghost rises, too. He isn't sure what overcomes him when he waits a few seconds before continuing to follow, to lurk like a complete creep. But he does, anyway. Until he snaps out of whatever stupid trance he's in, turns tail and heads back to the hotel.

It doesn't stop that day, though. He figures Soap might frequent the park, knowing the sergeant and his love for any sort of outdoors—and Ghost is easily proven right, as he watches Soap set up at the same bench with his journal the very next day.

He's curious, alright? Nothing more—until jealousy flares through him with the easy smiles Soap offers passersby. Until Ghost is envious of whatever kind greetings Soap offers those same people with that accent Ghost had grown to love even in spite of the nonsense Soap sometimes spoke.

Until a young woman, beautiful and surely Soap's type, joins him on the bench and makes Soap laugh. Until Soap is happily showing her whatever is in his journal and talks to her for ages.

Ghost leaves the park first, that time. But he comes back the next day, and the next. It's the same thing, minus the woman, until one day Soap isn't at the bench. Instead, he's laid out a blanket on the green and is unpacking enough food for two from a plain rucksack.

Ghost doesn't know when, but he creeps closer. He still stays out of sight—God forbid Soap see his lieutenant stalking him—but close enough that he can make out the things Soap has brought. Close enough that he can see the vague shapes of sketches Soap is still endeavouring to draw before whoever he's surely waiting for arrives.

Which is too close, apparently.

"LT," Soap is suddenly calling out. He hasn't so much as looked up from his journal. "I know you're here, ya numpty."

Ghost hesitates a long while, the kind of hesitation that would get him killed on the field. But here, it only stretches on an awkwardness Ghost had hoped never to face. To never have to admit he'd been observing Soap, his subordinate, from afar because he was jealous.

But Soap is patient as Ghost gradually makes his way to the blanket. He doesn't sit right away, however, even when Soap prompts him.

"Aren't you waiting on someone?" Ghost asks. He prays he sounds impassive enough, but he can't help the tinge of bitterness that seeps into his voice.

Soap shakes his head. "Unless I count you," he says. "C'mon, Simon, sit. I brought more than enough for the both of us."

Ghost complies, dropping cautiously across from Soap, staring owlishly at the sergeant who seems far too casual about all of this.

"You're not going to ask?"

Again, Soap shakes his head. "If I wanted to know on my terms, I woulda walked over to you the first day I saw you at the park. Now, I dinnae have much tea at home, so I hope what I brought'll do."

Soap continues to chatter away to both himself and Ghost while he shoves food and drink in Ghost's direction. Ghost just sits in disbelief before he's able to settle.

But once he realizes that the green-eyed monster has finally backed away for once, Ghost allows himself to just enjoy Soap's company, before he thinks to answer any questions and ruin this peace. He has the sergeant to himself, for this one moment, and, really, it's all he's ever been needing.

#ask #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soap mw2 #ghost mw2 #soapghost #ghostsoap #writing #drabble

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erose-this-name · 7 months ago

Text

Punishment.

Cult of the Lamb Ficlet because I lost control of my life again

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=⁂=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Lamb and their right hand cat, Narinder, walk about the cult grounds discussing plans for new buildings.

Kallamar and Saleos walk by, the former passively rambling outloud about schemes he will never actually go through with to the latter who just nods along, with the same reverence and eagerness a dog might have toward its owner. Kallamar seems to look at Saleos the same way one might be looked at by their housecat. As little good as they're surely up to, neither god of death pays them any mind, as they have proved to be more harmless together than apart.

Lamb chats to Narinder while sketching vague blueprints, “I saw you at your siblings’ house earlier, Nari’.”

Narinder grunts, “... And?”

“Don’t tell me The One Who Waited has forgiven them already?” Lamb teases.

“Of course not! None of my siblings have my forgiveness, nor will they ever. But, that spider is hardly the same person who betrayed me, not anymore. No point punishing the innocent. No point in letting what little remains of their talents go to waste.”

Narinder chooses his words carefully, the Lamb has probably already gleaned from his thoughts that he went to see Shamura, but maybe he could hide his intent behind ambiguity. This is just another facet of the countless indignities and adjustments he has had to go through after losing his Crown.

“Pragmatic!” Lamb smiles, complimenting the cat. Then, why do you think of guilt, Narinder?

Leshy bursts from the ground before Lamb, startling the young god of death. The worm bares his teeth, gesturing with his seeing eye cane, “Horrendous cruel beast! Why does Heket have to tend to both the farms and the gardens!? And is the head chef? EXPLAIN YOURSELF, IMMEDIATELY!”

Narinder rolls his third eye and picks up the blueprint Lamb had been working on, checking the shrine dimensions and blood plumbing for mistakes or minor improvements. It’s a skill that is easy to learn, but takes eons of practice to master.

Lamb looks at the worm with a wide friendly smile, unsure of his angle. His chaotic thoughts do not help. “Because, Leshy… She’s an ex-fertility goddess of harvest. I know it’s a lot of work, and she said she was the god of famine, but she seems to retain some power or knowledge of the opposite, so I think she can handle-”

Leshy throws his arms up, “SO DO I! I AM THE GOD OF NATURE! LOOK AT ME! I’M LITERALLY PART PLANT! Heket’s domain is merely domestic crops. Allow me to tend to the flowers and the trees, and I will grow them better than she ever could. Those camellias will have no choice but to obey me, FOR I AM THEIR GOD.”

Lamb tilts their head inquisitively, reopening the wound hidden under their bell collar, “Huh, so that’s why you look like that. I always thought you were the god of chaos?”

“Chaos is nature! Plants are not meant to be grown in ugly rows, so called ‘weeds’ are not meant to be pulled up, my hedges not meant to be trimmed into cubes. Nature is chaotic, it’s people who inflict their order upon it.” Leshy balls his fist.

“But, weren’t you also technically the god of order?” Lamb raises a brow, discreetly checking to make sure they’re wearing the blood red fleece, today. Or at least the robes they stole from Narinder.

Leshy produces a flower from somewhere, likely thin air, and uses it as a prop, “I am! Order is nature! Have you ever considered a flower? The intricacies and mathematical perfection of their petals, that I painted? The perfectly rehearsed dance of an ecosystem in balance? Nature is ordered, it’s people who inflict their chaos upon it.”

“Uh…” Lamb smiles, incredulously.

“What? That made perfect sense, right Narinder? The vile lamb must also be stupid.” Leshy says, rolling his non-existent eyes and throwing an arm around Narinder’s shoulder.

Narinder shrugs him off, not seeming to give a shit.

Lamb says, “Thank you for your concern, Leshy, but I think our current camellia output is sufficient. We really can’t spare another lumberjack, especially one as talented as you.~”

The green worm glowers at the Lamb, bearing his teeth. He turns and storms off.

Narinder watches his brother walk off. He turns to the Lamb, “Why did you put Heket in charge of sustenance? She is not above poisoning, or worse, you are aware of that.”

Lamb giggles, dropping the façade and rubbing their neck, “Because working with food torments her, now she can’t eat anything. Not if it’s still solid. She’s still much too proud to do a bad job, though. And I’m not worried about her poisons, anymore.”

Narinder says, “Oh. She always was a glutton, I suppose.”

“You think I’m being cruel, Nari’?” Lamb says coquettishly, licking their own blood and ichor from their clawed fingers.

Narinder’s three eyes narrow at the Lamb, “Cease your reading of my mind. And, yes, of course I do. However, I did not say it was a bad thing. She deserves it. I imagine that is also why you have Leshy cutting trees down, instead of growing them? Scary, how much of my vindictiveness has rubbed off on you, once so innocent... and, come to think, this is also probably why I was made your ‘disciple’, wasn't it?”

The Lamb gives him a sharp smile, “Ehehehe! Now, I’m starting to wonder if you can read my mind. A fitting punishment, yea? Always by my side. So close to the object of your desire, yet forever powerless to take it…”

Narinder’s face turns red and he gets a nosebleed. “I HATE YOU, Lamb! You are horrible and evil and vile, I’m leaving now.”

The three-eyed cat runs back into his hut.

Lamb mumbles to themself, obliviously, “Huh? He’s still thinking I’m cruel. He must really want the Red Crown back, I better keep teasing him with it!”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=⁂=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

As Leshy retreats to a secluded part of the cult grounds with a bottle of ‘very good’ wine he stole, to brood over the Lamb’s refusal, he groans to realize that he’s unfortunate enough for Kallamar to have already been there doing the same thing.

Kallamar smiles and waves, beckoning Leshy to sit beside him. After a few moments of Leshy not reacting, he speaks up, “Hello, Brother! Sit down, sit down! Still living with that mortal cat?”

Leshy sighs as he does so, “Yes. Still living in Heket’s basement?”

“Just because she built a floor above mine doesn’t make it the basement. It’s a ‘cellar’…” Kallamar clarifies.

“Rrrright.” Leshy brings his bottle to his lips.

“You know, it’s funny how you only act like a normal person when you’re drunk. You’re so much more genuine, this way. I much prefer it.”

Leshy spits out his wine, “W-what’s that supposed to mean?! I’M ALWAYS NORMAL!!! … So, anyways, how’s Shamura doing? If you ever need help taking care of-”

Kallamar cuts him off, “Oh, could you? That'd be great. Saleos hardly ever has time to help. Shamura's condition is… well they haven’t been getting any less lucid. They can take care of most things themself, these days. That’s actually what I was about to mention. Narinder came by the house today. Was asking to visit them.”

Leshy’s hand tightens around the bottle’s neck, “What? You didn’t let him, did you?”

“Of course not. Heket would’ve had my head if I did.”

“Huh… Why?”

“No idea, I can never read the guy. Maybe he feels bad? He used to be very close to Shamura, can’t imagine he wanted any of this to happen.”

“Maybe… But why now? We’ve been living here for close to a decade-”

“Decades, actually. This year it's 28, for me. You've been here a lot longer.” The squid corrects.

Leshy sighs, “... ‘Decadessssss’. You know what I mean. Maybe that horrid little Lamb put him up to it. Seems to enjoy torturing us like that.”

Kallamar shrugs, “Shamura’s been asking about Narinder ever since.”

Leshy raises his tone, “Shamura doesn’t know any better. They don’t even understand what happened to them, half the time. Even when they still had the Purple Crown, they kept giving him ‘gifts’. As if nothing had changed.”

Kallamar swirls the red liquid around in his bottle, “I don’t know. You really don’t think it isn’t time to extend the olive branch? He’s in the same boat as us, now. To be honest, I don’t even blame Narinder. He did what any of us would have done in that situation.”

“That’s… surprising to hear from you, Kallamar.”

“I just wish I didn’t have to get caught up in the crossfire. And, isolating Narinder has only been driving him closer to the Lamb, somehow. They are our real enemy.”

Leshy rolls his nonexistent eyes, “Ah, there it is… I mean, I don’t disagree. I empathize with him. And I miss having him as a brother, before all of this. But, I don’t know if I could ever forgive him, not after all he’s taken from me. My existence is hell, because of him.”

“Isn’t that more because of the Lamb, Brother?”

“What? No. Don’t get me wrong, I despise the Lamb. But, it was Narinder who gouged out my eyes, who sicced that vile beast on me.”

“... so?” Kallamar raises a brow.

“W-what do you mean ‘so’? Look at me! What he did to me.” Leshy gestures to his bandaged face.

“He did the same to all of us, you don’t see me asking for pity.” Kallamar takes a drink.

Leshy laughs in Kallamar’s face.

“PFFHAhAHAHahah! NO! No-no, no, no. No. We are not the same. I will admit, Shamura received a far worse fate than I, though my own suffering outweighs that of everyone besides. Then, after mine, was Heket’s. Then Narinder’s. And only then, last of all, is you. He Who Waited merely tore off part of the outside fins of your ears, you are not even deaf, not completely… And, I don’t despise you for losing nothing, Brother, I detest you because you got off so easy because you were a coward then, and you won’t even admit it because you are a coward now.”

Kallamar shakes his head, “Lost ‘nothing’? I lost my crown, my cult!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, but yes. You did, though I’m sure you cried and bitched the whole time instead of fighting like a man. But, it’s not like you were depending on yours just to hear. Or to speak. Or see.” The worm growls.

“You weren’t exactly blind until becoming a mortal. Didn’t you say you could see with the Green Crown’s eye?”

“That… that wasn’t the same! Didn’t you ever try looking through yours!? The Crowns see only truth, that isn’t the same as seeing. Beauty. Is. Not. True. Natural beauty was once all I cared about bringing into the world, it was what gave my existence meaning, what brought me happiness… For centuries, I haven’t been able to remember what flowers look like. I know their fragrance, their feel, their shape, but their color? I am told camellias are red, red like blood. What is ‘red’, Kallamar? The Green Crown did not give me the emotion of red, not the association of blood and passion, not the striking vibrancy, it merely informed me of the wavelength of photons bouncing off chemical bonds in their pigments and the chemistry and evolution of those biomolecules, and I don’t even have that anymore. ‘Dappled sunlight trickling down from the canopy of Darkwood onto a glittering stream between mossy rocks’, these are only words to me. I can no longer imagine it, as I can’t think in images anymore, only in words and concepts… Every time that I feel cool breeze through my leaflets carrying the perfume of camellias, all I can think of is that I will spend eternity never again knowing their beauty. W-whenever my cat gives me one, I…” Leshy’s lip quivers, he shakes his head.

His head drops into his hands, the worm mumbles, “What’s even the point of living anymore? I want… I deserve death. But this vile, horrid, cruel beast won’t even let me die. They know how I feel, their Crown must show them, they know how torturous this existence is for me! And still they stand there, mocking me, with that horrible sadistic smile. Acting like nothing is wrong.”

Kallamar stares at Leshy, his stitched brow furrowing. “How dare you, Brother? How dare you think that you have the right to hate me, when I already hate myself? H-how dare you think so little of yourself as to deserve pity from someone as worthless as me, when you’re still you? Do you have any idea how much I envy you right now, Leshy? Long before all this, even when you were but a wyrmling barely in control of your Crown, I still envied you. Because, you’re right. I am a coward, and a fucking idiot, not even the Blue Crown could fix that about me, because I’m also so fucking stubborn. I never deserved godhood. But it came so naturally to you, you’re so damn confident, and brave, and fucking cool looking! Everyone loved you for it! Your followers were inspired by you, drawn to you! My cult never even respected me, only feared me… Except for Saleos, he’s somehow worse… I should’ve been proud of you, as your elder bloodbrother, but as worthless and horrid as I am, I felt only jealousy… and loathed myself for it… If you think your greatness was taken from you, I never had any to begin with. If you’d even care.”

Leshy stands up, mouth downturned, the moss on his cheeks caked with wet ichor.

He punches Kallamar in the face.

The squid clutches the burst stitches across his face, “OW! What the hell, Leshy?”

Leshy sneers, “Ooh, you think you deserve pity for knowing you’re pathetic? Don’t you try to out-do my pain! Don’t you think you’re the only one that hates himself. If even you couldn’t tolerate your bullshit, why didn’t you just fucking man up and die!?”

Kallamar reaches for his bottle. Leshy hits him again. The squid falls back, over the log, and flat onto the ground.

The worm screams, “You think what the Green Crown did to me ‘looks cool?’, I’m a tree! You can pass as a normal squid. I have to tell people I’m an abomination, because I am. I’m a monster that devoured souls and families, and enjoyed it. And you think that was a good thing? You think they loved me for it? I didn’t even know what love was! Did you really think that I would feel better if I knew you only hate yourself because you weren’t consumed by your Crown, like me? Because you were still a person underneath it?! Do you understand how lucky someone like you is to have Saleos? How little you deserve his forgiveness, his love? After everything he sacrificed to you, willingly? And every day, you spit in his face!”

Kallamar curls up into a ball as Leshy kicks him repeatedly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, p-please…”

Leshy stops, tears dampening his bandages. “Now… Saleos is going to tend to your wounds, you’ll talk his ears off about this, and he’ll still be on your side… and I’ll go home, and my cat will tell me all about how much he loves that benevolent Lamb for saving him from Darkwood. Fr-... from the s-sacrificial altar... For vanquishing that evil god of chaos…”

Kallamar looks between bloody, shaking fingers, “H-he… still doesn’t know?”

Leshy sits down, wiping ichor from his hands, sniffling. “No. Of course not… I’m a worthless coward.”

The Lamb watches them from the temple window, with a horrible sadistic smile.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=⁂=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

#writing #fanfic #creative writing #cult of the lamb #cotl lamb #cotl leshy #cotl narinder #cotl kallamar #erose this name

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katyspersonal · 1 month ago

Text

How me reblogging some fanart goes:

*scrolls*

There is nothing special about this drawing, nothing to stand out, simply academical level perfect painting with perfect shading of just character in Environment, so I won't give it attention

*scrolls*

There is nothing special about this drawing either but the artist is clearly beginner and is currently ignored, I wish to support them!!! *reblogs*

*scrolls*

I could've forgiven drawing his arm turning into tentacles because although it isn't accurate it is still funny and should have been canon, but his hair is black and waving, not brown and straight! Ignored.

*scrolls*

Her ribbon is not like this at all, but this is a cute interaction! Fine, I will reblog..

*scrolls*

OH MY GOD RARE CHARACTER RARE CHARACTER NO ONE ELSE DRAWS HFHFJVGJ IT IS RARE CHARACTER OH MY GOD BLESS YOU OP I LOVE THAT YOU'VE NOTICED THIS RARE CHARACTER VFUYFJFJ BARK BARK WOOF WOOF 🐕 *chews the post a little before reblogging* *+10 HP*

*scrolls*

Ah, funny mem- VARGRAM ERASURE GOD FUCKING DAMMIT VARGRAM ERASURE DO NOT LAUGH RETREAT RETREAT!!!!!!!! Ugh how the HECK even lore-obsessed freaks like me are still doing this?! I don't care that you enjoy neglecting minor characters, Vargram's set is NOT a covenant set!!!!

*scrolls*

Shit, wtf? Why this person still haven't blocked me, after how negative they've been to my friend? Okay scroll carefully to not accidentally press like on Tumblr mobile.... scroll past carefully.... very slowly...... please mobile don't fuck this up...

*scrolls*

This fanart is really inaccurate visually but the concept is perfectly lore accurate! I am definitely supporting this! *reblogs*

*scrolls*

This person's uncolored doodle got 800+ notes in 3 hours when my best and most detailed works are lucky to cross 50 notes... I am worthless and should quit art, the girls clearly like my lore posts more than my ugly art... *sniffs* No wonder, I draw like a child, my faces are ugly, my anatomy is broken, shading makes no sense... *sobs* I bet fans of the characters I draw have cringe attacks when I touch them... God I remember how back in my Mico simping days other Mico simps side-eyed my fanart of him, and it was clear it is because it is ugly... It isn't even a matter of "they want to prettyfy him" because they do reblog and like "ugly" art of him, they just hate MY style in particular because I am a TERRIBLE artist.... *sobs*

*scrolls*

.....what. the. FUCK. Why THE fuck this perfect, amazing, fully colored drawing with hella effort in it barely has notes? Fuck this fandom, I hate this fandom! Nevermind, my art isn't bad, this fandom is just too stingy for support! *reblogs*

*scrolls*

Haha, nice o- VARGRAM ERASURE VARGRAM ERASURE RETREAT RETREAT

*scrolls*

Wow, these sketches are lovely, I want to reblog- *sees the caption like 'some sketches from insta'* Nah, I do not want to interact with artists who otherwise hang out on another site (which sucks and is very toxic to artists btw) and just use Tumblr as a dumping ground or portfolio. I only like people who actually USE this site.

*scrolls*

Good and quality art, but nothing special about this design. It feels like they drew fanart of the fanon! Could have added their own unique vision smh.

*scrolls*

Oh my god, finally! Finally, fanart of the ship I love so much! I've been- wait wait wait. Why Brador is wearing his beast hyde while Laurence is still alive? Brador's beast hyde is explicitly stated to be that of a Cleric Beast, and Laurence was the FIRST Cleric Beast! No yeah, beggars CAN be choosers. Ignored.

*scrolls*

Oh, good art- wait, why this character's eyes are blue? This character has grey eyes! But also this is such a rare character to draw... Fine. *reblogs but points out the eye color is wrong in the tags*

*scrolls*

Good art, but caption is hostile. No one wants to know that you hate this character under the art of this character. Ignored.

*scrolls*

Good art, reblogged.

*scrolls*

Very well done art, but her chest is not that big! In fact, she is boobless. Maybe next time.

*scrolls*

I want to reblog this fanart, but also despite doing so much work on detail and lighting, they forgot those cute accessories by each side of her big brooch! It could not be the laziness, it obviously was using other fanarts as the reference instead of actual ingame screenshots and model!

*scrolls*

Wh... what... oh my god... Oh my god this person drew the idea I suggested.... I've inspired someone? Oh God. Wait a second. Oh no. I need like a full week to articulate my emotions. Oh God I can't. I didn't just contribute something good in the fandom. Oh no *crying cat*

*scrolls*

I feel nothing for this ship, but this fandom is obnoxious when the female character without canon sexuality they've DECIDED is a lesbian is shipped with male character, so I will support this person. *reblogs*

*scrolls*

Good art, but they have this dumb DNI caption under their post. I don't even fit the criteria, I just don't want to carry the whole "panic about contact with ImPuRiTy" attitude with the drawing! When will people learn that some bad person liking their art is not the end of the world? 🤔

*scrolls*

Wow, good drawing!!! *the tags are the wall of passive aggression towards fans with "wrong" headcanons* Well now I am not reblogging it.

*scrolls*

Goddamit, Crow, I know you are desperate for at least any art of your blorbo, but why would you reblog something that is so careless? They clearly like what they could make out of character instead of actual character's appearance! You were just passionately approving of posts like "stop removing his wrinkles!" or "stop giving her huge honkers!" and now this? 🐓🐓🐓

*scrolls*

CROW YOU REBLOGGED VARGRAM ERASURE I THOUGHT YOU WERE BASED BUT YOU...... YOU ARE C R I N G E 🐓🐓🐓🐓🐓

#fandomry rambles #shitposting #personal #this is Crow hating blog <3

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dailydemonspotlight · 2 months ago

Text

Inugami - Day 103

Race: Beast

Alignment: Neutral

September 4th, 2024

I may be a bit late to the official day of the dogs, but rest assured, I’d never pass up an opportunity to talk about man’s favorite canine. Specifically, though, a Japanese legend about dogs, ghosts, and dog-ghost based possession- the legend of the Inugami. An urban legend in primarily western Japan, though one with roots dating back hundreds of years, an Inugami refers to two things in particular, being both the possession of a host by the ghost of a deceased dog… and the possessed host afterwards. Inugami are a very fascinating and unique concept, so let’s jump right in after this content warning, because Inugami are very heavily tied to animal abuse.

Inugami are a very traditional concept, dating all the way back to the Heian era of Japanese history (no Sukuna jokes here, don’t worry) and possibly even before, given the outlawing of the creation of Inugami during said era. Typically, the creation of an Inugami was a rather grisly affair involving a dog on its last legs, typically involving the separation of a dog’s head from its body through differing means. This could include cutting off the head of a starving dog, cutting off the head of a dog who just fought several other dogs, or burying a dog and then cutting off its head as it would almost starve to let it fly forth and bite at some food. Not fun.

Quite frankly, the reason for the outlawing of Inugami wasn't due to fearmongering about spirits, but rather the fact that the creation of one is, y’know, fucking animal abuse? Still, this didn’t stop some from trying to create them, and after their creation, the dog’s head would be kept in its desiccated state under a secret shrine hidden in the owner’s house. After the creation of said spirit, it would essentially become a familiar to its new owner.

Curiously, the appearance of an Inugami wasn’t very dog-like, instead resembling a mole. The possession of an Inugami would cause the entire family of the curse-bearer’s to become cursed as well, but the concept of a familiar dog seems appealing, right? An inugami would perform tasks, stay loyal, and bring wealth and prosperity to a family as long as it wasn’t mistreated, so what’s the catch outside of the… well, the very big catch of killing a dog?

As a spirit, an Inugami can do far more than just staying loyal. If mistreated in its familiar form, the Inugami wouldn’t take it well at all, and instead would attack its owner through, what else, possession. The possession of an Inugami into a human is a rather ugly affair, as the affected will be met with chest pain, pain in many organs and limbs, an intense and insatiable hunger, mysterious claw and bite marks all over the body, and an eventual, slow, and painful death.

As well as barking sometimes. I dunno.

Still, the trade-offs of creating an Inugami far outweigh the benefits in my opinion. The curious concepts of the Inugami and their strange existences, however, make them a very interesting part of real-world history, and in terms of SMT, they pass the bar very well. Most traditional pictures of an Inugami match rather well with their form in SMT, though somewhat flawed. Regardless, though, I really do love Inugami in the series, even if their background is a little… sketch.

#smt #shin megami tensei #megaten #persona #daily #inugami #animal abuse tw

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sketchfanda · 1 year ago

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sketch’s smut fic one shot commissions

If between 5 to 20 bucks seema reasonable for the quality I put out then Would anyone be interested esp when I make clear who and what I will and won’t write? Hit me up on dms here or on Twitter as sketchfan85. Roll on up and let’s see what I can provide you

examples of my work https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketchfan/works one shot smut fics only.

Dudes I will write main muses:Kirishima Moxxie Krillin Muses of choice:Peter Parker, Lincoln loud,aeolus06’s human Tony Tony chopper, dib membrane, beast boy, roadhog, takashiro komuro, hanatarou yamada,patanu’s human rigby,killer croc,shinji ikari,ranma saotome, roger rabbit

possible maybes=izuku,naruto(already have enough of their own smut and harem based fics),luffy(likewise).ron stoppable(henrickdrake's new pets comic has that covered plenty),kaminari,tetsutetsu,Jaune (plenty wrists and artists do him enough plenty), sun wukong,yamcha

chars i will NOT write;any and all saiyan dudes(esp vegeta,gohan or goku,the saiyan centric harem bullshit,fuck you writefiction you gohan fanboy),Cardin,Adam Taurus,bakugo,monoma.mineta,mordecai(fucking simp bluejay),any uchiha(esp asshat),any league of villains dudes or nomus,zetsus,roshi,oolong,happosai, self inserts/ugly bastard/typical hentai douchebags and faceless womanizing casanovas,roshi,oolong,boruto(little shit),harry potter or any other char from his series,likewise no women from that series.

kinks i will NOT write:cuckolding/ntr and cheating esp if any of my muse dudes are the intended targets,any weird or gross crud,rape.no bleached/blacked type stuff or raceplay.

series or movies i won't write:any live action,no literature i mainly read comics and manga as i like my stories visual,but specifically NO MCU,likewise dc movies and connected or related series,no twilight,no vampire diaries or any other type of teen drama bullshit,suernatural or otherwise,no harry potter(i don't give a fuck what or how jk rowling's tanked her own career,i was never into the books and LOATHED the movies and that extends to fantastic beasts). canon art styles like that of butch hartman or seth mcfarlane will be rejected (unless the woman or women in question prove exceptional design wise,and that's a big IF), matt groening series females like from simpsons or futarama also depend on exceptionality of design.Absolutely NO big mouth of anything by the brickleberry crowd.about the only female i'll take from rick and morty is the interstellar demon stripper.

hentais are acceptable so long as i'm familiar with or can learn enough approximate knowledge of the chars from it,likewise any manga/anime or cartoon i'm not familiar with. candidate and scenario suggestions are taken into consideration though some if not all may not make the cut.

So if anyone thinks my writing is worth 5 bucks,hit me up if you're maybe intrigued.

#fanfic #commission #fanfic commissions #fic commissions #one shot #One shot commissions #Sketchfan #sketchfan85 #sketchfanda

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theonevoice · 1 year ago

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Two halves of the same being

Ok friends, it had to happen sooner or later: I wrote a thing. I was stuck in a train station yesterday evening and this thing was screaming to be put on paper, so I did it. I wrote it all down directly as a post, over 3-4 hours of total estrangement, therefore I don't even know exactly how long it is, and it is probably encrusted with typos and titanic grammatical errors. It is also written in a language that I don't master at all, and it is my first attempt at narration since - I kid you not - the year of our lord 2006. This is really less then a draft, it's a test-drive of the storytelling side of my hyperfixated brain. If someone feels like skimming it and pointing out mistakes and things that sound wrong, I will be very grateful! Anyway, as far as fanfic genres go, I guess this would qualify as historical-minisode one shot: Aziraphale and Crowley are in Rome in 1509 and get more or less accidentally involved in the creation of a certain Renaissance masterpiece.

November 1509, Rome.

The heavy robe swooshed quietly as a white-blonde bishop entered the chapel door with a satisfied smile, like a man who had just escaped boredom for fun.

A man in a leather apron full of pockets and stained all over was standing at a cluttered table by the wall, staring gloomily at the figures sketched on a large sheet of brownish paper.

- Maestro!

The man raised his curly dark-haired head and pointed a pair of firey eyes on the newcomer. The dark circles around his eyes gave out the strange impression of a feverish man on the verge of collapsing mixed with a feral beast ready to jump at its prey. It was freezing in there, but he was wearing a shirt with sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbows, and his hairy forearms were covered in white dust and paint dribbles. He was a rather short man, but well-built and muscular, and even if the bishop was considerably taller and not thin himself, he felt that he could have easily knocked him down in one move.

- Monsignor Fell, back again...

The man didn't sound pleased, but he didn't sound displeased either. Considered his well-known temper and given the circumstances, his reaction was relatively welcoming. One could have even called it encouraging. After all, noone was ever really at ease in Rome. Especially not in that part of Rome.

- I was eager to see your progress. - Aziraphale said with a honest smile. - I hope I'm not disturbing your work. Please don't mind my presence.

They both instinctively looked up.

The enormous vault of the Sistine Chapel was looming over the empty hall as a giant shield, halfway covered in massive figures. Those bodies looked so real and heavy that they felt like they could plummet any second all the way down to the floor and crash the unfortunate bystanders. It was like a threatening storm of colors and shapes slowly covering the old starry sky.

- Not much progress to see. - Growled Michelangelo, turning back to the sketches and tossing a piece of reddish chalk on the table. - I'm bloody stuck.

Aziraphale moved his eyes across the ceiling, down to the farthest end of the vault, where the golden stars were still dimly shining on a deep blue background, on the two sides of the large ugly crack, now filled with bricks, that had scarred the old affresco when the south wall had shifted. It was a sad spectacle. He had liked the starry sky. It was beautiful.

- Stuck? How do you mean?

Aziraphale forced himself to look away from the ceiling and gently stared at the painter, who had turned his back on him and was angrily standing over his desk with his stained hands on his hips, like a severe father in front of a misbehaving child.

- I mean stuck. - The artist repeated drily, throwing an annoyed look at monsignor Fell. The bishop offered him a sympathetic smile, a strangely maternal smile that seemed to be saying that he took his worries very seriously but at the same time he was sure they were not insurmountable.

Michelangelo sighed forlornly. He didn't like priests, but he didn't mind this one. He curiously seemed very little concerned with church matters and a lot more interested in random things like paintings and statues and choir rehearsals. He had even spotted him more than once in a couple of his favourite osterie, and he meant the good ones, those small half-hidden godforsaken places that only the locals knew, ignored by travellers and definitely not visited by clergymen. And he had seen him sitting there in plain sight, amidst the common people of Rome, as if noone could tell that he was a bishop - and God knew if bishops were a hatred species in the streets of the Holy City. It was truly a miracle that he could just walk in there, eat and drink like he were any carter or boatman, and not end up robbed or stabbed or poisoned. He had even seen Teresina at the Gatto morto pour him the good wine once, the one that the innkeeper kept only for himself and his closest friends. Furthermore, he had a nice eye for drawing: in the past few weeks he had been visiting the chapel almost daily, and had dropped some genuinely good remarks. Some of them even brilliant. He relaxed his shoulders and continued with a softer tone:

- This is not working and I'm not putting this up there, con tutta la fatica che costa.

Aziraphale looked up again, this time at the wooden structure that was stretching upwards like a dark solid cobweb. It took indeed a lot of effort, to climb up there, dragging along the large cartoni with the refined lineart to transfer on the plaster, standing hours and hours arched backwards to paint over your head, seventy feet above the ground, with the colors running down the brush and dripping on your face...

- Do you mind me seeing the sketch?

The painter made a vague gesture to let him approach the table and eyed him with a certain curiosity when the bishop let out a little gasp and a peculiar nostalgic expression settled on his face. It was the sketch for the campata of the Original Sin.

Aziraphale felt a warm mix of emotions filling his chest, not all of which he dared to name. He focused on the drawing. Michelangelo was right: it was wrong, even if he could not imagine how wrong.

In the sketch, Adam and Eve were sitting at the center, under the Tree, Eve reaching up for a fruit, Adam following her movement with a concerned look. On the right half of the piece, in a stretch of desert, the confused shape of an angel was roughly outlined: he was standing all straight and rigid with his sword raised above his head and a threatening finger pointing at the first humans. The left side was mostly filled with a generic looking garden, too lush and too earthly at the same time, and the only other presence was a little, ugly dragon-like creature, with a grotesque charcoal snut, sharp teeth and a biforcated tongue sticking out.

Aziraphale at first didn't pay it much attention, but after a second he suddenly realised what he was looking at and his jaw dropped.

- Is that supposed to be the Serpent of Eden!?

He asked in a high pitched voiced, sounding somewhat scandalised.

Michelangelo frowned and pulled out his most intimidating look.

- What else should it be?

- But that's not how it looked at all!

The bishop exclaimed, entirely unfazed. "Here it comes," thought to himself the painter, letting out a huff of resigned annoyance, "another punctilious catechist who wants me to stick to some stupid half line in the Bible." But, much to his surprise, monsignor Fell did not bring up any biblical reference. He looked vaguely offended and at the same time, for some reason, deeply amused.

- And how did it look? - Michelangelo asked sarcastically, posing like someone who is interrogating an eyewitness. But the bishop didn't seem to get the hint, and instead answered with a focused face, as he were actually about to recount him old memories.

- Well, it looked... - Aziraphale paused, searching the right word. He found himself suddenly assaulted by a number of adjectives that he had not anticipated. - He looked... - his tongue ended up picking one before his mind had time to evaluate the implications - ...seductive.

- Seductive. - Michelangelo looked at him with an incredulous face and his eyebrows were all the way up to his hairline.

Aziraphale stumbled.

- I mean... He- he was the original tempter... - He tried to regroup. His thoughts were strangely tumbling in his head. - You see, in order to be effective in his... tempting, he couldn't have look like an ugly little monster. - Yes, that was reasonable, it was a logical explanation, just a sensible thing that nobody could disagree on. - He had to look... - but then again, Aziraphale felt a sense of warmth of unclear origin raising to his face, and his voice cracked in a weird way, - ...beautiful. Charming. He had to be so, so fascinating, that you couldn't help listening to him, considering his reasons... I mean, the poor, naive humans, that is. They couldn't help...

His voice trailed off mid sentence. Michelangelo was still staring at him with a certain look, but the words of the bishop were not completely absurd.

- And he didn't crawl. That was not what he was. - He finished with a sort of fond determination.

- You make it sound quite impressive, for the one who damned humanity.

- Oh but he didn't mean to! - Once again, Aziraphale ignored the astonished expression on the other's face. A deep, obscure feeling of injustice was tugging at his soul. He didn't mean to have them damned. It was an overreaction. His voiced lowered ever so slightly, sounding somewhat sad. - From his point of view, he was... freeing them. He was giving them a choice, he didn't force them. He was letting the door of their cage open to see what they would do.

- Does the Pope know that you go around spreading this sort of ideas?

- Pah, what should he know.

They both startled as that last sentence echoed in all its outrageous blasphemy on the high walls. They looked around in the empty chapel tucking their heads between their shoulders, like two kids who had just inadvertently laughed out loud during the silent bit of the mass.

A moment of embarassed silence fell in the room. But the words of monsignor Fell had already stirred the painter's imagination.

- Beautiful, you say... - He repeated, almost speaking to himself, squinting at the left corner of his sketch as a different version of the scene started emerging in his mind. - Not crawly...

The chapel door opened suddenly and a very alarmed young seminarist run inside.

- Monsignor Fell! - He cried. - I've been looking for you everywhere! The assembly started half an hour ago.

- Did it indeed?

The bishop replied, looking like someone who knew perfectly well when the assembly was scheduled and had deliberately made sure to miss it. Michelangelo found himself wondering once more where on earth had they found such a singular minister of the church, who was now tenderly smiling at the seminarist, visibly moved to pity by his distressed expression.

- Well then, I suppose I will be coming right away. - He gave one last look at the sketch as he stepped away from the table. - Thank you for your time, maestro. And forgive me for... - He hesitated, as if trying to free himself from some last string of thought that was keeping him tied there. - ...for my suggestions.

The painter watched the white-blonde head disappear beyond the door that the alarmed seminarist closed after them, and all of a sudden the vast chapel felt colder than it was moments before. In the silence he could hear that it was raining outside. He took a deep breath, felt the freezing air filling his lungs and a shiver running down his spine, but his mind was on fire: an entirely new image was coming to life, one that the pope would probably not appreciate, and that was the best part.

He decided to take the rest of the day off to work on his idea and run to the Gatto morto, where he knew that Teresina would free the little corner table near the fireplace for him, with a light good enough to draw and a wine good enough to keep himself inspired.

- Now that is quite the progress since the last time I saw it!

The man had approached him so silently that Michelangelo almost spilled his jug over the new sketches.

- What are you doing here, Antonio? Aren't you supposed to stay away from the city after the ban? Se ti prendono gli svizzeri ti fanno la festa.

- Oh come on! Do you really think anyone would notice me? - The man threw himself on the chair on the opposite side of the table and crossed his long legs, unwrapping himself from his large black cloak.

- Yes, I do. - He replied, expressively pointing at the man he knew by the name of Antonio, all clad in black, with his exotic smoked spectacles and his bright red hair brushing his shoulders.

Crowley raised his glass with a bright white smile, like he had just been complimented.

- I thought you were in Florence.

- I've just come back from a lovely visit to your dear friend.

- He's not my friend.

Crowley's smile grew even wider, and the painter suddenly felt ashamed and annoied. He had spent the last several years convincing everyone including himself that he did not consider Leonardo his rival, that he was perfectly indifferent to his achievements and was not at all vexed by people talking about him, and it had took all of ten seconds to this man to make him snap without even naming the other one.

- He is making some formidable machinery, these days. Oh, and some really masterful portraits. - His irritating grin was unbearable. - You should see them.

Draining all his will power, Michelangelo managed to keep his mouth shut and focused all his attention back on his new sketches.

- I'm busy, what do you want?

- I've come to see your progress! - Antonio said cheerfully, grabbing his drawings before he could stop him. - Quite impressive, indeed...

His expression became imperceptibly more serious as he was examining the small piece of paper where the painter had sketched a new version of the Original Sin campata. Michelangelo knew that he had not liked the first version: months before, he had come to his shop all swagger and cockiness as always, and after seeing the initial sketch of the Eden had left without saying a word and somehow had earned himself a ban from Rome. Not that it had stopped him from coming back on a whim just to mock him with news of Leonardo's incredible machinery, apparently. And after all, the swiss guard really seemed to ignore him to an impossible degree, as he were invisible. Michelangelo had a certain suspect that Antonio was having an affair or more than one with someone inside the Curia, earning the protection of a dame or two. Or a monsignore or two. Or both, whatever. Now he seemed struck by the new version of the scene.

The sketch was nothing more than a bunch of thick lines on a small piece of paper, but you could make out that the Serpent was no longer on the ground, but wrapped around the Tree, had no monstruous features but a human-like torso, and his head was towering higher than all the other characters in the scene.

Michelangelo watched him staring intentely at the drawing, with an unreadable expression on his face, until he put down the piece of paper with a careful movement.

- You're good, good job. - He said, trying to make it sound casual, but with a weird note in his voice.

- I know I'm good. - The painter said, grabbing the drawing angrily. - But this change is throwing off the entire composition. Now I have three characters in the middle and this one over here. - He muttered, pointing all disgruntled at what was supposed to be the Angel of Eden, who was sadly standing alone on the right side of the image like a piece of a column that someone had built there by mistake. A tentative detail of his profile, stern and scowling, was sketched sideways on the margin of the sheet.

- Why did you draw him so angry?

Michelangelo raised his head from his composition puzzle, not quite understanding what Antonio was talking about, until he saw his finger tapping over the profile.

- He's the Angel. - He said with a tone indicating that the implication was obvious. But the man sitting in front of him didn't seem to get the point. - He's the Angel who delivers the fucking wrath of God. He has to look angry!

- No he doesn't!

The painter straightened up in disbelief. What was with everyone that day? Why did every last person in that damn city had opinions on his work, all of a sudden?

- Oh sorry, should I make him all cheerful and smiling?

- Why would he be smiling?

- And what would he be?

Antonio took a second, and then aswered, deadly serious.

- Heartbroken.

- Why heartbroken?

- Because! - Crowley was not sure how to explain it, but he felt outraged at the idea that in all those century mankind had assumed the Angel was angry that day. - Because he was the Angel assigned to guard the garden of Eden, the first living bit of the creation! They left him there alone, to watch over the first humans, didn't give him istructions! Didn't tell him what to expect! And then he blinks and bam! they're damned, out of the garden, off you go struggling and suffering, you and all your kind for the rest of time!

Michelangelo was staring at him in utter surprise. He had known him for the kind of man who never loses his cool, and now here he was, losing it over the Book of Genesis.

- You didn't strike me as a man who would get heated over some biblical minutia.

Crowley leaned foreward, gripping his jug of wine so tightly that the painter could have sworn that he heard the glazed ceramic handle made a worrying crackling noise. The painter felt the instinctive urge to pull back on his chair.

- He was there, you see? Watching it happen, struggling to understand wether he had failed them or it was all part of God's blasting ineffable plan.

- He's the Angel of Eden! He would know the will of God!

- How would he know? - Crowley rebutted, now visibly enraged. - He's just an angel! And God doesn't speak to anyone. He's just an angel, he was there alone, scared to death... - he paused for a moment, like he had been struck by his own words, - scared to death because they were punishing the humans and making him deliver the sentence, but maybe they would punish him as well... for letting the Serpent get in.

He ended the sentence on a broken tone, and immediately after draw a small breath and gulped down his wine, all in one go.

Michelangelo wasn't sure what to make of it. Antonio didn't seem drunk, but that had been a wild rant. And yet, it could be interesting to draw an Angel of Eden that was not, for once, the usual severe messanger of death burning with God's divine rage, but a sad, sorrowful pal who had messed up his job. He thought of the merciful expression of monsignor Fell, earlier that day, when he had looked at the poor seminarist knowing that he had possibly gotten both of them into trouble by skipping the assembly.

Now he was starting to resent his composition, leaving that forlorn Angel out there, all on his own, while the others were grouped together under the Tree, as if they were having a pick nick. The humans and the tempter...

- The poor, naive humans... - he muttered, repeating the bishop's words.

- Well, - Crowley objected, apparently back to his usual composure, but still with an indefinible shadow on his brow, - they were naive only at the beginning. But after they became quite quickly aware of how the world runs.

- Well too bad, it has to be one or the other, I don't have two squares for the Eden scene.

But as he was saying that, a new image clicked in his mind, and he stared down at the piece of paper that he had been torturing for the past several hours, trying to solve his composition issue. The Tree was there, dead-center on the campata, dividing the space in two perfectly symmetrical spaces. The Serpent was already up there, in the branches: he could put the Angel there as well, and make the time flow from left to right, from happy but naive humans to desperate but aware ones, the two emissaries of Good and Evil standing in the middle as the two-faced needle on the scales of human destiny... no, not of Good and Evil, rather of Law and Chaos, of Safety and Freedom.

He raised his head with excitement and looked at the man in front of him. He was now sitting inhumanly still, and somehow Michelangelo could feel his eyes piercing through the smoked spectacles. He froze.

- Oh I know that glare. - Antonio said with a voice that he had never heard him before, a ghostly whisper, almost a hiss coming from another world. - That shine that sometimes burns in the human eyes, a spark from the forge of Creation itself...

Michelangelo felt an icey feeling gripping him from the inside, but he could not look away. He was hypnotised by invisible eyes, and even if the physical body of the man in black was still perfectly motionless, for a moment he believed he could see a different body, in a different shape, slowly swinging side to side with only his head fixed in the same spot, yellow pupils cutting through his soul like sharp knives through warm butter.

He wasn't sure how it had stopped. Next thing he knew, he was staring at Antonio who was looking at his drawings again, absorbed in his thought, with a sort of distant nostalgia in the curve of his mouth.

- I shall go. - Michelangelo said with a husky voice, as if he had been asleep for a long time. But he didn't get up.

- You shall. - Crowley repeated, looking back at him, this time with nothing strange happening. - That was a lot of inspiration to process for a human in just one day.

He launched his lanky body out of the chair with a movement that didn't seem possible, draped himself back in his heavy cloak, gave him a quick last look, and strode away, the light of the fireplace caught in his bright red hair. It was still raining outside, but there was a promise of snow in the air.

July 1510, Rome

The two corner doors of the antechamber opened at the exact same time and two hurrying figures rushed in and stopped just a split second away from running into each other.

For a moment they stood there, staring at each other, locked in place, the hem of the white robe and the flap of the black cloack swirling happily together like two puppies eager to meet again despite their owners.

- Good Lord!

Aziraphale gasped, finally stepping away from Crowley.

- Ah! What in Hell are you doing in here, dressed like that? - The demon snorted with a mocking grin, moving his gaze down Aziraphale's episcopal outfit and back up again, lingering on all the lacy bits with the most overtly suggestive motion he could perform. The short black capelet made a rather dashing contrast with the fair curls.

- I am on a diplomatic assignment. - The angel answered primly, ever so slightly blushing at the base of his neck, looking in turn at Crowley's tight fitting black attire under the cloak, all velvet and metalwork and shiny damasque. And then he lowered his voice and added, in a deliciously indignant tone, - What are you doing in here? We are on consecrated ground!

- Not quite yet. This is only an entryway and you should know damn well that nobody here is saint enough to make a single tile sacred outside the chapel.

Aziraphale tried to hoist an outraged expression, but it was hard to pretend that he didn't actually know damn well Crowley was right.

- Anyway, - the demon continued looking at the door on the other side of the entryway, - I was just passing by to take a look at the famous ceiling.

- It's not completed yet. - Aziraphale pointed out, immediately regretting it. He caught himself thinking that he didn't actually want the demon to leave. Not that he wanted his company, of course. But it would have been unpolite, with him being in the hosting party, so to speak, to send him away like that.

- I know, but I hear the last bit has made quite the impression around here.

- It has indeed! - The angel exclaimed, smiling and muffling his excited voice in a goofy way that made something twitch somewhere in the demon's chest. - The cardinals were utterly scandalised! I was going to take a look myself!

The angel moved to the door of the chapel and opened it cautiously, peeking inside.

- There's noone in there! - He whispered visibly thrilled, like the silliest conspirator who ever lived. Crowley stepped closer, thinking to himself that there was no end to the angel's childlike enjoyment of those little innocent transgressions. Not that he enjoied them too, of course. But it would be unworthy of a demon not to appreciate such evil deeds.

They both peeked out from behind the door. The chapel was empty, pleasantly crisp in contrast with the hot roman summer. A choir of cicadas was relentlessly chirping outside. The wooden structure had moved foreward since the last time Aziraphale had been there. A giant curtain was draped between the already completed campate and the ones still in progress.

Crowley managed to chart himself a path across the room, using the spare planks left on the ground as safe spots, holding his arms out to keep his balance, jumping from one board to the next and taking only a couple of quick steps on the floor when the distance was too great. Aziraphale was observing his movements from the corner of his eye and thought the demon looked like one of those large water birds that you could see flying by the river during winter, so big and yet so light and graceful.

The new part of the ceiling was hidden by the curtain. Without saying a word, they both moved to the ladder on the side of the wooden structure and climbed almost all the way up to the top. A strange expectant silence had fallen between them, and neither of the two wanted to break it. They knew exactly what they were about to see, but for some reason they were both pretending that they didn't, and the higher they climbed, the more they were steering their thoughts away from a certain shared memory that now, all of a sudden, was becoming inexplicably significant. A moment that had always been there, tucked away in their minds, but now seemed too bright to look at, too hot to touch, too heavy to handle.

They finally reached the main platform, the last large surface before the precarious scaffolding that brought the painter in reach of the ceiling, all still cluttered with buckets and rags and dried out palettes.

They stood by each other, breathing in the pungent smell of the paint, and with a synchronized movement looked up.

There it was. There they were. Their first meeting on Earth, as Michelangelo had envisioned it, channeling what the angel and the demon, unbeknownst to each other, had unintentionally lead him to imagine. He had turned the Original Sin into a backdrop, Adam and Eve into little more than extras on scene, leaving the center stage to them.

There it was. Their very first meeting as they, a recalcitrant demon who didn't mean to do anything properly bad and a doubtful angel who couldn't figure out what God wanted him to do. They were emerging from the Tree, the Wily Old Serpent stretching his beautiful androginous torso to the left, no man nor woman but both, passing Eve a fruit; the Angel of the Eastern Gate floating next to him, holding his arm out to the right, a disheartened look on his face as he used his sword not so much to threaten the humans as to direct them toward their earthly new existence.

- Look at you! - The angel smiled, - You're...

But the words died on his lips and he couldn't finish the sentence. Something heavy and mournful was tied to that part of his memory, like an iron anchor holding it under the surface of his conscience.

Aziraphale focused on the affresco, trying to distract himself with shapes and contours and brushstrokes... he felt a sudden burst of heat burning the skin of his face as he was studying the Serpent's coils spiraling up the Tree, and was startled when the demon spoke.

- He did make you sad.

The angel examined his supposed representation.

- I was sad.

- Yes, I remember.

- I felt so bad... so guilty...

Aziraphale felt Crowley's gaze settling on his face and lowered his eyes, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

- Guilty? Why? - The demon asked, with a hint of wonder in his voice.

The angels shrugged, twisting his hands and biting his lips with a tormented expression on his face.

- Because they were being punished, but I was the one who had failed them. - He looked up at the picture, but he was looking past it, rewatching a different scene. - And... and... - His eyes started stinging and watering, the effect of all that fresh paint no doubt, - And... had I spoken up for them...

He suddenly turned to look at Crowley, who was staring at him with his golden eyes wide open.

- They were only being curious... - the angel pleaded, and the effect of that paint was really terrible because an entire teardrop rolled down his cheek as he was speaking. - They only wanted to know things. And I let them be cast out and didn't say anything. - He took a short breath and his voice came out thin as a whisper - How will I be forgiven?

Crowley stood there without breathing, transfixed. His brain was struggling to process the angel's discourse, that pain for the humans, for their fault and their fall, and beyond that another pain, older, deeper, bleeding through his words like ink through thin paper. But the pain on the surface was easier to grasp and the other one was tangled in too many frightful thoughts, so the demon pretended that he had only caught the human part of that lament.

- I was the one who tempted them into that. - He said quietly after a moment of silence that could have lasted a second or a century. He felt like he was slightly suffocating. That paint smell truly was unbearable. It was even making his voice crack. - Do you still hate me?

A shocked expression darkened Aziraphale's face, and something behind his blue eyes seemed to crumble. There had to be a cloud hiding the sun, right in that moment, because up there under the vault the air became suddenly darker and colder.

- I never hated you. - He murmured. And then, with a wounded tone, - How could you think that?

The cloud moved away.

- It was my fault.

- I don't think it was.

They stood in silence again, and their confusion was so deep that a moment later none of them was able to tell anymore who had said "It was my fault" and who had replied "I don't think it was".

- We should get down, this smell is making me hazy. - Said the angel, sniffling.

- Yeah, this was enough church attending for me.

- Would you like... - Aziraphale paused, suddenly interested in a dented tin bucket who was draining all his attention, - Would you like to have lunch? I know a place.

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again without making any sound, then opened it again and let out a couple of stumbling syllables before finally managing: - Well, I don't suppose that would hurt.

They exchanged a hesitant look and turned their eyes up at the two towering figures in the Garden of Eden one last time.

Michelangelo had given them two identical faces, the identical hair color, a shade that had been mixed somewhere in between a pale blonde and a bright red, and had put them up there, looking in opposite way but close to each other, almost hugging - the right arm of the angel almost around the serpent's waist, the right arm of the serpent almost around the angel's neck - as if they were twins, or lovers, or rather the two heads of the same chimerical creature. Two halves of the same being.

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