#very traced was specifically for paint and colors

[passumstars]

Screenshot redraw of the coolest moment and easily one of the top 5 frames of the show

[kachowden]

There’s not many words Jessie would use to describe himself. At least, none especially positive or substantial.

Weak, Pathetic, Faulty, maybe even Perverted…

Shameful. Shameful is a good one.

Especially in this moment.

The curtains of your bedroom windows shift slightly from the cracked glass, cold autumn air seeping into the somewhat cramped space, and urging you to bundle up in your covers just a bit more. Your fan whirs into a soothing white noise, and he wonders why you keep the window open if your room is already near frigid with the ac that creaks from your vents.

Perhaps it’s a human thing that he will never understand. The thought burns a little. (It’s not fair).

Shameful. That word passes through his synthetic mind again. It might be the lingering, deep repressed conscience that he’d hidden under layers of want and sin. Repressed to the back corner of his software to rot and fry, while his circuits burst with the shameful desires he holds for you.

That word certainly suits him. Shameful. It’s shameful the way his iridescent blue eyes cast such an ominous glow on your skin, highlighting the goosebumps that litter your flesh, and making it painfully obvious where his gaze lingers and shifts to. Blue lips, blue arms, blue neck..blue chest….blue stomach. Lower.

Your blankets stop him.

Blue is a color that suits you, he thinks. His blue, to be specific. Whether you’re wearing a blue shirt. Blue jeans or jewelry. Or you’re covered in the blue that pumps through his artificial joints and organs. Frankly, any blue would look great.

His receptors are blue. And Jessie has always believed you always look best when there’s some piece of him on you. His hands, his eyes, his tongue. He thinks to himself, that even though he is blue, blue is your color. It belongs to you. The same way he does.

Shameful. He wonders if this counts as having morales, when he acknowledges that his actions are wrong. That, as his hands begin tracing the contours of your flesh, diving across the expanse of your anatomy, it’s his morales telling him that this is bad. Something he shouldn’t be doing. Are his morales meant to stop them?

Maybe for humans, morales are just something to make themselves feel superior. Not a physical restraint, but something that denies base instinct, and makes them feel proud for having gone against it. But if it’s instinct, is it wrong? If it’s your mind and bodies natural way, isn’t it against your nature to deny it? Do morales make humans feel in control of themselves? Above other species?

Maybe that’s what lead to their downfall. Their superiority.

Maybe morales are simply subjective. They were programmed into him at the very least. So they are there for a reason. Or maybe just to keep him in line? Controllable?

…….

Is he more human for ignoring them? He finds it easy to, in this moment. Easier than it had been, the previous times. When he first met you.

The texture of soft fabric reaches his brain. The sensation traveling through his receptors and into his memory, stored away into a familiar slot. His bionic hand pushes it away, painting more of your skin in that beautiful blue hue.

Shame. Is shame a by product of morales? Is shame subjective? Should he feel shame?

It makes him feel dirty. But he doesn’t think he should. Love isn’t dirty. Love isn’t shameful. And oh, does Jessie love you. He loves your eyes. Your hair. Your skin.

Jessie loves your warmth. It cages his hand like a mitten, when he lets himself be bolder with his touches. When his fingers dip into your curves and folds, and he watches your expressions and reactions with baited breathe. Fake breathe. He doesn’t breathe. (Would he be more human if he did?)

Jessie is a curious android. He doesn’t think that’s something to ashamed of. He doesn’t think love should be ashamed of either.

And this,

This is love. This is his love for you. This is his desire and passion. This is his. Like blue is yours.

There’s nothing shameful about that.

So while there’s not many words Jessie would use to describe himself, he thinks that shameful, at the very least, is certainly not one of them.

But then again…if shame makes human..if shame makes him closer to you. Then maybe it’s not so bad.

The thought makes him giddy.

a/n: not proofread, just wrote this one

[ryin-silverfish]

I understood that Fox spirits with gold and white fur are normally heavenly foxes. But Su Daji in the versions we know, killed people before the events of the story. So, will any type of fox spirit get this color when it already has its nine tails? even if they are already foxes that killed people?

I am kinda confused by the wording of this question. Correct me if I'm wrong:

-Heavenly foxes = foxes with gold/white fur and 9 tails

-Heavenly foxes are "good", or at least work for the establishment

-Su Daji of the Pinghua version is a heavenly fox, judging by her appearance

-But she kills people and isn't good

-Does that mean gold/white fur color and 9 tails is merely a signifier of power in fox spirits, and has nothing to do with their alignment or allegiance?

Well...time to dive into some fox spirit lore.

In the oldest Chinese legends, nine-tailed foxes are very much divine beasts. The Girl of Tushan, for example. Nine-tailed foxes also appeared in Han dynasty grave reliefs and paintings as part of Queen Mother of the West's worship:

They were very much auspicious beasts, like Qilins or Phoenixs. Same goes for white foxes.

The exact point in time where "Auspicious Foxes" started shifting into "Demonic Foxes" is unclear, but it probably had something to do with the change in ways people conceive of yaoguais: namely, the idea that anything that grow old enough can become a yaoguai.

Foxes seemed like a prime candidate for that kind of stuff, because unlike dragons or phoenixs, they were just too common, mundane, and eerie. Divine beasts don't sneak into your chicken coop under the cover of darkness.

By the Northern and Southern dynasty, in Ge Hong's Baopuzi, there was already the idea that animals that reached a certain age could transform into humans, and he cited foxes, wolves and jackals as an example:

"...They can live up to 800 years old, and when they reached 500 years old, these beasts transform into human shapes."

Around the same time period, Guo Pu's Xuanzhong Ji gave an even more elaborate account of fox spirits' transformation:

"Upon reaching 50 years of age, foxes can transform into women. 100 years, beautiful women, divine shaman, or men in order to charm women. They can know things from thousands of miles away, are masters of the arts of charms, able to make people lose their minds...at 1000 years old, they can commune with Heaven, and are known as heavenly foxes."

This concept of heavenly foxes had a renaissance in the Tang dynasty, where folk worship of foxes were very popular, and Daoist influences meant that many foxes in Tang folklore were practitioners of the Daoist arts.

If foxes could cultivate, it was only natural that the best cultivators among them could become immortals, just like human Daoists, and get a job in the Celestial Bureaucracy.

Curiously enough, all Tang dynasty heavenly foxes were male foxes, and the troubles they got into often stemmed from their own lust and entitlement to human women.

Heavenly fox status also offered them protection from death sentences: when they were subdued by Daoist masters or immortals, the punishments were either beating with a rod or exile.

However, only one Tang text connected heavenly foxes with nine-tailed foxes and a specific fur color: You Yang Za Zu, which I cited in a previous answer.

In a sense, this fusion of nine-tailed foxes with heavenly foxes was really going back to the roots of "Nine-tailed Foxes as Auspicious Beasts".

But it didn't last, and by the Song dynasty, nine-tailed foxes had undergone full yaoguai-fication like the rest of their kind.

This is just my speculation, but "Nine-tailed Foxes as Demonic Spirits" could perhaps be traced back as far as their more auspicious associations: the nine-tailed foxes of the Book of Mountains and Seas were just another type of man-eating fantastic beasts, after all.

Anyways, it is at this point that the idea of Daji being a nine-tailed fox first appeared, and FSYY Pinghua went a step further by merging Daji with the "heavenly nine-tailed fox" of You Yang Za Zu, turning the auspicious divine beast back into the demonic.

But, back to your question: a white/golden fox, or a nine-tailed fox, is not necessarily a heavenly fox. In the Qin-Han era, that's just an auspicious beast.

By Guo Pu's definition, a heavenly fox is just an incredibly powerful 1000 years old fox. By the Tang dynasty definition, a heavenly fox is a long-lived master of the Daoist arts who managed to get a job in the Celestial Bureaucracy.

They absolutely can be assholes (though shielded from the worst punishment). The idea that a heavenly fox is also a nine-tailed fox of unusual fur color is specific to that one passage in You Yang Za Zu and FSYY Pinghua.

Having nine tails/white or golden fur doesn't say anything about a fox's alignment or morality either. Rather, it says more about people's general conception of foxes during that specific era, and what was auspicious in one dynasty could easily become markers of the demonic in another.

[docdufresne]

how r you so good at drawing (halo) armor. You’re literally one of the best I’ve ever seen. Tips please if possible? (specifically for the shapes of the armor)

Oh god heLLO; I'm super bad at explaining my process of drawing RvB armor, as it's been multiple years since I've done it up until recently, so I'm super rusty but I will do my best to explain myself!!!

I've never made any sort of tip guide or tutorial, so please bear with me!

USE REFERENCES!!! This can go for renders from the Halo games directly (ArtStation was a great place to start, I'm not sure how things are post AI ""art"" surge, though) but at the very least, screenshot the heCK out of the series from whatever season you want to draw. There are a lot of different angles, and after they started to animate, it made it easier to get references with arms up or splayed out to the sides, or legs bent and hand motions!! Depends on what you're looking for!!

For this Reference, I used a Halo 3 render, as well as the Caboose-isms poster render. There are more clear renders out there, I'm sure!

First step that I take in learning to draw a new set of armor is color coding the sections that I'm going to draw, and then labeling them with points of interest that make me remember the detail later; Like grooves, or a bevel that looks weird or silly. Color coding and labelling the parts made it easier for me to break it down into smaller bits to draw piece by piece, bc let's face it; Armor can be super tedious and daunting, especially if you're just starting out.

Remember It's ALL SHAPES!!! IT'S JUST SHAPES!!!! Break them down into more simple shapes to find what works best for you! Keep it loose in the sketch stage, so you don't get lost in the pesky details

Remember that the armor goes on TOP of a body, and isn't a part of their body! Halo Infinite dOES have prosthetics that are a bit smaller than the armor, which adds depth and flavor to your armor though!

When in doubt, draw it larger than you mean to, and size it down to fit your other pieces!

SIMPLIFY IT!!! TRACE TO LEARN!!!! Really just figure out where the pieces go and put them together like a puzzle! Armor is simply just, hard, and there's no easy way to learn quickly how to do it efficiently and well; It really does take a lot of practice and trying and sketching and watching clips and staring at other's art to maybe notice shortcuts or even details you didn't notice before!!

But the biggest tip that I can give you is just, don't be afraid to make "bad art" don't be afraid to draw "bad armor" !!! It doesn't have to be perfect, the details don't all have to align on model 100% of the time! All of my art, paintings and all, have things that I fudged or missed, or messed up on and didn't notice, but I still have fun painting and drawing because I like making people laugh with my comics and I like having them feel stuff about my paintings!

Sorry if this wasn't what you were looking for, but I hope this helps even just a little bit!!

[steviebunny]

1.

Paris

The revving of motorbikes can be heard along Parisian streets, a woman and her entranced paramour look up as the noise approaches and roars to a stop. The party still thriving behind their secluded bench, the woman looks to the un-invited group in a less than impressed manner, barely suppressing an eye roll as she reverts her attention to the man who still seems more than slightly out of it. 

The first vampire, Armand. A tall man with bronze skin and silken hair that shines under the moonlight leads his coven in stride towards the two, a few rambunctious of his lot snarl behind him. They think they’re scary. How precious. The woman continuous to stare until at the speed in lightning one of his disciples snatched her prey away, tearing into his neck. Armand appears nonplused at the action and speaks to her 

“No solitary vampires may roam in Paris, either you must submit yourself to the coven or take your leave.” 

He stares the woman down trying to enter her mind yet remains incapable. The woman on the bench lets her eyes scan the small crowd,  a few zealots that appear closer to addicts than vampires, with faces painted possibly with lead or arsenic creams, a taller silver-haired one still on his bike with a woman on his back. A dark-skinned man holding a book swaying to the furthest end of the pack away from the commotion, and most interestingly a young girl. 

The Rusalka peers at the leader and announces to the group very calmly

 “That's all well and fine, good thing I’m not a vampire.” then suddenly she hisses at them- all her originally human-looking teeth sharpening to points as her mouth widens giving her an eerily beautiful, terrifying appearance. Her gaze then drops specifically to the young-looking girl and asks within her mind "Are these men keeping you? Should I punish them for it?" The girl, Claudia answers back "This is my coven, I choose to be here…What are you?" The rest of the vampires have shaken off their shock and begin to approach the woman, she drops her face back to normal, brushes her hair over her shoulder, and says 

“The young man you’ve done me the honor of disposing of has an unfortunate tendency of predation on the young children in his care. I’m simply performing a beneficial service but I suppose now I can take my leave.” 

Suddenly she takes off into a sprint and the vampires abandon their mission to follow her, they fail in their attempt as she pounces onto the barrier of the river Seine and plunges herself in. Her body is now unseen in the murky water, all that’s visible is a trace of iridescent color forming what can only be assumed to be a tail. Her escape is much faster that even the vampires can think to swim, almost all the disciples turn back to their coven leader looking for a directive. 

“Do not follow it!” he says grabbing Santiago’s arm as he appears ready to jump in after her, “It claims to not have the dark gift, we know no boundary of how dangerous it may be.”

Louis steps up placing his hand on Claudia’s shoulder “She seemed pretty calm to me, y'all are going to massacre that house anyway what's the harm in letting her take her pick of the lot?”

Celeste scoffs “What ‘arm? The papers are al’readzy reporting on her failure to clean-up. She makes a mess and we ha’ve the repercussions?”

“So we find her again, have a talk about the mess, and hope she responds well. If shes not a vampire what can we do to get her to comply?”

Santiago rips his arm from Armand’s hold “Who’s to say she could survive us? All we know is she has an appetite and too many teeth. I say we use her in a performance and be done with her, maître?”

“We learn is what we’ll do, Sam, Claudia, and I will look through the old texts for any mention of a creature such as it. One that has a face such at it. We understand the danger and then we act. In the meantime should any of you happen to come across her again you return to the théâtre and inform the others.”

–-–-–-–-––-–-–-–-––-–-–-–-––-–-–-–-––-–-–-

You’ve been traveling as long as you’ve been undead, why stay where you're not wanted, right? Once you got your vengeance on him there really wasn’t a reason to stay around and with the war on no one was worried about a young woman popping up in libraries, and auditing university classes on behalf of her ‘brother, fighting the good fight.’ You didn’t even need to mesmerize the scholars you spent time with, one sob story about writing letters to the front lines so your poor 'brother' could learn all that is possible before the worst occurs was enough to have professors tripping over themselves to please you. From physics in St. Petersburg to literature and art in Italy, and now chemistry in France where you’d spend your time under the mentorship of Madame Marie Curie’s apprentices at Sorbonne University. If I have eternity why not learn everything? Paris is big, what are the odds to see any of them again anyway?

*I tried something here at the end with the switching of perspective, I don't really like it so I don't think I'll continue to do so*

[osamucide]

⊹ YOU CAN BE THE BOSS

ACT I: HE HAD A CIGARETTE WITH HIS NUMBER ON IT.

wc: 3.1k

cw: alternate universe, pm boss!dazai, pm+gn!afab!reader, alcohol, cigarettes, implied/referenced drug use, canon-typical violence and referenced violence, implied/referenced ilicit activities including but not limited to prostitution, extortion, drug dealing, and fraud, kind of exposition heavy+not proofread sorry, more specific chapter warnings to come with each

reid: after losing almost all of it, chapter one is here! i hope you enjoy - im excited for whats to come. do let me know where you see this going, and if you'd liked tagged <3

⊹ SCENE I: He gave it over to me, “Do you want it?”

You consider it with an interest masked well-enough by years of practiced stoicism. If there’s one thing the mafia has taught you, it’s to never give anything up easily—not your money, not your body, not your time, not your interest. But the end of the filter touts a brand you've never heard of before, and the man who holds it in your direction, hands deceivingly delicate, is almost too well-known to you.

You are already smoking a cigarette of your own (albeit a brand likely far cheaper and less foreign), but then you spot the writing. A phone number.

Your eyes flick up to his. Dark. Dark as the night you stand in on the rooftop. The lights from the LED floor below, twitching with color, paint him deep red for a moment.

You bow only slightly, as smoothly as you can—that was the first thing you probably should've done, would’ve done if you weren’t a few cocktails deep, but the smirk already on his face—one you knew for a fact you’ve never seen through his own rehearsed mask throughout all the years you’ve worked for him—just cracks deeper.

"Boss," you address him, shuffling your drink into the same hand as your lit smoke before reaching to take the unlit invitation. "Need me to run it?" The number, you mean. Regardless of what implications are initially prompted by a phone number, you settle it on taking it as he needs it traced immediately, and you need to settle on something before you start stuttering at where the nuances of this seconds-long interaction have taken your silly little brain so far. You were mostly on the ground, giving up time and other things when and where you needed in order to get what you wanted—what you needed, and more importantly what the Port Mafia needed, but you'd skulked around intelligence enough to know standard prodecure, and right now you have, at the very least, your personal device and your work phone on you. You were nearby. He had a job for you. For someone. For anyone. That's all.

"No, no," he speaks in a cadence like a fairy jumping from one cloud to another as he taps his own smoke out of the pack. He feels his pockets and looks to you. "My personal phone number. Light?”

Oh, you almost verbalize it, but you're tucking the information in your shirt pocket so quickly and absentmindedly at the following command (if you could even call it a command—it's more a request, but anything he might ask of you, especially directly, certainly holds the weight of a command) before scrambling for your lighter. Any assignment you might be sent on would regularly be passed from him to one of the executives to a subexecutive to your division leader to you, never skipping those middlemen. You hardly ever met with the man who employed you throughout your years at the Port—you could count on less than one hand the times you had—so you look to him, confused, as you open a flame for him, but he just leans forward, dark eyes lit and melted brown for a single second as he cups a lithe hand around the end of the cigarette and puffs, puffs, silently. He almost looks like a kid. Not a god. Just a twenty-something in some club lights. But he is, indeed, more than that, you know. The first bit of smoke flies toward your face. You feel the need to step back, but he does first.

That relaxed, cryptic half-smile returns as he nods his thanks.

You bow again, so shallowly it feels like a crime—even, or maybe especially, among the company you're in—before you can flinch at the realization of where you are, what you're doing, who exactly is in front of you.

You drink often, sure, but clubbing is a luxury, and clubbing in one of Yokohama's most exclusive rooftop lounges is even more rare to come by, but the Port had recently made consequential strides in swaying a legislation to expand on both the individual and business rights of ability users, and the boss—the very man in front of you, who used successes like this as an excuse to get fucked up just as much as anyone else in the organization—is now putting his subexecs as well as his political allies and prospects up in hotels, buying them hundred-thousand yen bottles of wine, hooking everyone up with the best drugs for the low, showing his fucking face and painting himself as best businessman he can possibly be and if you're honest, the subtlety so coy it's almost theatrical and that sick little smile he wears would’ve worked on you if you weren’t so lost. He's notoriously cunning, always had been, even when he was young. His displays of grandeur, penchant for the dramatic—you certainly wouldn’t be alone in saying it only makes him more terrifying.

You're going to chalk it up in your liquor-fuzzed brain to just that—the fuzz of the liquor. But he doesn't seem especially intoxicated, nor has he done anything especially attention-stealing, and yet, here you are, lips parted for words as you watch a ring of smoke curl around him. You feel stupid for thinking he’s ever looked in your direction before this moment. Maybe he doesn't even realize you're one of his employees.

But no, all of what he does, and this you know about him, even if you're unsure what he knows about you, none of it is without motive. So you wonder what his aim is here.

“Pardon me, sir,” you continue, slowly, mindful that your tongue might be a little loose. Not like you socialized with many people on occasions such as this, let alone your boss. The boss. “But for what?”

He looks briefly as if he doesn't hear you. With his face turned to the sky and the filter on his lips, you do your best not to stare. The lights are not doing his sharp features any disservice.

“To call me.”

You wind yourself tight so you don't reel. He says it so casually; he examines the smoke between his fingers like it's an expensive piece of jewelry. A tremble threatens you. You're glad he's still turned to the stars. A pull off your cigarette, a sip of your drink. An inaudible sigh of amazement. Confusion.

The world becomes red from below again as his eyes slide back to yours.

“You’ll call me,” his voice softens in a way that catches you off-guard more than anything else he’s done thus far, “right?”

You try to recount everything you’ve done over the past few years. Surely this isn’t a ploy, right? Your loyalty to the Port is virtually unwavering. If you’d done anything wrong, you weren’t aware of it. In fact, you pride yourself on how many fingers you still have compared to how many you've seen cut off at the first knuckle. Still, he was famed in his youth for his capability to torture without mercy. You’ve seen plenty, but even you hate to imagine some of the things you've heard.

Your pounding pulse registers in your consciousness; you've pinched the filter of your cigarette so long that it’s gone out. What can you say? Or rather, what can’t you say? You must look exceptionally thoughtful in the lifetime-long space of the half-second it actually takes you to respond because, really, whether you want to or not, whether it dragged anxiety up your throat, you would do it anyway. How are you supposed to say no to the man in front of you, the leader of the Port Mafia, or worse—lie and not follow through? That itself might warrant some sort of accusation. Some sort of trouble you don't want. If you knew for a fact it was that, truthfully, you would've thrown yourself at his feet like a dog and began apologizing immediately.

But no, this would be roundabout, even for him. He's extravagant, but he's mechanical, too. A grandiose machine. He could shoot you between your eyes right now and maintain his balance, his image, whatever he wants. If he wanted you dead, you suppose you wouldn’t be standing against the rooftop railing with the sweat of your drink dripping through your fingers. So you answer, dutifully.

“Yes, sir.”

And in your good training you even raise the corners of your lips to mirror his. A defensive move away from a man you should probably feel safer with than you do. Your boss. The boss.

Defensive. For what?

Cryptic. He smiles again, vacant and chilling. You can only hope you hold enough of an air to match.

And he disappears back into the pulsing nightlife as wordlessly as he’d emerged from it. Only after he's gone do you let yourself look aghast. Your lips, slightly parted. Your smoke, tamped. The ice in your drink watering it down. Your eyes unfocused. You feel suddenly more drunk, and you didn’t know if it's for better or for worse.

It isn't really complicated—the reason you're with the mafia. You're resilient and hardworking and you're too aware that traditional routes of employment are decreasingly offering security to honest people with drive anymore and all the more, honestly, you’ve been slipping through the cracks for as long as you can remember. Although you have scars to show for it and a list of dirty laundry to do each week, the Port has yet to steer you wrong. Your integrity is celebrated. You justify a whole hell of a lot of what you do by telling yourself it isn’t all bad—the legislation that would come to pass soon, for example, largely thanks to the influence of the leaders of your faction, would benefit more gifteds around Yokohama—throughout Japan, even—than just those in the mafia. You understand yourself as a common person doing what you need to get by, and really, who wasn't? Your work gets done with the interest of the unfortunate majority you've always been a part of in mind, more than any stuffy office job could ever claim to be.

And your boss, for as horrifying of a man as he's known to be, runs an operation that's put more money in your pocket in the last few years than working your way up the ladder of some miserable corporate office would in a lifetime. You're comfortable. Safe, by your own standards. Happy, even, after your few and fair promotions within your division over the years.

Happy as you can be, anyway. And maybe that’s what this is: another promotion, if it wasn't an invitation to get your ass beat on your personal time. Everything about either of those seems more likely than an opportunity to get anywhere near him on equal ground or whatever lit up in your brain at first before you shoved it down, turned it off like the good soldier you are. Your stomach twists either way. You imagine your name after the title division leader.

So you’ll call him. But right now, you down the rest of your drink and seek out the bar—the open bar which he had paid for for the entire night—sure to tumble yourself into overserved territory with one more.

"Same thing." You waggle your empty glass at the bartender as one of your divisionmates stumbles to your side, drink of her own empty in her hand.

Her name is Iyomi, and you've had enough amicable interactions with her to consider her a friend. Maybe that's stupid in the mafia; it certainly goes against your original philosophy—from some years ago when you were younger and maybe even more jaded than you were now—which was that you were here to fly solo, get your work done, stay quiet, and find time to repair the parts of yourself you had so long sought the stability in order to do. But you're older now—still jaded, undoubtedly, but you've lost that certain determination that's only available to the youth; anymore, you feel a hopelessness about you that grows like a tumor, and it makes things difficult to take seriously. You're dying, and so is everyone, and that's why you will let yourself get so wasted tonight. Your bartender slides your glass back to you, and Iyomi latches onto your arm.

"Is that—was—were you just talking to the boss?" She slurs loudly and incredulously, and you hush her, hush her, laugh because you can't help it, hush her again. She moves on soon enough; she's swaying, flagging down the bartender, complaining that she hasn't been able to find her friend and her drinks have not been strong enough all evening, but even in the state you're in, you consider motioning for someone to fill her glass with water instead of whatever neon blue concoction she's been downing.

When you shuffle back to your post on the railing to light another cigarette (not the one with the number on it, pointedly), Iyomi follows you like a loyal dog. It's a bit endearing, how you're seasoned enough in your work that newer recruits tend to look up to you—people like Iyomi soften your stony heart a bit, so you let her start up again.

"That's—I don't think I've ever even spoken to him, like, ever—like, what was he—bleh!" She waves your smoke away from her face as it stings her eyes and puts a few inches between you; granted, she was falling all over you. You can't help your smile.

"It was nothing. Tell you the truth, I think he's as drunk as the rest of us," you said. You remind yourself to relax a little to avoid incrimination on behalf of your shaking hands. You could probably play it off as the nicotine, but Iyomi's too plastered to notice anyway.

"So strange!" she giggles, adopting your pose—elbows rested on the rail, feet crossed at the ankle. "Anyway, I saw Akane dancing with one of Nakahara's subexecs, and I wasn't gonna say anything but I think they left together and I..."

She continues to chatter in the sweet voice of hers, and you scan the rooftop for any sign of the boss. He's disappeared. It was about the time of the night (or morning, rather) when people were doubling over sick, passing out in their VIP seating, damning themselves to a tomorrow of work with a thrumming hangover. You decide you'll help yourself to a few more drinks, maybe dance with Iyomi, and then go home. The cigarette in your suit jacket pocket is heavy like a gun.

⊹ SCENE II: . . . I knew it was wrong, but I palmed it.

If you're honest—which you are often, as previously established (your correspondence with Iyomi last night aside)—you can't remember getting back to your apartment.

You remember very well talking to the boss. You remember agreeing to call him. You remember smoking cigarette after cigarette until you finally did leave, but the leaving itself is blurry—you think you'd walked most if not all the way back if your sore calf muscles were anything to go by, but you end up fishing a crumpled train ticket out of your jacket pocket the next morning with the cigarette.

The cigarette. You let it roll side to side in your palm before it settles.

The writing is less than neat, but impressive enough for obivously being done on the tubing after it was rolled. Treasurer is what the filter reads, beneath an elegant printed seal. Unknown brand of pen ink disregarded, you briefly wonder about the monetary value of the thing in your hand. He's daunting to you—the boss and all his wealth and influence, even in the privacy of your home.

After tucking it neatly between two books on the decorative table near your slider, you shake the feeling and go about your day.

It's less than notable. You run into colleagues who were shitfaced just six hours ago. Some are very obviously still hopped up on something. You flash your teeth and play nice with everyone, just as always, despite the slight headache thumping at the inside of your skull. You're usually never achy after a night of indulging—it had to be all those damn cigarettes you smoked.

You do your little to-do's. You go represent your division at a meeting in a bar with your branch's subexec, and you're surprised to see the executive your division falls under there—her name is Koyou, and she's a stunning woman with scarlet hair and a voice that's always set you slightly on edge. She never says much, and this meeting is no different; she nods, she hums, she drinks a glass of wine and speaks a total of seven words before you're dismissed. You follow up with your division leader on the meeting—routine reporting, monthly headcount, housecleaning—as well as some paperwork about a small foreign syndicate your division had been assigned to sniff out. Everything's in order and nothing's come of the group. Not yet, anyway. Everyone's in good spirits in light of the recent private endorsement. Your overtime pay could increase soon enough, so it's enough to keep you regarding your associates with pleasantries throughout the day.

And you get home, unreasonably tired from scampering around the bars the rest of the evening. You had little to drink, only one at each, but you're warm enough and your headache's disappeared completely and you remember the cigarette on your little table.

The sliding door leads out to a balcony—a modest one, but it allows you to recline with a smoke, so it's all you'll ever need.

You're seated when you glare down the number again. Your pack is on the little table—the one outside, almost identical to the one just inside your door but more built for withstanding the elements—but you punch the number into your contacts and snatch up your lighter before you can wonder if the next day is too soon. Or, if any longer would lack punctuality and respect for the boss's time. Or what this is at all. What are you doing?

You almost feel stupid again as your thumb hovers over the "call" button. This is something you will have to face. This is something you will have to do. Isn't it?

You stick the filter of the Treasurer between your lips and flick your lighter. The 0 at the end of the number goes up in ash.

And it rings.

It rings a few times, and you don't expect anything other than that from here on out. In fact, through your first puff off this exquisite tobacco, you resign yourself to lowering all your expectations for this. You're nervous in one way, but you're dying in another. Maybe either your hands are holding the thing that'll do it. Whatever. You're tipsy enough. It's nighttime and no one can see you but God.

You're ashing the Treasurer into your tray as the line clicks and your name is spoken in a voice you can't mistake. One that, too, sets you on edge. But you play the part right now, for no one but yourself. Maybe for God.

"Boss," you respond, softly, dutifully. Your smoke dissipates on the quiet breeze.

"I'm glad you called."

[gaybananabread]

Ooh Lego Monkie Kid? Don't mind if I do!

Do you have any headcanons for the Stonefruit Trio (MK, Wukong, and Macaque)?

⁠☆⁠—⁠⁠LMK Stonefruit Trio Tkl Headcanons—⁠☆

~Sorry this took me so long to get to! School is finding new ways to kick my ass every day istg- ANYway, it felt good to write for these goobers again! Thank you for requesting!~

🍜Mk🎧

General:

Sunshine boy is definitely a big fan of tickles. Laughing at just a few touches, bonding with his friends, watching them let their walls down for the sake of silly happiness? Yeah, count him in.

He likes both sides, though being tickled does have a special place in his heart. He’s a lee-leaning switch, but not by a whole lot.

He can only say the t-word on special occasions (extreme confidence, other lers/lees in it with him, drunken boldness). 98.71% of the time, he’ll go beet red at the attempt.

Lee:

When he gets lee moods, everyone around him will know. He can sometimes just ask for help if it’s someone who’s used to his silliness, like Red Son or Mei, but other than that, it’s tacit signals.

He’ll run a hand through his hair a lot (exposing his side in the process), get way more fidgety than normal, speak in a higher pitch, and very nonchalantly stare at his friends’ hands. Not that hard to get the message.

Kicks, flails and squirms when tickled. He really tries not to, but his nerves pretty much go nuts. It’s best to pin him or get him from behind if you don’t want an accidental bloody nose.

Worst spots are his navel and lower back. He absolutely loses it whenever anyone so much as pokes there.

Melt spots are his palms and shoulders. Tickly massages and palm kisses leave him a puddle of giggles.

Really bright and bubbly laughter when you get him going. When it’s light, lots of little squeaks and half-hearted “no!”s

Ler:

Sickly sweet while also a teasing mother-trucker. If you think that’s confusing, imagine how the lee feels-

The sunshine boy definitely has a fiery side, so watch out

“You’re ticklish here too? Seriously, this is adorable. You’re adorable.”

“Holding it in, huh? I think it’d feel a bit nicer if you let out that laughter. Don’t you?

“So many good spots, so little time… Guess I gotta get to work!”

“Your blush is so pretty! I think I’m gonna paint my nails that color…”

He’s incredibly considerate of boundaries, even if you’re obviously okay with it.

Checks in wherever you seem to be laughing a bit too hard, though you’ve only just got done giggling. It’s smart to set up a safeword so he actually does know when to keep going.

Confident lees will love him. He’s easy to fluster if you can say the t-word enough times, and he nearly dies if someone confidently asks him to tickle them.

An aftercare master. He makes whatever your favorite drink is, gets snacks, makes a cuddle nest and just hangs out with you. If you’re not big on touch, he’s fine to just watch some YouTube videos and chill out.

🍑Sun Wukong☀️

General:

We can all agree that he’s a straight-up switch. Loves wrecking people, adores being reduced to a giggly puddle of mush.

However, he refuses to admit any of that

He likes the feeling of being vulnerable around his friends, but the thought of saying that is terrifying for him (again, good luck getting him to say that. The great Monkey King allegedly has no fear)

Lee:

He’s giggling like crazy before you even touch him.

If you even give a small hint of what you’re gonna do, get ready for him to run.

When you do catch him (he will eventually let you), he curls up like a pill bug and rides it out. If you mention his tail wagging, he’ll let out a string of adorably squeaky profanities.

His actual laugh is a lot less obnoxious than his “Monkey King” one. It’s bright and bubbly, full of squeaks and the occasional snort.

His worst spots are his ribs and his lower back, specifically the base of his tail. Good luck keeping him still if you go there.

Melt spots are his ears and hips. His hips are a bit of an obscure spot, but he will dissolve if you trace them.

Once you’re done wrecking him, he becomes a cuddly, sleepy little mess. Be ready to stay with him for at least an hour afterwards.

Ler:

He’s such a chaos goblin I swear-

Loves the “Tickle Monster” trope. He can and will use his power to make clones of himself and/or shift his appearance for optimum tickle-ability

If he’s the one doing the tickling, he can say the t-word. This is a power he always abuses.

“The Tickle Monster’s gonna getcha, kid! Better run~”

“Oh sorry, couldn’t hear you through all that laughter. Did you say ‘keep going’? Perfect!”

“You know, I could stop, but where’s the fun in that? I think you can agree, can’t ya?”

“Your laugh is so fun! I could listen to it for centuries… But I think I can settle for five more minutes.”

It takes him a bit, but he does try to check in and see when you need a break. It’d be a nice idea to set a safeword or a clear tap-out beforehand, just in case.

He’s actually really good with aftercare. He makes the best lemonade tea, and he’ll attempt to make a good snack. Just watch out for any of his “inventive” cooking/baking methods.

🎭Macaque🏮

General:

He acts like he hates it. If you don't know him all that well, he'll seem genuinely done with it.

If you do know him, however, he has tells. The way his tail twitches when the t-word is said, the way just a hint of pink settles on his cheeks, the way his arms just barely clamp to his sides…

Yeah, he's not as slick as he thinks.

Prefers being tickled most of the time, but he isn't afraid to wreck a bitch just because.

Lee:

He will fight and deny it until the day his immortality runs dry, but he loves it.

Until you actually start, he'll act like he doesn't want it. Kicking, hissing, running, the whole nine.

The minute those wiggling fingers touch down, though? He melts.

All protest disappears, the only thing close being small “no”s through his laughter. His tail will wag adorably (be careful if you mention this).

He could just shadow-travel away, but conveniently “forgot because of the literal torture” he was experiencing or “couldn't focus enough” to do so.

Worst spots are his knees and his back. Him and Wukong share the infamous I-will-die spot at the bases of their tails, though this boy's is significantly worse.

Melt spots are beneath his chin and his ears. It is the cutest thing to just scratch beneath and hear his little purrs while he tries not to giggle.

Ler:

Puts his villain experience to use

He'll use his shadow travel to sneak up on you/cheat in a chase. Nobody said he had to play fair…

He definitely makes clones to help himself. One to hold your arms up, another to grab your legs, and a few to get the more annoying spots.

Teasing in a playful-yet-asshole sorta way. If you're feeling shitty, he'll be such a sweetheart, but he's a shit 80% of the time.

“Wow, ticklish here too? You're just a walking tickle-spot at this point.”

“You think this is bad? Just wait till I call in the cavalry~”

“It must be hard, being this ticklish and all. How have you survived so far? Thought you'd have laughed yourself silly.”

“Just a few little pokes and you're down for the count. Would suck if some of the villains found out…”

“Worst spot, huh? Better buckle up~”

Somehow knows exactly when to stop every time. You don't even have to say anything: he just knows.

Masterful aftercare. He honestly loves cuddling with his lee afterwards, so you're getting some unless you specifically tell him no. He'll send a shadow clone to go get you a drink and some snacks if you want. Peaceful music listening and most likely a nap (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

[neonthewrite]

The Office Fae

The next prompt was Tangled, and I ended up with a brand new character for this one. He's fun so far. I'm enjoying his very gremlin energy. I hope you all like him too!

~~~

Life in an office building generally worked well for Simon, despite technically being a house fae. The rules could be fuzzy on that front, with so many humans coming and going every day. Sure, there wasn’t a singular family loving the place and cherishing their lives there, but a lot of humans from many families liked the building and their jobs there well enough to make the energy inviting. Something about flexible hours, good wages, and a solid benefits package made for a harmonious office with plenty of memories–some friendly, some dramatic, even some spicy memories.

Plus there was a vending machine. Simon came for the vibes originally, but he absolutely stayed for the vending machine. At a modest five and three quarter inches tall, he had easy access to a good variety of things in portions that lasted him days.

Another house fae rule he bent–it wasn’t precisely a bowl of cream left out for him specifically, but nobody could expect that these days. Keeping the vending machine stocked was close enough, and if the light bulbs and printer cartridges in the building all lasted longer than they should, well, Simon earned his keep. He probably saved them hundreds on the annual operations budget.

Work always slowed down around the end of winter, aside from some buzzing over in the accounting office. All the holiday parties were done and the potluck food all taken home from the break room fridges. Simon planned for it and handled it well, though things could get cold with the shorter hours and heat on less to make up for the emptier office.

To that end, Simon wintered in the ceiling of the server room. The servers, bulkier and taller than a human, stood clustered in a side room and were never turned off. Blinking lights of green and red and blue twinkled on each machine, colors filtering into the ceiling along with the ample warmth those hulking obelisks gave off.

With so much downtime, he found himself perched near an opening in the ceiling, a spot where the tile had broken off long ago, and watched the server lights flicker on the tangled mess of multicolored cables that ran between them. It was a game of his to trace each cable from end to end with his eyes, idly kicking his bare, grey-skinned feet (his skin had shifted to a tasteful, cool grey a few years ago after an office refresh had updated all the paint). Long, slender fingers absently braided silky hair the color of faded ballpoint ink while he scanned the cables with eyes reminiscent of the shocking, dreaded blue of a computer on its way out.

Most house fae took on colors in equal parts camouflage and defense. Simon would be tough to spot if he happened to be out in the open near a human, but if someone did see him, humans never liked seeing that blue. So his eyes would probably protect him.

Not that he ever intended to test that. As much as he liked his many many humans and their water cooler chatter, Simon was realistic. They wouldn’t like him much even if he shared their scale. All his features were a bit elongated, just enough to seem strange and other. He only wore flowing pants made of scrap fabric and he ate bugs sometimes. Humans would call him scary or freaky or any number of words they had for things they didn’t like, and if his eyes couldn’t scare them off he’d be in danger of a rolled up magazine or a dusty phone book.

He’d stayed hidden for a long time, and he anticipated many games of look-at-cables in his future, all without humans being a bother.

Of course, until they were a slight bother anyway. Simon paused his movements and tensed when the door opened abruptly. Light flooded in and he lost track of the cable he was tracing when he looked over, grateful for his higher vantage point and the human tendency to ignore background details.

Two figures stood there, one familiar and one not. One was Tom, a human whose limbs gangled a bit but whose middle had padded out after so many years in a desk job. His bald spot glowed with light from the hallway, and his rumpled t-shirt sported a band name Simon thought he recognized. From what Simon knew, Tom was every bit an IT master and a vital cog in keeping the office running smoothly. He didn’t have to dress any higher than casual.

The other human was a new face. A woman, probably younger than Tom by a couple decades. Her dark skin contrasted with his pale complexion. Her hair, coily and thick, grew longer atop her head though it was tapered close at the sides. She wore a smart blouse and slacks, which Simon immediately recognized as the sort of thing one wore to a job interview, or one’s first day at work.

Tom waved a hand at the servers whirring away in the room. “Servers in here. Probably not gonna need to be in here a ton, but y’know. If something needs a reset…”

The woman nodded and smiled faintly as she scanned the room. “What are the chances I can fix up some of those cables?”

She said it as a joke. Simon didn’t find it funny at all. Tom did. He laughed. “Now that I get someone to pass tasks like that along to, I imagine I can convince the bossman to let me schedule a maintenance day. Now, let’s get you some of your equipment…”

The door closed and the humans walked away, and Simon cared not at all for their conversation or the rest of the onboarding for this new IT interloper. She wanted to organize the cables, which simply would not do. Simon stalked back to his makeshift camp to get his pack.

This new hire was simply not a good fit, and he’d do what he could to stop her horrible plan.

[demonicnarwhale]

So for my first project in my Proprint class, we had to make 5 separate prints (draw or photograph something then print it on a 17x22 paper, same thing as last semester) so here's my stuff!!! Oh! And the prompt was basically anything but monochromatic or black and white, but we can either use one or two colors

They're all based on my Small Town AU because I thought it'd help get my ideas for this AU thingy situated a bit, and cuz it's fun

The first one to start us all off is Doc Scratch! The one and only, the catalyst (if you will) of this small town turning to shit. It's basically him bringing a sort of day of reckoning thing going on. But not like reckoning in the idea that they're getting judged by god or whatever. In this case, Scratch himself just plays around in this universe (this is the "bad" ending). Basically, the townsfolk begin to turn and hurt each other (reasoning will be explained in the 2nd project tehee and the wording here is like this just so I don't spoil too much) (also the top is just the different edits I came across and thought looked pretty)

Motifs / Symbolisms:

- The time on the clock reads 3:19. So specifically Genesis 3:19 is pretty much just when Adam and Eve are cast out of the Garden of Eden. The idea here is that Scratch will turn this thriving and self sufficient, almost found-family-like town into a big ol' graveyard. That paradise they all have come to enjoy and build a community together? Buh-bye!!! Cast out! Into the miseries!!!

- The picture of the oil painting is of The Agnew Clinic 1889 painted by Thomas Eakins. The painting was commissioned in honor of David Hayes Agnew, a pretty well known and respected surgeon of his time, a leader in a way. And I just felt like Scratch would have some of these "lesser" known art pieces of important figures of the past around his house. (Die would approve of this painting I believe)

- The apples are purposefully way too round, almost Christmas tree ornament looking. It's to allude to this feeling or idea of something being too perfect, but very off putting. Basically Doc Scratch himself. He's a man that's a part of the town but also not there. He's a total enigma for everyone and most people will chose to just accept that and just be cordial with him, that placid and simple smile just has something deeper going on teehee

- The card he holds is a nod to tarot ones (obvious I know but I ain't no tarot or star signs believer so I had to search up which card would make sense here). So seven of swords just means betrayal so haha on the nose

- There was gonna be a violin added but I just wanted to get this drawing done so I said "screw that". The reason why I was gonna go with the violin is cuz that idea of "haha Scratch is another name for the devil" and I remembered a song The Devil Went Down to Georgia which I fuckin dig. Also the idea of the devil having a violin playing contest with a kid is so fucking funny cuz he got his ass kicked. (oh yeah and just the idea of the devil being associated with the violin)

So yeah! I just had a lot of fun just coming up with this drawing and doing a little breaking the frame/boarder with the small apple branches reaching into the top box.

What can I say? I love marine associated themes so of course I gotta draw Trace and Fin. Oh and the sketches (or draft) I did just made me feel so proud and happy. Cuz even though it's a bunch of mumbo jumbo, it all just managed to flow out really well with this one. It's a shame that the digitalized final piece isn't as impressive to me as my sketches. The two compasses are also pointed at 3:00 and 5:00 cuz, ya know. That's their numbers. The fish from bottom to top are sockeye salmon, moray eel, tunas, and I didn't look at one fish for the ref with the top one but let's go with red snapper.

i sadly had to rush this one as it was getting close to critique day (aka the 26th) and some of my other classmates needed to print too so I didn't want to get in their way and such later on. (originally we had to make 5 prints but he saw not a lot of people would be able to so he cut it down to just 3. And so I already had 3 prints done so why not just let everyone else who really needed to print, print)

So this print was going to have PM, AR, and WV doing their own things (as seen in the first draft) but I changed things up so it'd be simpler and allow me to work on the last 2 prints. But hey! At least WV's there!! And then I was messing with shadows and the last one just looked really funny. OH! Oh and the 2422 was when PM made her appearance in the webcomics (at least, that's what I think or recall) and since that's her plane, it was a little nod. And this is her logo thing (still being worked on but you get the gist of it)

I do however feel hella bummed that I wasn't able to keep the mechanic tidbits (for AR) in this drawing since I hate drawing cars, the tools I tried drawing didn't fit the look of the finalized drawing. I'm sorry AR </3. Oh and I completely forgot about WV's lil torn up red flag, but it wouldn't really match i feel anyways in the end results. WV being a farmer, PM a mail woman hence the stamps, and AR being a (car) mechanic!!!

Ok so that's all for now, I'll upload the 4th and 5th print and photos of them all printed in another post since this is fuckin lengthy

PT2 HERE

[marlynnofmany]

Courtship Behaviors

(Happy early Valentine’s Day! I wrote this to share with some specific writer friends. It’s short. Enjoy.)

~~~

The space station marketplace was bustling with crowds and conversation, but when a voice spoke from behind me, I was pretty sure the question was for me.

“Can I ask you something?” said the nervous voice.

I turned to see a feathery alien of a species I hadn’t met yet, looking like a flustered eagle — or no, more like a secretary bird. Those were the long-legged ones that kicked snakes, right? This one had shiny white feathers with a pearlescent shimmer, and some very anxious body language.

“Sure,” I said, prepared for anything. Was this a question about the courier ship I’d come in on? A question about Earthlings? Something for me specifically?

Option B.

“Do humans do mating dances?” the bird asked in a rush.

“Uh, sort of,” I said, thinking quickly. “We have dances with a lot of people together, and courting couples might use it as an excuse to show off or get close to one another.”

“But not individual dances?” the bird asked, fidgeting with clawed hands. Those claws were painted with what looked like human nail polish. Awfully similar to the color my cousin was fond of, called “Pinking Of You.”

“Maybe sometimes,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

Pearl-white feathers ruffled into an endearing puffball. “My advances are being ignored,” the alien admitted. “I’m starting to doubt whether my human even realizes. We’ve been working together for many cycles now, and I like to think we know each other well, but…” The alien drifted off into a plaintive chirp.

“Has the human done anything that looked like courtship gestures to you?” I asked.

“Maybe? I don’t know? I thought the food-sharing was just kindness, but it’s become a regular thing, and surely asking to wear one of my shed feathers as a decoration is significant, right? I don’t know anymore.”

“Wait,” I said. “Is this the human with blue hair that I just saw over that way? The one buying a feather-care kit and a necklace with a heart-shaped pendant?”

The birdlike alien stilled, feathers smoothing out. “Heart-shaped?”

“Like this,” I said, tracing the shape in the air. “It’s a sign of love.”

“It is??” Feathers fluttered everywhere as the alien hopped in place. “Is that why — I had no idea!”

“Go talk to your human,” I said. “Maybe you can eat food and go dancing together.”

“I will! Thank you!” The bird pranced off, jumping to see over the crowd like an excited teenager.

I thought about calling out directions to the nearest dance club, since this space station had some great ones, but it occurred to me that the human probably knew. And they could find out together.

~~~

Ongoing backstory adventures of the main character in this book. Very long and storied adventures.

[takami-rising]

in aeternum ☀︎

in aeternum

➳ eternally

character: rengoku kyojuro x reader genre: not full on smut but very suggestive, fluff, drabble warnings: 18+ MDNI, virgin/inexperienced reader, lots of intimate touching, implied intercourse/fade to black

Kyojuro who is just so gentle on your wedding night. Oh, so sweet when he feeds you the bowl of strawberries he's discreetly stolen from the kitchen stash in the dead of night. Thumb swiping across your plump lower lip to gather the saccharine juices, and what a shame it would be to waste its flavor. Your eyes unable, unwilling, to stray from his as he licks the taste off his finger.

You're a bundle of nerves the moment he gets a bit too close, hands trembling in his, strong and firm as they envelope yours in their tender touch. On the verge of tears, you tell him that everything is just happening so fast. From the day you accepted his proposal to when they transferred your furniture into his estate and now you are to be the spouse of the new head of the Rengoku family - what pressure. How eagerly you wish to make him proud, to fulfill your duty at his side.

He cradles you in his embrace, fingertips painting languid strokes up and down your arm until your breathing slows. Touch so delicate, so innocent until disappears underneath the sleeve of your yukata, quivers rushing through your body in waves. He asks if you bear any regrets in regard to your union, but you shake your head into his chest. Kyojuro would do anything and everything to ease any worry you may have. How disappointed with himself he is that you would ever think otherwise when you ask to simply spend the night asleep, tangled in each other's arms.

"My darling, we have a lifetime together. We may take all the time we need."

Kyojuro, whose cheeks are flushed the loveliest shade of pink when you awake in the early hours of the next morning to feel his member prodding against your hip, thick and hard, twitching in response to the soft friction as he stirs. Apologies leave his lips in graces, tells you not to worry and he squirms to get away.

You crawl through the plush of your shared kakebuton to close your distance once again, chasing the tingling sensation his bashful expression brings forth in the pit of your stomach. Hands trace the collar of his tousled yukata, dips into the hollow beneath bones in the sweetest of caresses, a careful curiosity that sparkles your eyes.

"May I see?"

He stutters, flustered and caught off guard. He does not mind, of course. Would let you tear his clothes apart if you wished to, but the way you look up at him, through eyelashes wet with sleep, fingertips dangling at his hips, waiting for permission. It makes his cock twitch. "Yes."

You unwrap his robe, slide the fabrics off his shoulders with such endearing determination, he cannot conceal the chuckle on his lips when you stop to brace yourself before the removing the fundoshi on his hips. Your eyes search his body, orbs flickering and he wonders if you're looking for something specific, any confidence he yet possesses slowly dwindling. Perhaps he did not live up to your expectations. Perhaps it was too much and the scars embedded in his skin repulsed you more than anticipated.

Your hand falls flat against his chest, fingers curling to drag the pad of their tips in your featherlight touch. His heart forgets a beat. He dares not take his eyes off of you as the golden hour laves you in its colors, your chest rising to chase its next breath quicker than the last as you carefully trace the scars that litter his body, rests over the one centered in his sternum. The skin goes taught with the hitch in his breath, twists and contorts around veins and muscle. You hesitate, then caress the hardened flesh tenderly. "Does it hurt?"

"I cannot think of pain when the one I love is touching me so intimately."

"Would you like me to stop?"

Kyojuro feels lightheaded, euphoria clouding any last comprehensible thought left in his mind, his voice reduced to nothing more than a breathy whisper. "No."

Your lips press a kiss under his left eye where the gold in his iris has turned to a setting sun while your hands continue their explorative dance. It doesn't open fully anymore, barely has any perceivable vision left, but you're heavenly even in the haze of its shadows. He melts into your touch, lets you mold him into any shape or form you desire.

"I think you are very beautiful," you say.

Dearest, loveliest Kyojuro who gets impatient, grabbing your hands and nearly begs against your lips. "My love, I wish to consummate our marriage now."

[collectors-tablet]

Did a screenshot redraw of that moment Belos knew he fucked up. With markers!

WIPs/links to higher quality under the cut 😌

So what I did to create this image was hold my paper up to my screen and trace over the screenshot's lineart, then worked out the rest of the details on paper. The straight lines on the top and bottom are where the original screenshot cuts off.

Once I decided the sketch was finished I put my blending card (special paper for the markers) over the sketch on a lightboard and traced over it with my pens.

If I made mistakes I would sometimes use my white paint pen to draw over them.

Then, on a piece of scrap paper, I would test out my markers to see what blending combinations looked good.

Tangent: I use alcohol markers, specifically COPICs, though I also have some Prismacolors too. Alcohol markers are built for blending and I recommend looking them up if you are interested. I use copics because they have a brush nib and while they're expensive, you can easily get refills and replacement parts so you'll never throw them away. You can buy 30 year old markers that are still good.

First I colored (most of) the characters (that took a lot of time, especially since I was cautious about how to color in things like the eye and would test on scrap paper first)

Then I tried making a background but I really didn't like it

So in digital art I cut out the characters from the background to see how to fix it and came up with the idea of darkening it significantly.

Digital experiment on the left, experiment onto paper on the right.

A lot of these WIPs look very different because of me taking pictures of the photo with a phone camera and doing different filters every time. I have a scanner but I've never liked how it comes out.

If you want to see a higher quality version of the final image, here's links to where I uploaded it on Deviantart and Newgrounds.

Also a Youtube upload of that video I made!

Note: There's an animation error in the original ToH clip I used where the Collector's clothes are miscolored, and the reason they're not here is because I fixed it.

[tarnishedinquirer]

Beneath Stormveil

Here the damage seemed the worst. In places, the walls were red and raw, almost as if they were bleeding. I continued down and reached a room with a very interesting painting.

It was Stormhill, before Stormveil Castle was ever built. The world looked so much wilder and more vibrant back then. The colors were deep blacks and rich greens, not the washed-out greys and pale greens of current Limgrave. The place that would once become the Chapel of Anticipation was part of the mainland, separated by a waterfall rather than a chasm. There's no trace of the black stone pillars that underlay the entire land. The Stormfoot Catacombs are open, with no door. And, while something was gleaming gold, it sure didn't look like the Erdtree.

Yet the Divine Tower and bridge were already there, and already so ancient the bridge had started to crumble. Curious.

After examining the painting as much as I could, I unlocked the door back to the Site of Grace and continued downward.

This was by far the oldest and most neglected portion of the castle. It's unlikely it would get any light except at high noon. The only creatures down here were vermin. Giant bats and rats, the scavengers and dwellers in the dark.

Now that I was down here, it became clear that this was a dumping ground for the castle above. Specifically, it seemed that all the statues removed in the various ideological purges were just shoved into the abyss.

There's the expected statues of women holding ewers or missing their hands, but there's a few statues that stand out to me. They're almost completely buried, so possibly the oldest statues ever dumped down here, and depict hooded figures either holding a book or holding a dagger. Unfortunately, I don't have any context to interpret them. Maybe I'll find some more later.

A scarab almost misses my notice, were it not for the sound they make. I track it down and it's carrying an unusual Sorcery called Rancorcall.

I say it's unusual because using it would require almost as much faith as intellect. That unnerved me a little. Sorcery is supposed to be the result of consistent, observable phenomenon. Concrete things that may be more difficult to observe and comprehend, but are ultimately just as real as a sword. To apply your intellect to the task of how best to surrender it to a higher power seemed perverse to me.

The voice said:

Sorcery of the servants of Death. Summons vengeful spirits that chase down foes. Once though lost, this ancient death hex was rediscovered by the necromancer Garris.

Going on my theory that scarabs only appear where abilities like ashes of war, sorceries, or incantations are used, and somehow they gather up some invisible residue to make their spheres, I would suspect that Garris must've been here at some point. Perhaps this is where he even developed his techniques? I doubt he's still here.

To draw a connection, I found the Rancor Pot recipe in the Tombsward Catacombs. It has a similar effect of summoning vengeful spirits, though different methods. Am I to assume Garris might also have been there? That might explain how Deathroot got inside...

Now I came to a cliff overlooking a root-choked and damp chamber below. Bones littered the floor. Some were stacked up in drifts, but there were also complete skeletons resting in what looked like old, rotted canoes. Perhaps a vestige of some water burial in the past? At one time, they might have sent the dead over the waterfall that once ran through here. Once that dried up, they instead just buried the dead in their canoes.

But what interested me most was the grand baldachin, now rotted and torn, draped across the chamber beyond. Something important must be there.

Before I could approach, a terrible creature burst out of the ground. I'd seen its ilk once before, in the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. An Ulcerated Tree Spirit, a great writhing snake-root, like a serpentine mandrake. Even as I knew its movements, it was still so erratic that it was hard to predict at times. As it slammed me against the walls, I knew now where the drifts of bones had come from.

Once I had slain the beast. I was free to recover its treasures, both here and in the chamber beyond. Much like the last, it dropped a Golden Seed.

As for the chamber... I can scarcely describe it. I'll try to sketch it but I don't think I can do justice to the sheer presence of this thing. Despite looking like a stone carving, I knew on an instinctual level that it was alive.

It was a face, or approximation thereof. Yet it could not have been more inhuman. It at once looked floral, fungal, and animal. The lower half of the face was like an oyster mushroom, and from there emerged thick tendrils like thorny vines. The upper half had a disturbingly human nose but two oddly angled eyes, or at least eye sockets. The lids themselves were empty.

The whole thing burst through the stone wall on a thick body like a salamander, though if it had arms, they had not emerged from the wall. And its was very clearly a violent entry, with rubble piled up around it. Nearby, there was a bloodstain, and a corpse holding an item in its hands.

Oh hell. The bloodstain was Rogier. If he can't see Grace anymore, then can he even come back? Is he just dead for real now? I couldn't even see what got him but it looked bad. It lifted him up and seemed to impale him from multiple angles. I hope he's okay. I actually kinda like the guy. It was rare to talk to someone both intellectual and down to earth like that.

The corpse had a... Prince of Death's Pustule?!

A fetid pustule taken from facial flesh. It is said that this pustule came from the visage of the Prince of Death, he who used to be called Godwyn. As First Dead of the demigods, it's said he's buried deep under the capital, at the Erdtree's roots.

It is said, it is said, it is said. I hate it when the Voice uses weasel words. Who says?

If Godwyn was the first to die, then it is his death that created the Deathroot. Deathroot sprouts similar faces to the one on this pustule. The same milky white eyes, the same thorny tendrils... There was a couple things that puzzled me. I noted fish fins on the Deathroot growing in various catacombs and Summonwater Village. Despite its aquatic appearance, this face held no trace of such details, resembling an amphibian more than a fish. Second, while the Deathroot and Pustule share the milky white eyes, this visage does not. Instead, its sockets are empty.

Third, if we take the voice at face value and say that Godwyn actually is buried under the capital... why did this face burst out of the southeast wall? The capital is to the northeast. I can buy the Greattree roots spreading throughout the Lands Between, but I'd still expect such a creature to burrow through from the correct direction. The only things off that direction are the Stormfoot Catacombs and the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. And since the painting confirms that at least one of those was here before the castle, I find myself doubting if this is even Godwyn at all, or some other, forgotten Prince of Death.

I'll review my notes about those places and see if I can gain any insight, but arbitrary skepticism doesn't do any good. I have to assume that this is Godwyn, or at least an aspect of him, until strong evidence presents itself otherwise.

Still, to quote the only cleric I ever got on with, "Doubting is what I do."

With my investigation concluded, the only way to go was up. Thankfully there was a conveniently placed, if alarmingly tall, rope ladder. I began what was sure to be a very long ascent.

I had at last gotten answers on the rot infecting Stormveil, but they only left me with more questions.

Who are the dagger and book statues? Why were they purged?

If Godfrey built the earliest Stormveil, who built the tower and bridge?

Is that face Godwyn? If not, who could it possibly be?

If it is Godwyn, why would it come from the wrong direction?

Why does this face look so different from the other faces? Why is it missing its eyes?

Who is Garris? What was he doing beneath Stormveil?

What happened to Rogier?

Why was he looking for this?

[lunchmeater]

AUGUST HONEY: CHAPTER ONE : STRANGERS - PREVIEW

Ghost x Reader -- Firefighter/Civilian AU -- Word Count 1.8k

Description: A dead-end artist, bookstore owner, and front woman in a band, from the outside everything looks like it’s coming together for you. But within, your life feels like it’s repeating the same day over and over again. You’re sleeping with your bass guitarist, you live in the apartment above your bookstore, and your art all looks the same. You miss the danger of youth, the thrill of freedom. You miss change.

And right when that feeling hits, right when you’re grasping for straws, a couple of the new local firefighters decide to go out for drinks.

TWs for Entire Fic: Depictions of unhealthy relationships (not with Ghost), mentions and depictions of alcoholism, smut

TWs for Chapter: Very small reference to alcoholism

AN: I'm very new to Tumblr y'all please excuse the horrendous formatting

Seven in the afternoon. Time to close up. With a satisfying click of the shop's front door locking, you rubbed the back of your neck, turning your head slightly to the side to see the scenery outside.

You've owned this shop for so long that the view from the window was more familiar than the layout of the lines of your palm. Your attention traced the road first, noting the way the concrete was still wet from the early morning rain. The sidewalks were a shade darker for the same reason and covered in the muddy footprints of passersby. Windows from other shops and buildings stood tall, some of the buildings they belonged to were twice as tall as your own. Then your eyes traveled along the rolling mountains in the background behind the buildings and the still-lit houses lolling up and down its curves. This was a small city.

The sun was beginning its journey behind the distant mountains. It's beams were reaching hands across that of the thresh hold of your little bookstore, stroking the hardwood floors and illuminating them golden. Following the line of the sunlight, your eyes landed on your dog, a Rhodesian Ridge-Back named Sylvie. Despite being a big-game hunting breed, she was beyond lazy and sleeping soundly in the light of the sun.

God. You wished it was normal for humans to do that too.

It was warm in here, beginning to get quite cold out there. Your head turned back to the window and saw the clouds that were rolling in from the West. Likely more rain. Maybe there would be a nice thunderstorm tonight, or maybe even some snow.

The entire day you were waiting for this. Just being alone in the place. The place creaked with age, the floorboards despite having been replaced since the buying of the home whining as you stepped on them. You reached your record player sitting in the corner of the room on its own personal table, surrounded by shelves you built yourself. They held numerous vinyl records that you collected yourself over the course of the years, ever since you were thirteen.

The sleeves, despite their various colors, were painted with a gold glaze in the light of the evening sun. Your finger traced each individual spine, feeling the grooves in between the sleeves of the records, before you finally landed on one titled Pink Magic.

You grabbed it, slipping it out from in between Citrona and Subliming. The cover held a gradient that eased from pastel pink on the right to pastel blue on the left. In the center stood a man holding a disco ball covered in paint in front of his face. It was an album you bought on a whim and hadn't heard in a while, so you put it on. Easing the needle down onto the grooves of the record disc where you knew the specific song was nearly by muscle memory. You read the lines on the record like a language few understood.

The song started, fading into earshot before a guitar part layered over the tones. Then a drum beat and bass guitar came in afterwards, then finally the lyrics.

"Picture this, a swing and a miss."

You interlocked your fingers together and stretched upwards, slightly arching your back in the motion and leaning back before letting out a long sigh and turning to check all of the tables in the entrance area. The welcome mat was muddy and could use washing, the tables had coasters, drops of various drinks, and crumbs scattering their surfaces. A quick turn and a glance into the reading areas on the other side of the shop, connected by a large arch doorway, showed the large area was in only a small amount of disarray. Books, the order of which you had memorized, were out of place, some abandoned on the tables near the windows. The rug was wrinkled, and there was some mud tracked on the floors, but nothing major.

"Never exchanging a name."

When you turned around, you noticed your head was starting to hurt from the stress of the day. Saturdays were always crowded with not only the typical adult customers but also lovesick rowdy teenagers looking for a cup of coffee and loud conversation with one another in the large table by the window.

You opened your eyes after rubbing your temple with your fingers and jumped near six inches off of the ground when a figure was seen standing close to the window.

He laughed immediately, his hand in the pockets of his black slacks and a tux jacket slung over his shoulder. The hand removed itself from the place in your old friend's pocket to wave and you relaxed, slightly annoyed by his sudden appearance. A white dress shirt covered his torso loosely, unbuttoned far in the front showing the floral tattoo covering his collarbone. From a mixture of White and Hispanic heritage, as you knew, he had tan skin with dark, long hair that swung around in curls and waves. He had dark brown eyes with thick brows and an unshaven five o'clock shadow. Upon his face was a smile. His name was Bailey.

"Infatuated, I contemplated your lips."

You walked over to the front door and opened it, to which you discovered him standing in front of you. Your friend from high school, your ex boyfriend, and your bassist. Couldn't say you weren't expecting him, you just weren't thinking right. You wouldn't have locked the door behind him if you were.

"But my infatuation was strange."

He smiled a little wider and you frowned.

"Don't do that," you said bluntly. "Scared the shit out of me."

Bailey laughed. "Sorry."

"Black, purple and cream."

You invited him in silently by stepping aside and opening the door; he stepped inside willingly. Curt, and with the intention of both teasing and genuine thanks, he nodded his head silently. His black boots, as you saw, made muffled footsteps as his well-used footwear made contact with the welcome mat. Bailey wiped his feet, shifting the mat with the movement, and didn't need to reach far to hang his coat on the rack.

Your eyes followed the way his shoulder blades pressed against the cloth of his white dress shirt and you averted your eyes, feeling your chest swell gently knowing what was likely coming tonight.

Suddenly noticing a rising ache of stiffness in your shoulders from standing and trying to play off the staring in case Bailey noticed, you shifted, brushing aside the drifting cloth of your over-sized lavender dress shirt and placing your hands in your cream khaki pockets.

"These are the colors of your nightmares, and colors of my dreams."

"Fizzy Blood?" Bailey asked in reference to the song playing on the record player. He huffed a laugh. "I forgot about them."

"Me too," you responded, walking briskly past him to get to the counter and fetch the hand towel you used to wipe down tables. You noticed the table to your left, a table for two occupied earlier by a particularly noisy tween couple that met briskly before departing. Despite them being rather annoying upon presence, the thought of them was sweet. Reminding you of you and Bailey in high school sneaking out to see movies and get garbage gas station food.

In fact, this song played once or twice during those adventures, pushing you into a sudden state of nostalgia.

The song was moving into the chorus as Bailey leaned against the corner of the counter and watched you wipe down the table. His steady hands, painted with tattoos of vines dancing around his fingers that moved with him, was planted sternly on the side of the counter. You knew how rough his fingertips were from pressing down thick strings and how easily they drew ink freehand sketches of various animals, mostly foxes.

"So what's the set for tonight?" he asked. His voice, tainted raw and gravely with cigarette smoke, always reminded you of his hard history. He moved out of his mom's house recently, improving his mental state, but he still had yet to overcome his nasty habit of smoking and drinking.

You shrugged in response. "Haven't thought of anything yet. Busy day."

"Need suggestions?"

"Yeah."

"Well with it being Friday night and all, the bar's going to be packed," Bailey responded, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting the bulk of his weight from his hands to his waist which pressed into the corner of the counter as became more relaxed. He was always relaxed, smooth, and always wickedly smart. "I suggest Reignwolf."

Not a bad idea. Not too heavy, not too slow.

"Alright," you responded, finishing up with the table and briefly looking over all of the others. They were clean enough. You'd get whatever you missed eventually. "Your bass is still in my room. Get my guitar while you're at it; I'll get the amps."

Bailey smiled before removing himself from the counter and crossing the threshold of the counter, his strides so smooth and even his head barely bobbed from the distribution of weight as he walked. The footsteps created from the click of his shoes against the ground faded as he went further up the stairs.

You sighed as you watched him walk away and the shop faded back into quiet. You heard the sound of Bailey opening your bedroom door before the silence returned again like a wave that had faded off into sea and slammed back onto the sand. The sound of your dog Sylvie's breathing returning into the ambiance; she wasn't even affected by the entrance of Bailey.

Your eyes landed on the honey brown dog laying on the floor and you dropped briefly to stroke her flank and scratch behind her ears. She was snoring loudly, her eyes doing that gross scent-hound thing where the lids flipped and she slept with, essentially, her eyes open.

Not the weirdest dog you've ever owned, but certainly up there.

You moved back to your feet and crossed your arms, thinking. End of the day at the shop, then packing up instrument stuff, then going to the bar and performing, then back home again. Wake up and repeat. Day after day, week after week.

Until what? What was waiting for you? What was going to happen?

You leaned against the counter and stared out the window with your arms crossed, when your eyes landed on a figure on the other side of the street that stared back.

Tall, extremely tall. Easily six foot or more. Broad shoulders and a neck gaiter with a skull on it that covered his face from the nose down. Blond hair peaked out from underneath the hood of the black hoodie he had on with the fire department emblem on the breast. Jeans covered his long legs and a leash hung from his arm, connecting to a German Shepherd that seemed really intent on continuing his walk.

Your shoulders dropped when your eyes met, but it only lasted a second before he turned his head and continued walking, but you kept staring as he walked away. How long had he been standing there?

You cocked a brow, confused, before discarding the thought and turning around to see what was taking Bailey so long.

Inspired by the Firefighter!Ghost AU by @thelaisydazy

[sky-kiss]

Eeeee Shadow Raphael anon here! I'm so happy you're inspired by it! I have two options you can choose from.

1) platonic - them having a chess match and it just being a wity banter off and them enjoying riffing off of each other so much. Maybe this is at the inn/brothel lobby so other people can be there if you'd like.

Or

2) Them having a one night. I don't really have specifics but my brain is barking and screeching because I'd imagine anything explored via your writing will be so good and so much to chew on so I'm up for ANYTHING really!

Thank youuuu!

A/N: Ok, so this is so rushed, and I’m sorry about that. I want to do stuff with these two SO BADLY. Anyway, Dark Justiciar Shadowheart. Post game. Raphael received the crown. 

Shadowheart/Raphael: Meetup

"Raphael—I'm not surprised to find you here."

The half-elf slides into the seat across from him, lips turned up a charmingly self-satisfied smirk. It takes Raphael a moment to recall her name—she is, in truth, only tangentially referenced in his mental library, one of Tav's many delinquent compatriots. He leans back, humming, before he says, "Astutely observed, my dear, though perhaps less impressive than you hope. The Caress is nothing if not my home away from home." 

"I've no interest in impressing you, devil. 

"No, only in interrupting my meal, it seems," his voice dips to a velvety purr, cataloging the minute shift in the Sharran's posture. She arches a brow, gaze flicking to the empty table. Raphael indicates the crowded hall around them. "My hunting grounds, my meals, priestess. Every moment you linger is an opportunity wasted."  

Shadowheart scoffs, drumming her fingers on the table between them. The pretty creature tips her head to the side, regarding him through artfully lowered lashes. "You were more civil before." 

"Your intrepid leader had something I wanted—and our business has long since concluded." The cambion clucks his tongue. "Where is my Mouse these days?" 

She stiffens. "I wouldn't know. Tav…she took her leave some time ago." 

"Oh?" 

"I've no need to explain myself to you."

"None at all. But you were a precious little pair, weren't you? Haarlep does so regret being unable to…collect you both." Raphael lifts his right hand, inspecting his nails. "One fair turn for another…tell me the truth of your parting, and I will hear your request." 

Shar's Chosen regards him coldly. "My Dark Lady demands the whole of my heart." 

"How selfish. I almost admire her." Oh, but he likes that flush of color in her cheeks. Power radiates off her, different, colder than many of the god's chosen toys. Shar has given this one a shocking amount of play, provided she remained a loyal little dog. No slipping her leash. "Tell me what you need, my dear." 

"An enemy of Lady Shar has gone to ground. I'd have him found." 

"Simple enough—hardly requiring my talents. Or worth incurring my cost." Raphael smiles with teeth, curiosity piqued. "Who is this erstwhile quarry?" 

She paints him a picture: one of Selune's most beloved champions, a lycanthrope, long fled from the city. His trail and his scent had long since gone cold. The damned creature had very likely fled to a different plane. 

The devil considers the offer, taking in her appearance again: beautiful, dark. Some trace hint of Tav's scent still lingers on, perhaps in spirit rather than reality. It's intoxicating. Her eyes glitter with dreadful ambition and determination—it calls to an echoing spirit festering in his own breast. 

"No contract," Raphael drawls, tracing the rim of his glass. He has ordered wine for them, richer, deep, and red. "Let us consider this…a favor between friends."

"Very generous of you. Suspiciously so."

 "Is it? I've always found it most advantageous to conduct my business in a more...relaxed fashion than your dear Lady. The first taste, as they say, is free." He raises his glass in a toast. Shar's Chosen returns the gesture in kind, lips turning in dark satisfaction. 

~~~~~~

She comes to him months later. 

“The first taste was free,” Shadowheart grumbles, leaning back. “So, name your cost.” 

He scoffs. “My dear, where is your flair for the dramatic? Tease out the tension! Savor the give and take, bargain…” 

“...you make it sound like seduction, devil.” The Justiciar’s tongue flicks out to wet her lower lip, so sweetly, ignorantly satisfied. Oh, but she is young. All her power, violence, and inexperience still hang about her like stray traces of baby fat in a youth’s cheeks. 

“If you like. I prefer to think of it as a dance—coming together, stepping apart, together…all to our mutual satisfaction.” 

Shadowheart’s eyes glitter in the half-light, intrigued. 

~~~~~~

She comes to him again. 

And again. 

Again. 

They work surprisingly well together. And her goddess turns a blind eye. 

~~~~~~

“How sweet,” he purrs, sucking her lower lip between his teeth. They’ve recently started conducting their business in the Den rather than the common room, and the added privacy has led to this. Shadowheart walks him backward, hands already at his belt. The half-elf whimpers against his lips, the delicacy of the noise contrasting with the natural authority she carries. “You still taste like her, pet.” 

She chuckles, flicking her tongue along the seam of his lips. “You never tasted her.”

“No, but…” Raphael’s grip is bruising on her hips—she fails to so much as flinch. “Haarlep is so eager to indulge me—I wager I’ve had her more frequently than you.” 

“Ah—a poor man’s imitation.” She stands on the tips of her toes, tracing his nose with hers. The half-elf leans back, smirking. “We should compare someday…see how your counterfeit compares to reality.” 

He laughs despite himself. “It could be arranged." He presses his lips to the shell of her ear, pleased at the way shiver. "I’d quite like to watch them fuck you.” 

“I’d like it too. But for now…” she pushes Raphael back on the mattress, crawling over him. “I shall have to be content with you.”

[bunnakit]

Hello! I saw that you were open to Seongjoong prompts! Well, instead of sleeping beauty, how about sleeping Joongie? Hope you have fun with this prompt! :D

GOD OP I'M SO STUPID i didn't reread this ask before starting to write this so i didn't realize it specifically said SLEEPING JOONGIE and by the time i realized i was already 1.5k words in so.... it's not finished and it's WRONG but i screwed up so spectacularly i figured i should post SOMETHING since i don't have the spirit to start over. sorry for making you wait so long for this lakjglai4slt i hope you enjoy it anyway

—

Strictland hadn’t always been so befitting of its name.

Once upon a time, the country had been a thriving metropolis filled with color, sprawling architecture, windows and displays glittering in the sunlight, plants dotting every street and planters lining every odd window. The people had been thriving and happy beneath the rule of a long lineage of Parks, the bloodline having given the people some of the kindest and benevolent rulers throughout the ages.

All things changed with time but no one could have predicted the way the city would fade away into tones of gray. It had only taken a few words whispered to the King and Queen; a hissed warning and promise of impending death to their newly born heir. The omen had been vague, insinuating that art and creativity would lead to the death of their beloved Seonghwa, which ultimately led to a culling of all forms of art across the country. Total control fell over the populace - control of nutrition, sunlight, even their very reflections. Where the royal family had once been a warm embrace they now held a vice grip around the throat of their own citizens. 

And it all ended up being for naught. 

Seonghwa was a free spirit in spite of all the restrictions in place since his very birth - or perhaps because of it. Rebellion shone in his eyes and ran through his blood, sparking defiance against each and every restriction. To those among the resistance - those that continued to paint murals across abandoned storefronts, performed in the dead of night beneath neon lights in abandoned pools, sang with all their heart and soul to a small and secluded crowd - it was no secret that Mars, one of the greatest graffiti artists of their time, was the very prince the laws had been erected to protect. 

The legacy of Mars had slowly crept across the country, though no one had actually met the artist in person. His works had started small, just single subject outlines done quickly in passing with the smallest signature in the form of a rudimentary star. With time they had developed into beautiful murals often depicting the freedom that was just out of their reach. His paintings were often illusions of broken down walls revealing various landscapes, all sporting brilliant colors and long forgotten scenery. His signature evolved with the paintings, the star more sophisticated and eventually crowned with the very circlet seen on the Prince during the few and far between public appearances.

Perhaps Seonghwa would have been afraid of the wrath of the King and Queen if they had shown even an inkling of the parents they used to be. The rulers had fallen victim to their own poison, losing all sense of self as well as any motivation to care about anything. As their grip on reality loosened, as they turned a blind eye to Seonghwa’s deviancy, a new figure stepped up in their place. Z, the self-proclaimed oracle that had predicted Seonghwa’s demise, had easily slipped into the role of royal advisor, all but wresting control of the country from the King and Queen’s lax palms. 

The majority of the rebellion, deemed the Black Pirates, didn’t know if the accident had truly been a prophecy fulfilling itself or perhaps something far more sinister and manufactured to instill fear. What they did know was that Mars had disappeared, all traces of his work scrubbed from every wall, billboard, or street, and none appeared to replace them. Months passed into a year and finally the Pirates grew restless. 

Seonghwa was not the only noble to lift his head in defiance and rage against the oppression forced upon them. Wooyoung and San, two heirs of nobility themselves as well as childhood companions to Seonghwa, had joined the movement early on in their childhood. The decision had forced them to distance themselves from their friend for all their safety, but they’d kept a close eye on him throughout the years. They were only just able to keep their panic at bay, knowing it would do them no good in helping their wayward friend. 

—

“Hongjoong, we don’t even know where he might be or what might have happened to him.” Jongho sighed from where he sat on a threadbare couch in the center of a long abandoned warehouse. A group of seven was nestled within the confines of rusted walls, the inside a stark contrast to the shell. It was a monument to art and comfort - a home. 

A figure of average height paced in front of a weathered coffee table, split-dyed hair disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it or perhaps even tugging in frustration. His eyes were locked on a chaotic pile of newspapers spread across the table, all emotionless stories describing the accident that had befallen the Prince. Of course it had been pinned on the rebellion, the Prince’s fall from the rooftop labeled a message sent by the Black Pirates. 

“We know Z had something to do with this, it’s not a stretch to think he’s hidden him away somewhere. The question is where?” Hongjoong growled behind bared teeth, only just suppressing the desire to kick the table over to hide every mocking headline. 

“The only guess we have is either the palace or the bunker, but I don’t know if even Z is fucked up enough to keep a prince in a maximum security prison, especially while he’s injured.” Wooyoung shrugged, nestled on the floor between San’s legs, back pressed to the chair holding the latter. Hongjoong could only roll his eyes at the almost-purr Wooyoung let out as San ran his fingers through his hair. 

“But what if he was worried about some of the staff in the palace still being loyal to the royal family? There has to be a few left that would want to get Seonghwa out of there.” Yunho sat atop the back of the couch, legs squeezed behind Mingi’s back. 

“That’s actually a good point. When we were kids the staff loved Seonghwa, especially the cooks.” San said, fingers still threaded within Woo’s hair, fingertips massaging at his scalp. 

“Yeosang, are your drones able to reach the bunker from here?” Hongjoong gestured to the shelf where a kaleidoscope of butterflies surrounded a single mechanical blue bird, each in a dormant state resembling sleep. 

The tinkerer turned in his office chair, his back straightening with an audible pop as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the lighting of the room rather than the bright table lamp he’d been using to illuminate the workbench behind him. 

“They’ll lose signal about a few kilometers before the bunker, we’ll need to find a way to get closer.” Hongjoong always appreciated the rare moments where Yeosang was actually listening as his responses were typically very clear and concise. 

Hongjoong sighed and nodded his understanding before instructing both Wooyoung and Yeosang to join him in the garage in ten minutes. He slipped from the communal space and into a room he’d turned into his own, shoving a few things into a backpack for the preliminary journey. The sooner they figured out the finer details of the plan the sooner they could move on to rescuing the wayward prince. 

He’d never met Mars, not directly, but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone among the rebellion that hadn’t felt moved by his murals in some way or another. His disappearance had been a huge hit to morale among freedom fighters across the country, no doubt exactly what Z had intended. Mars was seen as a last beacon of hope, someone with the power to make a difference and bring light and life back to a world covered in darkness, so regardless of Hongjoong’s feelings towards him (or lack thereof) he poured his all into getting the plan in motion as quickly as possible. They couldn’t afford to lose any more of their already dwindling members. 

The trio gathered by a rusted, nondescript gray van, Hongjoong frowning as Wooyoung jogged forward three minutes late. 

“What exactly are we doing,” he sighed, arms across his chest. “And why can’t San come?” 

“Because I don’t need you getting distracted. We’re going to see how far we can stay from the bunker and still maintain a stable signal. You and San are the only ones that grew up in that part of town so we need you to navigate us, preferably to the most secluded areas.” Hongjoong explained as he tossed his backpack into the back of the van, waiting for Yeosang to climb in back and gently set his own bag down, before closing the doors with a horrible screech. 

“Couldn’t we wait until tomorrow to do this?” Wooyoung whined and Hongjoong barely suppressed the urge to kick him before climbing into the passenger’s side. He very rarely put Wooyoung behind the wheel but in this case it made the most sense and would free him up to take in all the little details of their location and any potential threats. 

“No. The longer we wait the more bullshit Z feeds the press about us and the more fighters we lose. You saw Eden’s last report, things aren’t looking good for us. We need to get the prince back and on our side now.”