#which are also both sensations i find very very hard to deal with

[honeysuckle-venom]

So I haven't been up to posting about it until now but it's been a really stressful and shitty day.

I got the ultrasound results super fast, around noon today, and it was marked "urgent." Unfortunately, they found several lesions throughout my liver, which might be benign or might indicate liver cancer. The recommended I get a CT scan as soon as possible for further evaluation.

So I spent all day trying to get that sorted out, calling doctors, dealing with waiting for insurance authorization, etc. I now have an appointment for a CT scan tomorrow morning at 10:50 am. I picked up the gross contrast stuff I'll have to drink as it's being done with both oral and IV contrast. I'm glad they were able to get me in so soon, though that only happened bc everything was being marked "urgent" and my doctors seem concerned. So that's...not great.

In doing a bit of research, it seems liver lesions are fairly common and usually benign. So there's a great chance it's not anything serious. But I'm going to be honest, the possibility that I might have liver cancer is still quite stressful, even if it's unlikely. Hopefully I'll have an answer by tomorrow evening, though there's a chance the CT scan won't tell them enough and I'll need a biopsy or something. Idk. We'll see.

On the upside, the former teacher for the class graded my papers for me. So I don't have to stress about that on top of everything else, which is a huge relief.

[gojoest]

[11:05pm]

MDNI, f! reader, established relationship (you’re married), calls you “love”, “baby” + “my beautiful wife”, reader wears a dress, fingering, brief masturbation (satoru, while fingering you), takes you against the wall, unprotected sex, clothed sex, creampie, not proofread, wc: 1.7k

satoru’s been having a hard time keeping his hands off you, looking for ways to get into your pants all day.

but alas, you both have been busy organizing the housewarming party — picking up decorations for your new house, putting them up to create a festive atmosphere, dealing with caterers all day and eventually the party itself and entertaining your guests.

towards the end of the night, he was running out of patience. you could tell by the way his hands were constantly clutched around your waist, pulling you closer against him and subtly rubbing himself on your ass, and also the few hints he gave you here and there (every 5 minutes) to go help him find something (release) in the storage room. to you, he’s always been an open book.

“fucking finally”, closing the door after seeing off the last few guests, satoru sighs with content.

“that’s so rude, satoru”, you nag at him.

stepping closer to you, he grabs your chin and makes you look at him. his other hand circling around your waist and stopping at the small of your back to press your body against him. “what’s rude is making me wait so long. i’ve been hard all day, it hurts”

“my bad”, you grin at him innocently, finally giving in after an entire day of resisting his desperate attempts. you hug your arms around him, “what can i do to atone for my bad behavior?”

“let me think”, he gives you a rascal smile before pulling you in for a kiss. his lips soft but dangerously desperate and yearning for yours, mashing against your mouth as he slowly walks you against the wall. ass and back pressed against it and with him in front of you, it feels like you’re now squished in between two walls with nowhere to run. not that you complain at all, and not that he’d hear you even if you did. all he can think about right now is how badly he wants to be inside your tight pussy, stretching you until he bottoms out.

“lift you dress up for me, baby. i’ll handle the rest”, he whispers, the lust thick in his voice.

“here? in the hallway?”, you blink at him.

“yea”, he swipes his tongue across his lips, “i’m afraid, i can’t wait till we reach the bedroom. we were bound to christen the hallway sooner or later anyway”

scoffing at him, you push him back. slowly riding the dress that’s tightly wrapped around your body up.

the sight of you giving access to your cunt for him to fuck drags a long groan out of him. he always loved watching you get undressed for him, it tranced him. but there was something very, very special about you pulling your little dress or skirt up for him to hit it while you kept the rest on. it was so dirty, but in the best possible way. turned him primal, made him lose his mind every single time.

“s-shit…”, he groans once again, his hands working on unbuckling his own slacks all while watching you rid yourself of the underwear and toss it on the floor. “you’re making me crazy, baby”, he whispers audibly, to which you smile. it was cute to watch him crumble like that.

you lean against the wall, observing the way he slides down his pants to his hips and then, with a quick swift move, whips his swollen cock out and it slaps against his belly. what a beautiful sight, what an obscene sound, you think. it makes you shudder. being painfully familiar with how good and even more massive it feels inside your tight pussy, you find yourself clenching on emptiness, eagerly anticipating him.

he steps close, one hand slowly stroking his cock and the other reaching in between your legs, fingers in seek of your heat. “so pretty. so soft. so wet for me already”, he quietly speaks into your ear as a thick digit slides into your weeping cunt.

“nghh..”, you flinch and step on your toes from the sensation of his finger, squeezing him unintentionally.

“is that not enough for my baby?”, he coos. “then how about another one?”, he pulls his finger out only to return with two of them. “better? mm?”

“stop teasing me, you idiot”, you nuzzle your head against his chest to muffle your moans, hands grabbing at his shoulders.

“does this translate to ‘fuck me properly’, hm? my beautiful wife wants my cock so bad?”, he teases even further, plunging his fingers in and out of your slick pussy. the hallway filled with loud squishing noises from his fingers fucking you. if anyone were to walk by your front door, you’re pretty sure they would hear the inappropriate sounds your pussy made.

“don’t act all high and mighty on me now”, you tap on his shoulder, then grab him harder to support yourself as you press and hump against his hand. “i know you want to fuck me properly too, you’ve been yearning all day. no?”, you lift you head to look up at him. “just look at yourself — so desperate for it that you’re wanking off both of us yourself”

he chuckles at your words. true. as his fingers fucked themselves deep inside you, his other hand moved in slow strokes around his cock. he had to go slow, because he was way too aroused. if he were to pick up the pace, he’d unload his balls and blow his cum right then and there.

“it’d be such a waste if you finished now…”, you stroke his cheek, “while you have the option to stuff me full”, knowing well he wouldn’t resist your words.

“you’re so manipulative, love”, his fingers slam harder for one last time, making your whole body jerk forward, before he pulls them out, covered and glistening with your arousal that he cleans with his mouth. “always getting under my skin…”

you shoot him a victorious smile which he wipes off with his lips. part of him embarrassed that he caved in so quickly, falling weak to his desire of you. he wanted to tease you a little bit longer, but you always had your way with him. making his resolve crumble with a single word.

“…but i’ll get under yours now”, breaking the kiss, he whispers. then bends a little to catch your leg in the crook of his arm, stands straight and lifts it, opening your thighs wider while your leg dangles in the air. the head of his cock taps against your belly and you feel the pulse throbbing in it.

the only support you have right now is your other leg, the wall behind you and satoru who holds you in place. both of your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, as he starts guiding his cock towards your entrance, his head slowly slipping inside.

“oh god” — you both simultaneously moan out. a deep groan follows shortly after and vibrates through his throat and into your mouth from feeling you open inch by inch for him as he slides it almost entirely in. he needed to go deeper though, the root of his cock still out and uncovered by your walls.

he pulls out and grabs your other leg into his arms, hoisting you into the air and pressing you harder against the wall while you hold on tight to his shoulders. after looking down and catching a glimpse of your dewy pussy lips pouting open for his cock, he throws his head back and curses under his breath, desperately trying to hold in the load in his balls. he shuts his eyes close and counts to ten, then looks back at you. eyes lovesick, yearning and a little bit watery. “what you do to me is not humane at all”

“hmm, don’t you love it?”, you crane your neck enough to press your forehead against his, looking deep into your favorite pair of eyes.

“oh, i do. i so do love it”, he breathes out, staring back at yours. then takes a deep breath before he enters you again. spreading your lips and diving deep until he bottoms out in you in a single thrust. you’re so wet and welcoming, his cock goes all the way in effortlessly. the position being perfect, too, to fully hide himself in you.

your legs lock around his back as his pelvis starts rolling and jarring against you, panting breaths of pleasure and skin slapping against each other echoing throughout the hallway of your house. satoru’s hips were charging with such desperation, slamming against you so hard, that you were sure the places where his flesh met yours were already red.

“nghh…”, you mewl through gritted teeth, feeling yourself starting to cum as you suck him as deeply as possible, your wetness increasing now and bathing his cock in it. “…d-don’t stop, d-don’t…augh”

“f-fuck…you say that as if it’s easy, baby. do you have any idea how good you feel?”, he barely drags out. your added slickness making it hard for him to control his thrusts now, too difficult to adapt and stop his cock from sliding in and out of you too quickly that his legs start shaking.

seeing him so desperate and sloppy with his movements was such a turn-on, it was really doing it for you. not that his cock wasn’t hitting the sweetest of your spots. but that was the last push you needed towards your climax.

“i’m— ah, i’m cumming”, you stutter, your orgasm coming onto you hard. head falling in the crook of his neck, nails digging into his clothed shoulders, eyes rolling back as he keeps hitting his cock into your sore cunt, chasing his own release.

“s-shit—“, he grunts throatily. his cock feeling bigger, more bloated and harder than ever as he pounds a few more times into you before burying himself still and emptying his balls into your sopping hole. hot spurts of cum gush inside you, his body jerking after each load.

both of you stand there for a few minutes, trying to catch your breaths — you’re still wrapped around him while his cock’s got you nailed against the wall.

“you think i can carry you to the bedroom without pulling out? it should work, right? my cock’s big enough, won’t slip out”, satoru breaks the silence.

“you flexing now?”, you chuckle. “why don’t you give it a try? i don’t feel my legs anyway”

“oh my, did i make it hard for you to walk?”, he sneers at you proudly.

“oh shut up and carry me”

[tennessoui]

so i've been thinking about this premise for so long but it wasn't working for obikin (which of course i took as a challenge) and i think i finally got it where i want it so

au where 35 yo obi-wan is a music sensation across the world but he's recently divorced and going on tour again after releasing a very cutting, personal, and well-received album

and 19 yo anakin joins his tour with his very small band of two other people (ahsoka, padmé) to be his opening act - they have a small but loyal following, a pretty big social media presence, and there are even people who ship anakin and padmé which you know means these are die-hard fans

anakin has definitely looked up to obi-wan and his music for a good portion of his life and he's like. beyond excited that he's going to tour with The Obi-Wan Kenobi - this is big, not just for his music career but also for himself and the little boy he was listening to obi-wan's music for the first time!!

i'm just imagining like....obi-wan and anakin meeting after a few days of rehearsal for opening night, and it's not the most auspicious start because obi-wan's going through like 20 different emotions at any given moment (he's on tour, he's divorced, he's tired, he loves the music, he can't be the person he was in his twenties when he was first on tour but that's a whole different matter, he has all the media training and charismatic instinct to cover up these less than savory emotions with flirtatious empty words) and anakin is just like. sorta starstruck sorta shy sorta eager sorta awkward so:

"i'm uh, i'm a singer it's nice to meet you. hi yeah. hello. i'm on tour. as well. with you. actually." "ah no, are you one of my backing vocal artists? we can't have that - you're much too gorgeous and my ego is much too dependent on the audience focusing on me." "um 😳"

so it's a relationship that begins with a lot of flirting and being flustered and progresses through moments of vulnerability and honest emotion which turns into mutual affection which turns into anakin's celebrity crush becoming very real....meanwhile obi-wan googled anakin and the opening band after the first show/introduction and finds all the stuff about him and padmé being together and that's. that's fine. young love. how sweet. any sort of disappointment obi-wan feels is because he's recently divorced and bitter about it and he's going to have to spend at least half his tour watching the lovebirds snuggling up together.

and even when all the misunderstandings about relationship statuses have been addressed and the pretense has fallen away to leave just attraction, both have to think about their careers - it's all well and good for obi-wan to date someone sixteen years his junior, post divorce, but that's an image he's never wanted to deal with or be associated with. and this is the biggest shot of anakin's career - his best chance to make it in the music industry. in the words of his bandmate, is he really, honestly thinking about risking it for a chance to sleep with The Obi-Wan Kenobi?

but what his bandmate doesn't seem to really understand is that for anakin, obi-wan hasn't been The Obi-Wan Kenobi in a long time. he's just been obi-wan. and that makes a world of difference.

[bad-decisionsot7]

Their reaction to you having a pain kink.

SEOKJIN

Jin would be a little surprised, his eyes widening as he stared down at you underneath him, he had gotten a little too carried away in the moment and pushed you hard against the wall, his body still stuck like glue on yours as his lips stayed connected with your own. you moaned in pleasure from how he was being a little rough, something the both of you weren't used to. "you liked that?" he'd question you, smirking when you'd nod. "let's try it again then, shall we babygirl?"

NAMJOON

You two would be making out. his hands held at your waist before traveling further down to grope your butt rather roughly, you'd whimper softly into the kiss causing him to pull away, a taunting smirk on his lips. "you liked that, huh?" he'd bite his lip looking down at you. he'd repeat his actions, only this time also slapping your butt causing a stinging sensation to arise. namjoon suddenly smirked again, a sudden thought popping up in his head. "bend over, i have an idea."

HOSEOK

Hobi would smirk down at you as he accidentally pulled your hair causing you to let out a moan of pleasure. "are you moaning?" he'd ask, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "you're moaning because i pulled your hair, aren't you?" he'd laugh when you'd nod, his hands finding their way to your hair once again. he'd pull you into a kiss before pulling your hair, loving the reaction you gave him. he didn't know you had a pain kink but now that he knew, it was definitely going to be put into play a lot more.

JIMIN

Jimin would be kissing you all over, his hands traveling up and down your body in the process. once he was at your belly button, he nibbled on the soft flesh of your stomach before biting down harshly causing you to buck your hips up, a soft moan escaping from your lips. jimin would look up at you with a smirk, his teeth nipping at his bottom lip. "so you like it when i'm a little rough, huh?" "does my babygirl have a pain kink?" he'd be a little overly excited when you'd nod, wanting him to repeat his actions maybe even a little harder this time. "as you wish, my queen."

YOONGI

Yoongi would raise his eyebrows as you moaned from his sudden rough attitude. he had been caressing your boobs before pinching your nipple, far from gentle and it drove you wild. "did you like that baby? you want me to do it again?" he'd ask and you'd obviously say yes, he'd grin off of that, his fingers playing with your nipple once again before pinching the soft nub. you'd whine out from the contact, loving the pain that came with the pleasure. "ah ah, don't whine now. you asked for this, now deal with it." he'd say to you, repeating his actions in which you loved.

TAEHYUNG

You and tae would be in the middle of a very soft makeout session, his hands already in your pants playing with your most sacred part. he'd lean down to begin kissing your neck before he found your clit, his fingers instantly squeezing at the sensitive nerve. you'd moan loudly, loving how it hurt but also felt almost too good, he'd lean his head up smirking at you and biting his lip. "that was hot baby, think you can moan like that again?" he'd tease, repeating his actions to hear you moan once again. he loved that he was being overly rough with you and you went along with it, loving it.

JUNGKOOK

You'd be giving jungkook a blowjob, his hands tangled in your hair as you worked your mouth on him. he'd be overwhelmed with pleasure and it was causing him to think much dirtier than usual. suddenly his hand would reach up, slapping your cheek while you had his cock in your mouth. he'd instantly lean up a little looking down to apologize but was stopped in his tracks when he heard you moan. confused, he looked at you and smirked when you were already telling him to do it again. "you like being slapped, huh?" he'd bite his lip when you nodded. "well how about you continue on with what you're doing and i'll give you what you want, naughty girl."

[corpsekittin]

Finding Patriotism

Thank you to @rozza22365 for helping write this story.

——————————

Preston entered Starbucks. He looked around and saw the place was crawling about with military men and cops. Recently this Starbucks had opened in his town, with special deals and drinks for military personnel. Since its opening only two weeks ago, there had been a surge in uniformed military men in the town, to such an extent that they had begun construction of a small base nearby. Preston found this all problematic for him. Since starting college he had been awakened to the crimes and problematic nature of the military. And now he watched as his town was somehow being slowly transformed into a military town. Each table was either full of military guys or was at least half occupied by them, on top of that the two in front of him and even the fucking barista was a part of the military.

The more Preston looked at the guys, even catching some faces he thought he knew, infuriated Preston. He wanted to, no he needed to get his local political clubs and classes prepped and ready to start protesting and wrecking this place, so that he could educate all these toxic douche-bros on their wrongness. It wouldn’t be the first time either, since he was quite well known throughout many liberal and leftist circles as being one of the best protest and counter protest organizers. He texted his group chat, telling them to get ready for a protest later. He needed this place gone asap.

‘Yuck’ he thought as his eyes wandered around and found a group of guys pretending to kiss each others bi’s as they flexed. They were obviously queer baiting, another problematic issue with these toxic bro’s. Although, as much as he hated it, Preston was now sporting a chubby boner in his trousers, which he tried to very quickly hide. It was his turn in the queue next and that didn’t help his situation. The guy was an old friend, who he had thought had been a part of his old protest circle. It seemed he too had given in to the military, falling to such depths. Although he also had an effect on Preston’s boner, as he was flexing his big bi’s as he served.

“Hey, traitor. Can’t believe you joined the group of dumbfuck bros we would protest against. Hurry up and make me my coffee, you make me sick”

“I want a venti mocha latte with extra whip cream and a shot of espresso." he said

“Sure thing, bro,” he informed, rolling his eyes and sounding slightly annoyed by Preston’s tone. He watched as the toxic muscle stud prepared both his drinks. Although during the process he saw him add something different to the drinks.

“Here ya go, and that's free for you” The barista offered. Preston was taken by surprise at the lack of a charge, but anything free was an instant grab. As he left the shop with his drink, he gave a look of disapproval at the military guys, but as walked past each one, he missed as sharp and sly grins popped onto each of their faces.

As Preston left he turned a corner and found his usual lunch spot. He sat down, and looked about, the area was empty as he liked it. He took out his drink and gave it a sip. It tasted amazing. He took out his phone to check his group chat, but before he switched it on, he took another, longer drink. As he felt the drink go down his gullet, he felt a strange sensation across his body. He watched in awe as muscle began to break out across his body. He felt a 6 pack bubbled fourth, only to be overshadowed by two hulking pecs which expanded the size of his body. He couldn’t resist but to take another drink, this time he left very little in the cup. His arms then began to pulse with growth, as his bi’s began to strain his shirt apart. His knuckles cracked and hardened as they grew brutish and hard from lots of hard work in the gym, and the field. The pulsating then fell down his body, right down to his feet. His thighs and calves stretched out, sending him up in height, while muscle bloated across them. He felt his head twist and reshape itself. His facial hair receded into his skin, and his hair shortened down into a typical military cut, with shaved sides.

Preston grabbed his head as a searing headache shot right through it. Years of drills, pt and military education forced their way right into the front and center of his head, squashing any other education besides high school stuff, which was severely reduced from straight A’s to C’s. His name was forgotten, instead he went by the name Trevor. He was no longer a political activist. Instead, Trevor was a typical high school jock, raised on local conservative values. He was a patriotic guy with simple interests, so when the marines came by one day at town and started shooting off guns, he saw no other option than to join. He loved all of it, even if some of the leadership were anal about stuff, his bro’s were the best and they did a load of cool shit together. Being in uniform and a total muscle stud, while following his conservative beliefs, even if it strayed a few times from them, he couldn’t help but feel like the peak of masculinity and being a real man, unlike those pansy libtards who dressed all gay. All he needed now was a good house-wife to fill up with his seed.

He looked down to see himself smartly dressed in his uniform, his sleeves rolled up and tightly clinging for dear life to his muscles. He returned back to the parking lot, walking past the starbucks. As he did he caught the glimpse of some chick just finishing a jog. Seeing her, he touched up his hair and uniform to make himself extra smart, no chick could resist a guy in uniform. She fell under the spell of the man in uniform quickly and he got her number. The pair parted until their next meeting, but first Trevor needed to get to the base he was assigned at for the week. He found his way to his F-150 truck and started the engine. He drove to where he was assigned for the day, happily living his new, better life.

[varteeny1234]

MEMORIES

(ao3 link)

Summary:

Marm gets lost in her own head after finding an old photograph, from before everything fell to pieces. She knows Kittrix means well, but they both know that being near each other _hurts_.

Chapters: 1/1 (probably. i might write a part 2 in the future)

Words: 1651

Warnings: Marm does a respawn, and also has a cut on her finger from shards of glass

:DDD I love the mangrove and acacia friendship. too bad they all have tragedy arcs and have split up lolll *crying*

(full fic under cut)

Marm's fingers bled, cut by the shattered glass of the broken picture frame. She stared down at the little pieces of her reflection, faint images, a hundred different faces that were all her face. A sudden pain made her realize that she was biting her lip. 

She cried. 

It had been so long since all four of them had been together. Trog was acting so weird, not like themself at all, taking a complete 180 on the 'chaotic triangles' theme that they'd been working with. Tea had been missing for weeks... which wasn't really reason for worry, but still, she wasn't here in the Mangrove kingdom, wasn't there to keep Marm company on the rainy days or get up to mischief or run around the swamp together with her. 

Kitt hadn't... secluded herself. She just didn't talk to Marm all that much anymore- Marm was mostly sure that it was because she didn't want to get involved in any more void nonsense- after Trog went missing, even though they came back eventually, she'd been unsettled at what they said they heard and saw- so much so that if anybody brought it up around her, she would always make up some excuse to leave or change the topic. Trog's sudden personality change almost right afterwards had scared her even more. And since Marm was so tangled up in the void problems...

Functionally, that left Marm on her own.

Maybe if she just looked harder, looked in the right places, she could figure out how to fix everything. She could learn what had happened to Trog, find Tea, and help Kitt handle her uneasiness. Maybe then they could be their little quartet again. Marm, Trog, Kitt, and Tea. 

The smiling faces in the photograph sent an ache running through her chest every time she saw them, so she let it drop down onto the ground. It hit the floor with a sound that, quiet as it was, rang out louder than anything else nearby. Nighttime tended to be like that. Marm clenched her fists as she turned away, intending to head up to the top of the island and go to sleep. Then, her hand felt like it was on fire. 

Shards of glass must have gotten stuck underneath her skin, she realized. (She was still bleeding)

Marm considered her options. Leaving the injury as-is would be both painful and leave a mess, and she doubted her ability to pull the tiny pieces out herself. It was far too late at night to call anyone else over...

That left respawn. 

Sigh. 

It wasn't like it was hard or anything, it was just annoying to deal with! Any method was painful, even if the feeling only lasted for a few seconds at most; respawning was usually left as a last resort for a reason. But sometimes, even last resorts had to be used, and now was unfortunately looking like one of those times. 

She wasn't carrying anything valuable on her, so it was only a moment before she had let herself fall through one of the holes in the very bottom of the island. Void suffocation always felt the same, and Marm was one of the most familiar with the experience, so she always had the phantom sensations of leaving the atmosphere and falling down into a nothingness that wrapped itself around her body like a cold blanket before she even left the reach of the vines that grew nearby. 

When she respawned, however, instead of landing nicely on her bed like she thought she would, she ended up at the shopping district's center island. 

She swore, and let out a shout of frustration. Why didn't she check to make sure she'd respawn at her bed, or at least at her base?! It would have taken all of a minute at most! And now, she had to walk all the way back to the Mangrove kingdom in the middle of the night. At least no phantoms had shown up yet. Silver linings, silver linings. 

Marm decided to start the long trek back as soon as possible, so she began to walk towards the bridge leading to her island. But before she got very far, the sound of firework rockets and an elytra came closer, and a person landed a little ways behind her. Had they come to check on her? There wasn't any reason for them to- she didn't need anyone's help. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, thankful it was dark enough that whoever it was wouldn't see her red face. 

"Marm? What's going on with you? You need help?" Asked the person. 

Their voice was a familiar one- very familiar. And the last one that Marm had expected to hear. 

She turned around, incredulous. 

"Kittrix?" 

"Yep, that's me!" Kitt smiled, the flames of her hair glowing brighter. "Hello, Marma1ade. Why'd you die?"

"Um..." Marm looked away. She didn't actually need Kitt's help with anything. 

"Marm. It's the middle of the fucking night, even you don't randomly die at this time. So, why'd you fall?"

"I needed to respawn, and that was the quickest way to. I'm just-" Marm yawned. "-heading back now." 

Kitt frowned. "You didn't set your spawnpoint beforehand? That doesn't seem like something you'd do, you're way more careful than that."

"I'm fine," said Marm. She internally grimaced at how snappish she sounded- but she was beginning to feel quite irritated. "Just... leave me be."

"Nah. You don't sound fine, and I'm worried about you."

"No! I'm going back to my swamp, and I'm going alone! Don't follow me," she turned around, only to have the world start spinning around her. She tripped, and nearly hit the bridge, but Kitt grabbed her before she did, helping her back to her feet.

"Look, Marm, you're my friend, okay? I-"

"You're my friend, Kitt? Really?" Marm spat, a bitter taste in her mouth. 

Kitt stopped, simply staring at Marm. Marm couldn't read her face. 

"Yeah, I'm your friend- I am, right?" She whispered. 

"Then why did you leave me all alone? I know you're hurting because of what happened to Trog, but you're the last person I have left to talk to about anything! And you left me all alone! Friends don't abandon friends, Kitt. I- I need you!" Marm choked out. She fell to her knees, collapsing from the flood of emotions overtaking her- anger, mainly.

Kitt stood still, falling silent. Her hair dimmed, going from a wild, bright flame to a gentle flicker. 

"I'm sorry, Marm," she murmured. She crumpled, sitting down next to her and bringing her knees up to her chest. She buried her head in her arms. "I was just so scared. I know Trog's still here, but they're not themself, and I hate it. I hate it so much, why can't they just go back to normal? Why can't we all just go back to normal? Where did Tea go, and why hasn't she come back? Have you had any contact with her at all?" She peeked out at Marm, who could now see her grey eyes had filled with tears. 

Marm took a steadying breath. "No, I haven't. I'm sorry... I'm just as lost as you are. I miss our old group," she cried. "I miss us!"

Their quiet sobs were the only noise that could be heard. 

"...Marm?" Kitt spoke up, a few minutes later. Her voice was raspy. 

"Hm?"

"Can I stay at your place tonight? I don't want to be alone." 

Marm considered it. "Alright... I don't see why not." She shrugged. Kitt breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Thank you. I... I'm still sorry I stopped talking to you. I know I already apologized, but I still feel bad. I know you don't mean any harm with all the weird magic you have and stuff, but, well..." she trailed off. 

"I'm a walking reminder of what happened to Trog?" Marm finished for her, wiggling her fingers. Kitt nodded. 

She pushed herself to her feet. She held out a hand to Marm, who took it gratefully. They started walking back, Marm somewhat leaning on Kitt for balance. 

"Does this mean you'll tell me what happened to you?" Kitt asked, after a couple of minutes of walking. "Like, why you decided to respawn at this disgusting time of night?"

Biting her lip, Marm decided that it couldn't hurt to tell Kitt. She said, slowly, "I accidentally cut myself on some shards of glass. I didn't think I could get them out of my hand by myself, and I didn't want to ask anyone to come over and help me. I forgot I hadn't set my spawn at my bed, and wound up at spawn instead." 

Did she omit some of the specific details? Maybe. Kitt didn't need to know why she hurt herself. But that was essentially what had happened, anyways, so she wasn't lying. 

"I see. I guess that that's not the worst thing that you could have done, but Marm, next time, anyone on this server would have been plenty willing to help you! Even if it's the middle of the night. No one wants you to suffer," Kitt replied. "I was awake. I could have gone over."

"Still- I didn't want to make you come over. Also... I wasn't exactly in the right headspace to talk to anyone." 

Now, Kitt most likely suspected that Marm still wasn't telling her everything. 

That would be fine. She might choose to tell her in the morning, when she was less tired, or she might not. 

"Hm. Well, it'll be alright. We're talking! Also, we're cool, right?" Kitt sounded so hopeful, Marm couldn't bear to say no. And if she was being honest with herself she desperately wanted them to be cool as well. 

She'd figure everything out in the end! 

After all- she still remained the only one who could. 

"Yeah- we're cool."

[darkhymns-fic]

SOS

When a distorted radio signal calls Husk to Alastor's home, he doesn't expect to be facing the Queen of Hell, offering him the chance of a lifetime.

But monsters always have the brightest smiles.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk/Lilith Morningstar Rating: M Word Count: 8588 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Originally was just a throwaway fic I wrote on my sideblog, but then it morphed afterwards to be this unholy OT3. It was fun! I want Lilith to be devious because that is also fun. Inspired by several fanarts that are shared on the mirror, but special shout out to this art by @datchidatchi.

--

Husk is tired once he reaches the rickety house’s front steps, and maybe a little grumpy. His ears were still ringing from static.

He ignores the deer antlers perched over the door, like a morbid holiday wreath. But it’s both typical and so very predictable, and after weeks of this routine, Husk is barely put off by it anymore. Its winding antlers are almost like a beacon of sorts, pulsing and calling out to him as he traverses the city’s streets to Alastor’s home. 

Part of the deal is to keep his boss company. Nightcaps and the sort. Husk knows it’s risky every time but the prospect of a drink is always hard to turn down. That, and his radio back at the casino is on the fritz lately, static and noise playing over the speakers in both long and short bursts that gave Husk a headache. Which probably meant Alastor wanted him over there right now instead of two hours later. Jackass.

But maybe, in some ways, Husk also craves for a little company. He’s not ready to admit that just yet.

“Boss, you in?” he calls out, pushing open the creaky door into darkness. He has his own key and everything, even though Alastor would usually just summon him without any warning. Maybe to see Husk get pissed off, or maybe because he was really that impatient. “Got your fucking radio message. Ever heard of using a phone?”

The house is evocative of the abandoned homes that are the staple of any low-budget horror flick—with rotting floorboards, cobwebs in every corner, and skull paraphernalia decorating every available surface. It had been a shock to Husk at first, but now it was just a little blasé for his tastes. He half-expects Alastor to put up creepy decorations like hanging plastic bats or wearing a witch’s hat to liven things up.

But he only sees the same thing, with the lights completely out. There’s a fireplace from across the room, the wood dry, the flames gone. 

And it’s Husk’s first hint that something is wrong.

Every instinct is telling him to run, an instinct that he usually fucking listens to. After all, it’s the only damn reason he stayed alive for so long until an unfortunate slip up made him end up here in Hell. (He does not want to think about it, so he’s going to stop that right now). His foot is already half out the doorway, his wings opened up, in case something tries to grab at him from the darkness.

Instead, he stays. Instead, he walks inside the house. A sensation, a sound, pulls at him to move forward, hidden in the shadows, even as his mind is screaming at him to leave.

But he doesn’t think it’s Alastor that’s going to pounce on him in the darkness. If he did, he might have felt less afraid—mildly. But the feeling keeps moving his feet further inside the home, to hallways that sometimes shifted for his own boss’s shits and giggles. Husk lost count of how many times he would find himself in a long hallway with no doors to leave through, just for Alastor’s own amusement. 

But the shadows that move around him, some of them with eyes, are frantic. The hallways keep rearranging themselves until he feels he has been traveling for miles. There’s always another door, always another deer skull hanging around, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to leave again once the home brings him to where he needs to be. 

He also keeps hearing that same radio signal from before—those short and long bursts, high-pitched and keening inside his head. It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth, but he keeps going forward, even as the sound makes him want to rip off his ears. It’s distant, but it’s growing, and he knows he’s getting closer the further he goes deeper into this house.

At one point, he finds himself on the stairs. Old, creaking stairs that are covered in mildew, where a few steps in-between were entirely missing. He walks up them with no question, his wings fanning out to hover any missing places for his feet. The stairs seem to lead in a spiral, and then the wood slowly, almost subtly, begins to turn to metal grates. Instead of mold, there is now rust, much of it covering the railing Husk occasionally uses. It makes his claws screech against it, whenever he lets his hand place itself on it.

The radio tower is supposed to be on the other side of Pentagram City. But Alastor’s home has always been a place to rend apart reality to suit where he wanted to be, whether that’s a murky swamp or a glaring red tower where the frequency is always at an awful signal—and it was that awful signal bringing him up, always playing that same deformed patterns, over and over again.

But then, Husk finds himself at the top, and the red decor that makes up this place is almost all gone. It’s just dark, and it’s cold, and there is Alastor—

—and he’s kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room before a woman that Husk knows, because everyone knows who she is.  

There are nights when Husk tries to sleep, and makes sure his damn radio is off. But he still hears singing, floating on the air, and he can’t help but admit that the voice makes him feel some sort of hope that he should have stamped out years and years ago.

She’s so tall, regal and timeless, with sleek and black horns curving from her head to tangle along her golden hair. In her hands is a chain made of a color that there is no name for. She looks over at Husk, who has just appeared from the dark like nothing, first with a curious lift of an eyebrow—and then finally a light laugh. The melodic sound of it makes his heart race, fends off exhaustion from his limbs.

But then he sees Alastor again who is on his knees, whose head is bowed, and over his neck is a manacle that is so tight—and then the chain pulls upward.

And the movement makes Alastor lift his head and there is a flash of something that’s terrified and broken, and any music that lives in Husk’s head is suddenly gone in a flash.

He makes the mistake of talking.

“What’s…going on here?” His voice doesn’t even sound like his own. The tone is tight, stripped of everything. It’s as if some part of him knows that if he breathes wrong, it’s over.

“Oh, look, Alastor. Your friend is here.” The woman finally speaks, her eyes flicking over the chained Radio Demon. His head is still turned away, and only Husk notices then that his once neat red hair is frazzled, unkempt. 

At her tone, Alastor starts visibly shaking. His ears lay flat against his head, and Husk can even hear him breathe faster. “No.”

“You don’t believe me? But you must have heard him.” The woman smiles, something that Husk can still see, even in the dark. “It seems he’s finally caught us.”

Husk isn’t sure he wants to understand what she fucking means by that.

She bends down from her great height so she can place her hand over Alastor’s head—so grand that it looks as if she could crush the demon’s head with just her palm. Her fingers tap along Alastor’s cheeks, a thumb playing with his hair. “You should greet him. It’s only polite.”

And in Alastor’s voice, he hears something akin to terror. Panic. Shame. The radio filter is off completely, leaving no room for error to what Alastor feels, to what he’s experiencing.

“Wait, wait, no—”

“Now, come on.” A hand that grips the back of Alastor’s hair, and a pull of the chain that yanks him upward, enough to lift him just slightly off his knees. “Say hello.”

“Wait, stop it, I don’t-!” 

And then Alastor turns.

Husk sees a face that is finally bare of every glimmer, of every facade, of every blistering smile. Alastor stares back at him, under the pressure of both the hand and chain. In his eyes, steeped in red that is now so dark, there is an awful and silent cry. 

But in that silence, Husk hears something. It’s coming from deep within Alastor’s chest, the radio waves that had been missing from his vocal chords. But Husk hears it, those same long and short bursts of awful sound, all as Alastor keeps looking at him with widened eyes. Calling him.

Husk then realizes what he had been hearing over the radio back home: a corrupted form of an S.O.S signal.

He shouldn’t have answered Alastor’s call.

The next moments that come by are fuzzy in his recollection. The strange trip through Alastor’s home had made him lose touch with reality, so he isn’t sure just when his boss is suddenly back on the floor, dropped like a sack of rotting meat. He isn’t sure when the woman seemingly glides across the floor to stand in front of him, the chains having left her hands. He isn’t sure just when she looks down at him, as if she is an ancient mountain, and he is just some pathetic outcropping of mud that had somehow ended up in her shadow.

This is his fault, Husk thinks, all as he stares up at someone who held a certain type of beauty he could only call terrifying. Stupid fucking bastard. Yet, he keeps flicking a glance towards his boss, who is still on the floor, and wonders suddenly at the damp sensation he felt over his palms.

The signal stops—for now. It’s faint, like a fading heartbeat. Husk doesn’t know if this means Alastor’s given up.

He can’t look long, because the woman demands his attention. She bends down, her golden hair unfurling past her shoulders, smelling of lavender. And then, she places her hands over his cheeks, and grips.

Not hard. Not painful. In fact, it is gentle, the way her fingers travel through his fur. But Husk is so, so deeply aware of the strength in her touch. And even then, he isn’t ready for the voice that leaves her painted lips, suddenly softer than when he first saw her.

“He hasn’t been treating you well, has he?” she says. This close, her voice makes his ears flick, makes something catch inside his chest until he feels it’s going to burst open with thorns, coated in poison. “You poor thing.”

And from the floor, Husk finally hears the static crackle in the air. It’s a sound he is long used to—Alastor always made clear his displeasure with him—but the context it exists under makes it screech with something desperate.

The woman sighs. He feels her breath sift the fur over his face, and how her hold slightly lifts up his chin. “I am so sorry for his rudeness. You would think he’d know better by now.”

Don’t say anything, Husk tells himself. He swallows, worrying how she must have seen that. How she must have felt it. He doesn’t want to be in the middle of this, but it’s far too late.

Then, a soft little screech that builds up next to them, the feedback bursting with so much feedback. “Lilith, you—”

A hand leaves Husk to gesture towards Alastor. The chain whips up like a frenzied snake, diving into her palm, and she pulls.

She pulls so hard that Husk hears Alastor gag. He hears just how very, very close it had come to breaking the Radio Demon’s neck. The static flickers and explodes, sounding like some horrendous mass of angry flies. It makes Husk’s fur stand on end, but he can’t look towards Alastor, because the woman still has her hand on his cheek.

The Queen of Hell, an ancient soul that so few have ever even seen. And somehow, Alastor is fucking entangled with her.

Husk does realize something though. The hand on him, which is still cradling his cheek gently, is normal-sized. Nothing like the grand, engulfing claw that had threatened to crush Alastor’s head just moments ago. He hasn’t even seen her transform or anything of the sort.

Or maybe she just makes them see what she wants them to.

“Such a naughty boy,” she says, her eyes flicking behind her, all while Alastor struggles to breathe. The chain goes lax again, and then comes the sharp intake of breath. “And here, I thought you wanted me to meet him.” The chains clink again, just slightly, and the air vibrates from the very intensity of some unspoken threat.

“Wait—” Husk says, breaking his own promise. He whispers desperately, his hands reaching out in instinct. Maybe he’s thinking that he’d reach for the woman’s shoulders, or even for her hands, where one was still resting against his face. Instead, his claws grasp onto black fabric, and his palms meet the solidness of her knees.

At that, the woman—Lilith, Queen of Hell—smiles down at him. “Getting handsy with me now?”

Husk sweats then. Shit shit shit shit.

He thinks he can feel Alastor grinding his sharp teeth together. The sound is in his skull, worming inside his very ears. He has no idea why it’s so invasive, why it seems to live inside him like some parasite.

But maybe bound souls were always close like this.

Husk quickly lets go, but he tries to calm his heart a bit. He tries to act fucking normal, but it is getting harder to even pretend when he once again stands before her. A part of him still remembers hearing her songs over the radio frequency, and that part of him wants to get lost in it completely…

“Look, I don’t know what…all of this even is…” He vaguely gestures at the space that was the radio tower, to where his boss still lies on the floor. “But, it just doesn’t seem…”

Right? Good? He isn’t sure of the word. What does goodness have to do with anything or anyone in Hell?

“Aw, I see. How sweet.” Lilith runs a gentle thumb against his fur. She hums, a soft melody. Slightly jazzy, even. It sets something stirring in his chest. “You were worried about him. Even after all he does to you.”

Husk doesn’t like the idea that she knows anything about what he has to deal with. And yet, the way she stares down at him, still humming, makes him suspect that she knows every little detail.

Did Alastor tell her? Or did she pull it out of him?

“Well, as you can see, he’s doing just fine.” She doesn’t even turn, still smiling down at Husk. Suddenly, Alastor appears next to her, still on his knees, a hand at his throat as he rubs at the manacle over it.

He sees Alastor stiffen, eyes darting all around as he realizes he’d been taken. His grin stays on his face, but it looks so close to breaking, the sharp points of his teeth trembling in their rictus shape. Reality shifts, and to Alastor, she is a giantess with horns of obsidian and a smile that is biting, eager to draw blood.

And when she sings, it’s so easy to fall under her spell.

“You should learn to cherish your friends more. All that fame, getting to your head.” An index finger, curved like a talon, presses against the very middle of Alastor’s forehead. Right where a certain symbol was engraved, inflamed and permanent and full of rage.

But Alastor only shakes instead. His eyes fixate on that finger, on her, on the glow of the chain that lays on the floor. He smiles so wide that his lips draw back from his gums, and soon there is blood, dripping from his mouth to slide down his chin.

Husk wonders how easily it would be for Lilith to slide her fingers inside the other’s skull, picking apart brain matter. He pictures it so easily, and so suddenly, with such a ferocity to it, of viscous fluids falling around him, and shards of bone that would pierce from Alastor’s head like broken porcelain. Husk stays frozen in place, visualizing bits of meat dropping to the floor all too clearly and all too detailed. What the fuck.

It’s not like he isn’t used to seeing such violence and gore, in his everyday life, or experiencing it himself. But it had played out before him like a feature film, and who the hell had put that in his head?

Lilith laughs, her tone so low and smooth. “It’s not healthy for you.”

The signal that had been sleeping inside Husk’s head, low and dull like a building headache, is suddenly deafening.

He winces, but Alastor remains still. A deer in headlights. Suddenly very fragile, and weak, and so very small.

“Now, what do we say?”

Husk closes his eyes, but it only makes him focus on the signal even more. It echoes inside his head in those same repeating patterns, until he’s surrounded in it. He doesn’t want to hear this anymore.

“....ry.”

“You’re mumbling.” The finger presses more against the forehead, and even though Husk isn’t even looking, he can somehow see it. He can even feel it. Like he’s the one there kneeling before her and staring, and watching as the light in her eyes brighten, as the smile on her face turns so sharp. 

Like he’s in Alastor’s place. Somehow. What is even fucking happening anymore?

“Again.”

Teeth that grind against each other further, filing down canines. Weakening himself for her. Husk feels the familiar weight of the manacle over his neck, and it only makes things even more confusing. This is never something he wanted to share with Alastor. He didn’t want to be here.

“I am… trying …to be apologetic—”

The finger bores down through bone, with a sickening crunch. Alastor—or Husk—gasps in pain, but still remains on his knees. Lights flash in his vision. This was death, slow and methodical. Permanent.

“Mean it,” Lilith speaks. Or sings, her tone so sweet and airy. It sounds much too beautiful for what she’s doing to him.

The finger burrows further in, like a hungry maggot. Alastor and Husk and whoever they are now are shaking, with tears in their eyes. It won’t stop until she’s satisfied. And they just want it to stop.

“I-I-I…I’m s-sorry …”

And even then, it’s said through gritted teeth.

Lilith hums, her face so close, even as her claw still digs through meat and bone like it was just a bit of dust she was cleaning up. “Now, that wasn’t so hard. Very good.” Then, she leans down to kiss him.

And it’s the moment she kisses him, or Alastor, or maybe himself still, that Husk is wrenched away back to his own body. He doesn’t feel the pain, or the softness, or anything else. Only the hand on his cheek.

She hasn’t let go of him all this time.

Alastor then slumps to the floor, breathing hard again, his ears laid flat against his head, and his antlers pulsing and threatening to grow, but just stop short. Lilith ignores him, turning back to Husk, and now petting at his ears.

“I’d like to get to know you more,” she says.

--

At some point in the night, Husk found himself having a drink with the Queen of Hell. 

It’s something that the Hell-papers would have chewed on for a week—’Our Beautiful Queen Gives Charity to Some Drunk Loser!’ the headlines might have spun—and then keep recycling that story for weeks. But Husk isn’t one to care about someone’s certain station in this messed up landscape that was his afterlife. He’d already been an Overlord once, and those hanging from the higher rungs of the ladder didn’t always do so with style, let alone any sort of decorum. The closest he could say was any such thing was Zestial, but he’d never known the Overlord on a personal level.

And Alastor could always put on a persona when one didn’t know of his petty nature.

But as Husk is forced to sit before her, in some weird imitation that reminded him of Rosie’s little get-togethers, he has to give something to all that reputation. He has to admit to himself that he’s scared shitless by what she represents, all while still having little to no idea of who she truly is.

Except for what she has done to Alastor. And except for the songs that Husk could still recall from memory.

“You seem a little stressed,” she says to him, holding up her drink, and smiling pleasantly. It seems genuine. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light. But so little light pierced through this space—they were back in Alastor’s home in one of his second-rate nightmare parlors, with all of its stupid hunter decorations, its shoddy wallpaper, and its animal skulls that were even on the very table they were sitting at.

To the side, far off in the corner, Husk could just barely catch the shape of Alastor. Hardly any noise except for a brief crackle or two, his face just faintly lit up by the manacle on him.

“Not exactly a relaxing place, if you get my meaning.” He doesn’t even remember how they got here, but he stares over at the cup in front of him and kinda wishes he at least had some whiskey to spice it up.

…And just like that, a whiskey bottle appears, elegantly-shaped, the liquid inside looking as if it was distilled from ambrosia. The label on it is vintage, or actually, even older than that. As if Lilith has just pulled out the alcohol from a time long past, a time that she lived through.

Only one other person has ever bribed him with drinks like this.

“It’s a smooth flavor, I guarantee it.” Lilith nods, looking over at Husk with golden eyes, then takes another sip of her drink. He wonders if there’s already anything in the liquid, if it’s something that will bind him down if he dares.

“I’m good,” he says, though not without his tone becoming a little snappy. “I’d rather not be drunk for this.”

“Ohh, are you a lightweight? I wouldn’t have guessed.” She places the glass back on the table, flicks a glance towards a deer skull that had bits of cobweb stuck to the antlers. She looks at it, and hums, then turns back to Husk. “Maybe you and Luci would get along.”

In the corner, he hears another crackle. A sharp pain jams into his skull. Yeah, alright. So whatever Alastor was feeling, he was going to feel now. That was fantastic.

Husk’s tail flicks, swatting away at invisible flies. “I think meeting one of Hell’s royalty is enough to spice up my night.”

His tone is brisk, but Lilith doesn’t seem to mind. She simply lays her elbows on the table, places her chin on the top of her hands, and leans forward. “Sounds like you know how to make someone’s night very exciting.”

There’s a part of him reeling at the fact just now. The Queen of Hell is flirting with me.

And yet, there’s another part of him that wants to act like a bastard. Maybe it’s Alastor’s influence, or the ache in his head. Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t slept fuck-all since coming here.

“Oh yeah? Sure, lady, I can show you a good time…”

With a sharp-toothed grin, Husk takes the whiskey bottle that the Queen had conjured, dangling it by its neck as he holds it between two fingers. He shakes it slightly, back and forth like a metronome, then flips it up into the air above them.

It doesn’t shatter into a thousand pieces or spill. Instead, it instantly transforms into a long-stemmed rose. Husk catches it without even a blink, handing it over to Lilith. The grin on his face is tight.

“Here’s a shitty little party trick for you, your Highness. ”

He still feels kinda pissed off at that weird torture session he had the pleasure of enduring.

If Lilith is angry at his comment, she doesn’t show it. She might even have the best poker face Husk has ever seen, all as she graciously takes the rose and brushes the petals against her chin. “If this is what you can do now, I can’t wait to see you when you’re in a good mood.”

Her voice is low, a soft timbre quality to it. Almost like a purr. Husk clears his throat. It’s been a while since he’s been in this type of game, and he’s way rusty at it now.

“Listen, can we cut through this shit and tell me why I’m still here?” He doesn’t feel like being polite, or even smart. He just wants to leave. He keeps his eyes diverted, trying to look at anything in this house that is vaguely normal. The closest is a piece of lint that’s caught on the edge of the carpets. “I didn’t mean to walk in on whatever fucked up game you and the boss do. I’ll just forget it. I’m good at that.”

And when Lilith speaks again, he expects disdain, or even some kind of anger. He’s just some low-life nobody that’s talking back at what is one of the oldest beings of mankind.

Except, and here is where she is suddenly at his chair, right where his wings are laid across them. And her hands place themselves over his shoulders, and her hair falls over his face, like the gossamer strands of a frail curtain.

Except, she suddenly sounds so very sad.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” 

There is no fucking way, he thinks, but as her voice is so close to his ear, it’s hard to focus on all the misgivings in him.

“And as I said before, I only want to get to know you.”

Reality shifts again.

Husk used to care, once long ago, how he presented himself. Clean-pressed suits, slick-backed fur, and his wings carefully preened so that feathers didn’t fall into the customer’s drinks. Even the occasional ‘kitty’ comment he’d endure as long as they were paying for a game at one of his tables, or were desperate for deals that he was open to negotiate on. The only messes were the occasional blood spatters on the carpets when he had to take out the trash himself, or bullet holes in his walls from those who excelled at winning the game of stupidity.

Alastor’s deal made him forget all that. What did dignity matter when one was forced to work behind the bar, or made to match his owner down to the shade of his bow tie? So he drank, and he would forget, and it was better that way.

Until Lilith is facing him, holding both of his hands, her dress covered in rhinestones, and her gloves made from black satin, the material soft against his claws. Husk looks down, and the suit he is wearing now is like a second skin he’d long forgotten he missed. Barely a thread out of place, with even his favorite designs—heart and spade next to each other—on his lapel, and his bowtie a classy shade of gold instead of stark red. His wings stretched, and they remained up instead of dragging to the ground like they mostly did these days.

A quick, furtive look around, and Husk sees them both on a stage. The audience before them is faceless, just a mass of black with bobbing heads. The lights above them are so bright, and they halo around Lilith specifically, brightening up that wonderful smile.

She lets go of his hands, and waves to the crowd. Still, she keeps her eyes on him. “You’ve always been a stage man.”

She says it like she knows him. And going by his outfit, and the fancy lights around them, she probably, actually does.

He spreads his hands wide before him, then notices the gleam of heart-shaped cufflinks just at his wrist. How did she know every detail? “Well, I’m not much of a performer anymore,” he tells her.

And suddenly, a saxophone appears in his arms, the sash already looped around his shoulder. The weight of the instrument is almost like nothing to him.

“Let me hear you play.”

Husk stares at her, then back to the instrument in his hands. His claws fell over the keys, molded for his own touch instead of just anyone else. “It’s been years.”

In Lilith’s right hand, a microphone forms out from the stage lights. She brings it close to her mouth, while her other hand reaches down to stroke Husk’s cheek. “But you haven’t forgotten.”

She’s right.

Husk isn’t immune to the allure of a beautiful woman, even if there is something behind her eyes that terrifies him, and how he still remembers the pain she had inflicted on Alastor. The ache of it still lingers inside Husk’s skull, but when she hums so sweetly into the microphone, so much of it simply washes away. The stage lights focus on her, making her dress sparkle. 

He knows her songs, some of them uplifting and powerful, and others so sweet and melancholy that it drives souls to the brink of madness. It’s a coinflip to what she would sing next for that radio show, where her songs simply served as a backdrop to the array of screams.

The brief reminder makes Husk blink. Shit. Where’s Alastor? He looks around, but there is only the stage and the audience, which is only dark shapes and nothing else. They applause when Lilith begins to sing, her voice caught on the sweeping melancholy that already makes his limbs feel heavy, as if his bones were being slowly filled up by honey.

It’s a nice feeling. Almost addicting.

Husk knows he should be high-tailing it out of here, but when Lilith sings, it seems to move his limbs in other ways. His wings stretch wide, and he already presses down on the saxophone’s keys as he plays along with a song that he already knows. It doesn’t seem to matter if the lyrics she sang move through his head, losing shape and meaning, until it was just the melody itself. Maybe that’s what she wants, after all.

“You have such talent, Husk” she tells him between the verses. She says it casually, her voice showing no fatigue. She controls her notes as easily as changing into her dress. “It’s such a shame you don’t get to use it.”

A question that wrinkles the smoothness of the moment. Husk pauses on his playing, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “Lady, not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, but no one’s stopping me from just busking around.”

He really could, like the old days when he would put up small side hustles of card tricks to make a little extra cash, accompanied by playing out in the streets when he didn’t feel like grifting. Hell’s own streets weren’t always as receptive to a random show (and in some places like Cannibal Town, sometimes they were too eager) but he knew the good spots. And back in his casino heydays, he had to stop himself from going out to play old melodies on stage just for the heck of it.

Lilith only smiles at him, and then brings the mic close again, turning towards that faceless audience. Another note, one that builds higher and higher, and it pulls at his hands again to play along, to use his breath to match the beats of her own.

And it’s suddenly akin to the feeling of being pulled by the strings.

Husk can’t even will himself to stop, his thoughts becoming only filled with that music, one that writhes and lives inside him. It’s euphoric, and it’s terrifying. Isn’t it better to just play like this? A part of him says, something that doesn’t even sound like him. Husk can’t shake it away though, still not finished with the song that Lilith leads.

Don’t you want to be a freer soul?

And as the music slows, Lilith towers over him, humming the last note into the microphone. She smiles, and it’s only for him. She is a beautiful soul, decked out in lights, so bright that it blinds him. It’s almost like a dream, but he knows he’s not dreaming—only dead.

As she hums, she extends her hand, its touch silky as she grips his chin. She raises it as the spotlight rings around them both, leaving the rest of the world in darkness.

“Wouldn’t you rather make a deal with me?”

The voice in his head is her, her music repeating in his skull like a tune he can’t shake off. It’s to the point where he can’t listen to anything else. And, for a second, he almost answers her before he even knows what to say. 

Then he hears it. The signals, thudding in his head, three short bursts, then three long ones.

What?

Husk blinks. The stage lights pierce right into his eyes with a terrible ache. The sound continues and it makes it all worse. Stop it. Stop it.

With a snarl, he wrenches his head out of Lilith’s reach, taking a step back.

And just like that, the stage disappears.

It’s almost like cold water is dumped on him immediately. The glitz and glamor that had been their surroundings is snuffed out, and he’s already shivering from the lack of clothes. No more of the clean-pressed suit and dazzling cufflinks, or even the shining instrument that was in his arms. Husk is back to his loose trousers and suspenders, the hat on his head nearly close to falling off him. He can’t even summon the energy to lift his wings.

Lilith, by contrast, still looks radiant as always, but there is a sharp glint in her eyes that isn’t there before. Then it moves to the right, back to a corner that is in the dark—

He hears Alastor’s static before he sees him again, a barely seen shape in the shadows. Turning to him, and his boss is glaring with eyes so brightly lit that it seems to engulf his face. 

Wait, Husk thinks. Did we even leave? Has he been watching the whole time?

And then the chain that connects from Alastor’s neck is given a sharp tug that sends his boss sprawling face-first into the floor.

“That’s enough.” Lilith brings the chains to wrap around her palm, the light of it reminding Husk of the stage. “Trying to disrupt my business, after all I did for you? Now you’ve just confused the poor thing.”

The chain’s links ringing together makes Husk grit his teeth. Alastor doesn’t even say words, still on the floor and glaring poisonous daggers in their direction. Was he mad at Husk too? Fuck me, I didn’t even want to be here!

Lilith has that strange look on her face, all as she slowly twirls the chains around her fingers. Husk snaps, full of exasperation and fatigue. 

“The hell was all that about before? What did you just do to me?” Husk shakes his head, trying to rid himself of whatever strange effects Lilith put on him. “Just…what are you even…?”

Stupid thing to say. He knows exactly what she is.

With those words, she shifts her attention from Alastor back to Husk, and suddenly her smile is much sweeter than before.

“I was only giving you a peek into your possible future.” Her eyelids lower, along with her voice. “If you’d like to switch deals, that is.”

Her voice sends another shiver through him, one he tries to ignore. “I’m fucking through with making any more deals.”

Like he’d risk getting another bad hand.

“Oh? But you haven’t even heard my terms,” she says.

Maybe Husk is a little more on edge than he realizes, because he stares up at her with slightly bared teeth. Or maybe, he already misses that stage more than he thought, and is angry at the thought that he left it so soon.

“No offense, lady, but if you made a deal with that whack job there, I can’t imagine one with me is much better.”

A risky glance to said whack job, but Alastor is barely looking now. His boss is still face-down on the floor, even if the static and signals are still thudding inside Husk’s skull. 

“Then, let me show you at least.”

Her hands reach up to his neck, and he stiffens. He can only imagine bad things, because nothing in Hell was gentle. But her fingers only hover over him, just barely catching onto the fur, even though she has already held him and certainly knows how he feels against her touch. He doesn’t like that a part of him is almost aching for her to touch him, that a part of him wants her to sing again.

Then he feels that familiar weight of the manacle that signals his status, his fuck-ups, and his desperation—all rolled into one embarrassing accessory that he could never take off. It’s only loosely-hanging on, like an oversized collar, and it only slightly burns whenever Alastor would will it so. He expects it to burn right now, but it doesn’t, even as Alastor is right there in the corner, consumed with so much angry static that’s like flies buzzing around incessantly.

The green of the chains light up Lilith’s eyes, just for a moment, before golden irises swallow it up. She presses one finger over the manacle, sliding over it, like it was the rim of a wine glass.

“I can get rid of this for you.” She raises her eyes to meet his own. “And I would never clip your wings the way he has.”

The words are so sweet that it makes his teeth ache, and it stings right at his heart.

“It’s also such a troublesome thing for you, isn’t it? Alastor has never been so good at keeping to himself. I’ve always told him it’s bad manners.”

That, however, is not what Husk expects to hear. He stares. “What are you getting at?”

Lilith’s eyes seem to express some sort of pity, and he’s not very sure if he’s pissed at the idea or not. “The way he just drags you to him, like a child.” She then brings her hand to his forehead, a thumb rubbing a circle over it, oddly soothing. “You’re not his whipping boy. His punishment wasn’t meant for you too.”

The memory of her finger digging through bone and meat, and then leaving no trace of it at all.

Fuck, so she did know of what happened.

She holds onto Husk’s chain, but takes care to not pull at it, or even tug. He doesn’t feel any pressure at all. “I’ve always been a solo artist, but lately, my songs have felt like… they’re missing something. So I’ve been looking around lately for someone who could help with that. Alastor’s radio show can only do so much. The people want so much more.”

Husk can’t believe what he’s hearing, once he’s finally caught on. “Are you saying you just want me to be part of your band? ”

It sounds so simple and so easy—and he can’t trust it all. But then Lilith smiles down at him, and suddenly it feels like he’d be crazy to not accept the offer. 

She curls her fingers around his chains, and he hears something crack. Metal snapping, slowly, one link at a time. 

“I love finding those who have talent, Husk. And baby, you have it.”

The promise of freedom, and the sweet words from someone who looked like a goddess—who practically was—is enough to make Husk consider falling down to his knees and accept anything she was offering. If he was younger, he would have. If he was still an Overlord, with all the money and power at his fingertips, he still would have.

But…isn’t this just changing one leash for another?

The signal bursts again, loud and grating, breaking the spell. It’s hard to focus, and it pulls at him like nothing else, and so he has to turn to that corner, and see Alastor get up to his knees. He has to see him glare and grit his teeth, and there’s something so incredibly feral there. Inhuman. Desperate.

“You can’t have him!”

It’s just a split-second but Husk sees Lilith drop her smile before she also faces Alastor. She stands tall instead of crouching down to meet Husk’s level. For Alastor, she will only view him from up on high.

The signal keeps bleating, in time with Alastor’s boiling words.

“He’s mine.”

Husk doesn’t want to admit that the word does something to him. He’s still half-sharing a space with Alastor, feeling his rage that sends his teeth shattering from the strain of it. He can also feel how the Radio Demon is engraving that word deep in his chest, past the bones of his rib cage and squeezing painfully at his heart.

Lilith only stares, her silence so deafening that it overpowers the static until it’s fizzling out, like the hisses of a dying fire. Alastor keeps glaring and his teeth look ready to tear, but he doesn’t move. 

In Lilith’s hands are two separate chains, entwined together. She wraps both different-colored links around her fingers, and seems to consider.

“You never seem to understand that what’s yours is mine. Your power. Your radio show. Your souls.” She tilts her head, golden hair cascading, the strands nearly reaching Alastor’s face by just half an inch. Distance seems to mean nothing to her, already with Alastor, with Husk. Everywhere. “You have plenty of others, don’t you?”

The signals inside Husk’s head transform into a monotone, blaring and digging further inside. It’s panicking. It’s reeling over from fear. Husk feels the urge to run over to Alastor and shake him so that he could fucking calm down and not make this all so much worse.

“Ah, but maybe…” Lilith has her smile again. She wraps the chains tighter around each other. “It’s only him, isn’t it? Oh, Al… you should take better care of those you love.”

At that, the signal is so loud, so awful, like claws slowly tearing through metal, that Husk collapses to the ground.

He just barely hears the chains clatter at his motion, but he’s already clutching his head, ears pinned down, and fur standing on end. He can’t even open his eyes. The sound is unreal. It’s torture. His head is literally going to explode into tiny bits and pieces from the sheer pain of it.

You should take better care of those you love, he hears again, and then it gets even worse. Like he was caught in a spiral and kept descending and descending, knowing there was no end to it.

Why was Alastor doing this to him?!

By then, it’s only her voice that finally saves him.

It’s faint and distant, like a far-off light through the fog. Husk feels his soul stumbling towards it, but as she sings, the pain seems to recede. It takes him a while to know that she’s holding his face again, like before, lifting him up, and humming what sounds like some sort of lullaby.

The static and the awful signal seems to disappear. He tries not to think about what that means.

Lilith bends down, and he wonders if she’s about to kiss him, the same way she did with Alastor.

“Husk…” she whispers, her lips just brushing against his pointed ear. He feels her breath across his fur. “My deal still stands. My voice, your music.”

He clasps her wrists, tightly. He shakes, and he considers.

A curious note in Lilith. “Did you change your mind then?”

He doesn’t hear anything in his head now. Only her beautiful voice, and the lingering memory of a song they played together. It should have been easy to decide. After all, how many times in the middle of the night has he wished to finally escape the means of his deal? How many times has he wished he would never see that infuriating smile of Alastor’s ever again?

Instead, Husk just holds that position, looking down. He waits, almost sure of what he would say.

“No,” he says instead.

“Hmm. I see.”

It’s not disappointment in Lilith’s tone, just acceptance. Somehow, that’s worse.

With the pain gone, Husk lets go of her, and slowly gets to his feet. He tries not to think about how he somehow keeps touching her. But then again, back in the day, he’d have done everything he could to lay his hands on someone as beautiful as she is. Even if right now, he can barely look her in the eye.

But she’s also touching him too, hands still over his cheeks. And she hasn’t let go just yet.

She’s expecting him to say something. So he does so, struggling.

“I only came here because the boss called me.” He won’t say his name right now. “I didn’t come here for deals, or to be part of some new music crew. And right now, all three of us in this room is doing none of us any fucking favors. So maybe just….” He trails off. 

But there’s no polite way to tell someone to leave, especially when he’s not sure he wants her to.

He doesn’t think Lilith would hurt him, but he flinches when she leans forward again. But it’s simply to plant a kiss just over his forehead. He feels the pressure, the warmth of her mouth, the feel of her lipstick. There’s a part of him that wants to know the taste of it.

It’s blackberry, from when she kissed Alastor before. He resists the urge to lick his lips at the memory.

At both the thought and her face, Husk looks up as she smiles down at him.

“I can see why Al likes you. Such a rare kind of soul. But I really hope he takes better care of you.” Then, her voice, only for him right now. “And if he doesn’t… call me.”

Husk isn’t sure, but it almost sounds like she means it.

It’s sudden when she leaves—like a dream from an intense hangover, leaving him reeling and wanting to fall back down to his knees. Everything about her is gone; from her hands that were once on his face, to her song that’s barely an echo around him. There’s just the creepy house of Alastor, still with its grisly decor and torn-up wallpaper, its decaying stairs and its array of skulls placed on the bookshelves. No evidence at all that there had once been fancy lights once upon a time.

“God damn—” Husk stumbles, trying to keep himself from banging his head on the floor a second time. That’s it then. He’d told her to hoof it and she did. He feels a sense of relief. A sense of anxiety. A sense of unimaginable loss. Almost like she’s already taken his soul without him realizing.

And without her to even provide even a modicum of distraction, Husk hears that same stupid, godawful signal that had ruined his entire fucking night. The bursts of static are low and jarring, but faint, like the wings of an annoying, dying beetle.

Alastor is still in that corner, probably having his own pity party right about now.

Husk feels sick. He’s not in the mood to feel sympathy. Still, it comes regardless. He rubs at his face, missing the softness from before.

“ Boss, ” he calls out, pulling on the word like it’s a bad taste on his tongue.

He doesn’t get a response, Alastor still lying on the ground like some dead fawn.

“Fucking asshole, you keep calling out to me this entire time and now you won’t say a damn word!?” The dazed feeling from before is now fully gone, his anger evaporating it all. Husk goes to Alastor, kicking aside stupid cobwebs and stray bits of bone from the decorations to kneel on the floor and grab Alastor’s shoulder. Not like the fucker was going to hurt him for touching him. Not now. “You wanna explain to me why the literal Queen of Hell was even here? Christ, what did she even mean when she said you…”

Hell, he can’t even repeat it.

But Alastor just groans, lifting his head. Weak eyes flicker in their depths. But no answer.

Husk feels himself start to shake. So he shakes Alastor more for good measure. “Well?! Ya really got nothing?”

“Husker…” Alastor says, then raises an eyebrow. “So… you didn’t leave….” He then lets out a soft exhale. “That’s good.”

Maybe there’s a hint of triumph in his voice, if it hadn’t been so, so weak. Husk wants to punch him more than anything.

Still, his boss is alive and barely functioning. Alastor’s eyes slowly close again, the static fizzling out, as if a storm has finally cleared. The man passes out.

Husk shouldn’t feel glad about any of this.

“Dammit, Al. Why should I even give two fucking shits to what happens to you?” he growls out, voice trembling. “Someone finally offers me a way out after everything. I should have left. Why didn’t I leave?” 

He pauses, speaking to nothing, to no one. Just the darkness of this home and an unconscious demon who has the faintest smile on his face.

“Why did you call me of all people? Niffty, Rosie…. Hell, even fucking Vox. Why me?”

But he’s not going to get an answer, no matter if his boss is awake or not.

Even so, after everything, he grabs Alastor’s shoulder, pulling him along from his pathetic position. It’s instinct almost, barely feeling anything for it. It’s not the first time Alastor would be exhausted like this, whether from going hog-wild on an Overlord killing spree, or stressing his magic to give someone a real good scare. And Husk was usually the fall back, the one to watch out for things. Reliable, Alastor had once told him. For a washed-up drunk, he’d also add.

Yet as Husk brings Alastor up, close enough to see those small antler stubs, to hear the subtle breathing, he can’t help but remember that soft hand on his cheek.

That soft hand that had also made Alastor writhe in pain.

With a held-in sigh, Husk digs a hand into his pocket. Another instinct as he determines how to carry Alastor without having him get tangled up in his wings. His claws feel out the familiar edges of his playing cards, sort of a calming habit of his—except, this one felt different.

Husk pulls out the card, its surface a gleaming white instead of the red and black of his own. On the front, there was a phone number, all written in an elegant flourish. And then, there was her name, followed by a little command. The presence of it sends a thrill through his spine. He can’t tell if it’s from excitement or fear. 

Maybe the difference doesn’t really matter.

Call me.

[leonenjoyer69]

Not sure if you have much left in you But- *Ramble Card* You will be bombarded at least one more time, By me. Today. Right now.

AFTER WEEKS THE RAMBLE GODS HAVE ALLOWED ME TO ANSWER THIS, SO I PRESENT A LORE DROP FOR WHOLE JEKYLL, MY LITTLE GUY HARRY, BC I'VE BEEN NEGLECTING HIM 💔💔 SO!!! LONG RAMBLE/INFO DUMP UNDER THE CUT >:3

OKAY SO, WHOLE JEKYLL, RIGHT? HARRY? MY LITTLE GUY? Basically a combined/whole (wow how well I named him) Jekyll (technincally he IS the original Jekyll, but yeah) with more steps and extra trauma 🥰 originally he was just gonna stay trapped in the mind and such, but hey, with everything going on in the comic rn I think he can totally break out, and the wonderful @lesbianturrets (ILY CHARLIE) keeps inadvertently giving me such great ideas! (Also I may have made art of Harry gaining control on a whim, ill share that once it's done >:3)

Yeah, he eventually gains control (sometime during chapter 15, probably after Jekyll recouncils with Frankenstein, bc that kinda breaks the mind Frankenstein-- just like what happened to Mind Lanyon-- and then a transformation happens where Harry, Among the Mindscape that's been collapsing for days, is finally able to get control.) Said transformation happens and from the mirror Jekyll tells Hyde to "give it a rest already because there's nothing that he can do" and then Hyde pops up in the mirror beside him and is basically like "mf that ain't me!!" (Man I really wanna draw this) Cue confusion and more chaos because then who is in control right now? Meanwhile, a body that looks MOSTLY like Jekyll is freaking tf out, mumbling in Scots and trying to get his bearings bc holy shit he's real again. Jekyll and Hyde both try to talk to this guy but he's completely ignoring them, and after a bit of trying to regain control, Jekyll and Hyde eventually dip into the Mindscape to discuss things and figure out who tf that is.

Meanwhile, now that Harry is in control, he's gotta deal with everything going on. Lanyon shows up and begins trying to get in, to which Harry pleads (with his scots accent, further concerning Lanyon) for him not to come in, and that everything's alright. Once Lanyon does get in, Harry has to use the excuse of a potion falling on him to explain his hair and eyes. Harry's forced to go out and deescalate and fix everything, jumpy and paranoid af. (Bonus points, after fixing everything and finally being able to "settle down" for the day he apologizes profusely to Lanyon about leaving him and shit.) Harry's main goal now is to keep control (he avoids sleeping as much as he can, though Lanyon certainly has something to say and do about that) and find a way to reverse the formula, which he'll probably try to get help with from Frankenstein.

Also!! While Harry's real and in control, he can still vaguely see the strings, but no one else can. They're basically an illusion, like the nightmare creatures (which he still has to deal with, though he's somewhat more used to them) and he can still feel them tug and such, but can resist the pulling. When Jekyll and/or Hyde fight really hard for control, Harry's heart also goes crazy, like Jekylls did during the exhibition. ADDITIONALLY, Harry is also VERY sensitive to physical sensations, since he's been trapped in the mind so long with most all feeling numbed, he's practically hypersensitive now. (Bonus points, he seeks out physical contact a lot from Lanyon, since it brings him an all-encompasing warmth and somewhat calms him, LET THEM BE HAPPY AND GAY!!)

In the Mindscape, Jekyll and Hyde probably find Harry's journal(s) and figure out that they're BOTH incomplete pieces, and that this "Harry" is their whole version. Like, you know how you can delete a path on a computer and it won't know how to get to that file any more, despite it still being there? And you have to physically tell it again where it is? Yeah, Well the path to Jekylls whole, completed state has been reestablished.

Anyways, they'll probably fight or talk for a while, wander around the Mindscape looking for ways to get out/gain control again (bonus points if they let the nightmares out again) (more bonus points if Jekyll finds his silly whiteboard again and starts doing his little thing, while Hyde groans and complains the whole time).

Eventually they do get back to the consciousness and are able to hang out in mirrors and such again. Harry actually talks to them this time bc he's alone, about what, you may ask? Idk lmao. Harry's already mostly fixed things for the day and is pouring over research books again, pages of messy writing already covering the table. Probably tells them that he intends on reversing the potion because he can't keep living trapped, split into two halves that won't stop fighting.

Anyways!!!! Thank you for the ramble card teehee, just took me literal weeks to think of something to ramble about 💀💀 BUT!! IF ANYONE WANTS TO ASK ANYTHING SPECIFIC ABOUT HARRY (OR ELIAS) PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T HESITATE, I LOVE MY BABIES AND I NEED TO STOP NEGLECTING THEM <333

[caashmoneynae]

MY MASTERLIST. <- click here for more!

❦

A RIM-SHOT.

D'ANGELO x BLACK!FEM!OC

SUMMARY: in which Essence gets a shot at D'Angelo, her long-time instrument-playing crush who played a local club she frequents. ✨

❦

𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 and her sister Erin sat at a table in the front row of the poetry and neo-soul club as they watched the band perform, both of their focuses on different instrumentalists while Essence gently tapped her foot to the rhythm of the song playing underneath the table.

the club was more of an African American club, and i say this because mostly Black folks were seen visiting it. sure, some earthy-looking white women visited occasionally to enjoy the sounds of catchy soul and smooth poetry slams, but the club was more of a safe space for Black people, especially since all of the employees and the performers were black.

the owner? black. the bartender? black. the instrumentalists? black. the singers? black. the poets? black.

it was a black-owned business with black employees, black visitors, black performers, and black instrument players, and Lord knows you'd never find that anywhere else but there.

"you think i could transform into a drum set, Erin?" Essence rhetorically asked, resting her hand underneath her chin, as the sisters locked eyes and Erin let out a soft chuckle.

"as long as i can transform into a guitar." Erin joked, a playful smile on her face, as Essence cracked a smile and let out a soft laugh while their dark brown eyes averted back to the stage in sync.

the drummer of the band on stage was D'Angelo, also referred to at times as just 'D'. he was one of the reasons why Essence was a consistent visitor at the peaceful club. he was an extremely attractive man, and nobody in the room could deny that. from his neat and slightly lengthy black cornrows, his caramel and seemingly smooth skin, and his gorgeous and hypnotizing brown eyes to his beautiful aura, his calming energy, and his enticing and slightly raspy vocals; it was clear as day that he was definitely one of God's favorites.

Essence hadn't made a move on the brown-skinned man yet, and honestly, she didn't know why. she wasn't a very shy woman and approaching a man she wanted wasn't hard for her to do, but for some odd reason, she hesitated on approaching D'Angelo. sure, he was intimidating and he made her nervous, but that never stopped her before, so it confused her and her sister why she hadn't pursued the drummer yet.

as for Erin, the guitarist she was fawning over was none other than André, referred to as André 3000, Dré, and sometimes just 3000, and he was also stunning as well. Erin wasn't as bold as Essence, so it was understandable why she hadn't approached him yet, but she wanted to grow out of her shy ways and pursue the man she wanted, which is what she said she'd do tonight, and this caused a deal to brew up between her and Essence.

the two made a deal that they both had to let go of their anxiety and timidness and approach the men they secretly adored, which Essence agreed to without a second thought. the goal was to spark up a conversation and get their numbers, but if it went further than that, it'd be extra points for the two.

ending up in their beds wasn't the achievement they were going for, but if they got that far, they wouldn't complain about it. it'd just push them further into wanting to seal the deal they had agreed upon the night before.

—

"you takin' that shot because you want it or because you need somethin' to make you bold?" Essence asked, raising a brow, as she watched Erin down a shot of Vodka and Erin slightly cringed at the sensation of the strong liquor going down her throat while she gently cleared her throat.

"both," Erin croaked, lightly hitting her chest, as she signaled the bartender over to refill her shot glass and Essence laughed while she sipped on her strawberry margarita, "don't worry 'bout me tho', tell me how you gon' approach D."

"i still ain't figured that out." Essence mumbled, letting out a soft chuckle, as she fiddled with a few of her black locs and Erin raised a brow at her before chuckling, downing her shot and biting down on her bottom lip to keep her from making a face while she wiped the corners of her mouth.

"girl, you ain't got a lot of time to try and figure that out. you shoulda' had that planned out last night," Erin chuckled, shaking her head, as she sat down her shot glass and stood up from her stool, "i see André's off stage, so i'm 'bout to go holla' at him before this liquor wears off. i wish you luck in gettin' ya drummer boy, Essie."

"and i wish you luck in gettin' ya guitarist, E." Essence smiled, playfully winking towards her, as Erin sent a wink back and walked away from the bar, going towards wherever her dream man was while Essence turned around to face the bar and swirled her straw in her glass.

maybe if she would've gotten something stronger than a margarita she'd be able to approach D'Angelo like Erin approached André, but she hated the taste and smell of strong liquor so that option was quickly thrown out of the window. sinking into her overthinking, Essence rested her hand against her jaw as she stared at the counter and slipped her slim black straw between her plump lips, sipping the rest of the margarita in her cocktail glass while she tried to come up with a way that she could imitate Erin's actions and go up to her crush.

she didn't know how she'd do it, but she knew she'd bag her dream man tonight. however, she believed it would be much easier for her to pursue him if he acknowledged her first.

"what'll ya have, sir?"

"i'll take a glass of Whisky. and refill this pretty lady's glass with whatever she had before. put all that on my tab." the familiar silky voice made Essence's ears prick up, and she snapped out of her thoughts as she watched the bartender pick up her glass and the dark-skinned woman averted her eyes to the person next to her, signaling for Essence to look at the person who was seated beside her.

turning her head, Essence's eyes nearly shot out of their sockets as she stared at D'Angelo, a small warm smile on his face while a soft blush coated Essence's brown-skinned face once she realized he had referred to her as "this pretty lady." the way he randomly appeared next to her and acknowledged her was like the universe had read her mind, and if it did, she wasn't complaining.

"a great drummer and a gentleman? i think the men in here got some competition," Essence joked, raising her brows, as D'Angelo let out a laugh and Essence giggled before holding out her manicured hand, "i'm Essence, but some people call me Essie for short."

"i'm D'Angelo, but i'm sure you knew that already," D'Angelo chuckled softly, shaking her hand, as he brought her hand up to his lips and gently kissed each of her knuckles, "so you think i'm a good drummer, huh?"

"good is an understatement if we're referring to you. sometimes i come here just to hear you play," Essence smiled, the blush on her face starting to intensify, as the bartender came back to the adults with their drinks and the both of them thanked her at once before she smiled and walked away to let them continue their conversation, "when did you learn how to play the drums?"

"when i was 12. when i was younger, i was exposed to a lot of soul music and i saw a lot of black people who played instruments, and that made me wanna be one of 'em, y'know what i'm sayin'? i started wantin' to learn to play the piano, the guitar, the saxophone — all'at. but when i found the drums... that's when i knew i found what i truly wanted to play," D'Angelo explained, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb, as Essence nodded her head and took a sip of her drink, "now, don't get me wrong, i can play all of that, but my favorite is definitely the drums. if it wasn't the drums, i'd probably be playin' the piano, not gon' lie."

"i used to play the piano at my church when i was 13. i joined a band at my school so i could continue playin' it and after i graduated, i forgot all about my passion for it until i came here," Essence chuckled, watching the male across from her take a sip of his brown liquor, as she absentmindedly ran her tongue over her lips and tingles spread up her arm once she realized her hand was still in his grasp, "you gon' get me jumped in here like half of these women not feenin' for you, D."

"half of these women only want me 'cause they think i'm attractive. i ain't worried about them. i'm worried about you," D'Angelo chuckled, licking the excess alcohol from his lips, as he sat his glass down and his brown eyes slyly flickered between Essence's eyes and lips, "you always come here by ya'self? or you come here with ya man?"

"that's your way of checkin' to see if i'm in a relationship, huh? so you a great drummer, a gentleman, and smooth... a lil' sweet-talker, ain't you?" Essence joked, a small smirk on her face, as she raised her brow and D'Angelo laughed, causing her to laugh with him, "but, nah, i don't have a man. i come here with my sister Erin."

Essence nodded her head towards Erin, causing D'Angelo to look over at her sibling, as the two looked at Erin and André and watched them flirt with one another, making both of them chuckle while they turned their attention back to one another.

"does likin' instrumentalists run in the family?" D'Angelo joked, raising a brow, as Essence laughed and picked up her drink, taking a sip of it while she removed the straw from her lips and sat it back down.

"we like what we like... and i like drummers with cornrows." Essence flirted, an enticing smirk crossing her face, as a smirk crept onto D'Angelo's face and the atmosphere around them suddenly filled with sexual tension, causing Essence's pupils to slightly dilate in lust while she lightly squeezed D'Angelo's hand.

"yeah?" D'Angelo smirked, scooting closer to her, as Essence raised a brow at him before mimicking his actions, their legs resting against each other while D'Angelo's hand trailed up her arm, "well, i like pianists with locs."

"you do, huh? you got a piano at ya crib, D?" Essence smirked, picking up her glass, as she wrapped her lips around the straw and drank the rest of the liquor in the glass.

"is that your way of askin' to come home with me?"

"maybe."

—

"ooh, nice place. i see you do a lil' decoratin' on the side." Essence complimented, a small smile on her face, as D'Angelo chuckled and closed and locked the door behind them, looking over at her while he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"thank you, beautiful. i got a lil' music room in here too, that's where all my instruments and stuff at." D'Angelo added, guiding her down the hallway, as Essence raised her brows and looked up at him.

"you got a piano in there?"

"see for yourself."

opening the door of the room, a smile crossed Essence's face once she saw D'Angelo's customized drum set but her smile widened once she saw his piano, an abrupt squeal coming from her while she walked over to it.

"oh, my Godddd, it looks like one from my high school!" Essence exclaimed, a large smile on her face, as she pulled out the wide leather piano bench and sat down on it, looking over at D'Angelo and patting the spot next to her, "c'mere. i'ma play sum' for you."

"yeah? what'chu gon' play?" D'Angelo chuckled, smiling at her enthusiasm, as he walked over to her and sat down next to her.

"listen and see." Essence playfully smirked, gently nudging the man with her elbow, as she cracked her knuckles and D'Angelo laughed at her playfulness, earning a giggle from Essence before she positioned her hands above the piano keys and began playing.

as Essence played, a wide toothy grin crept across D'Angelo's face once he realized she was playing "Lean On Me" by Bill Withers, and Essence noticed his realization when she glanced over at him, causing her to let out a soft chuckle.

"i know you know the words, drummer boy. sing a lil' sum' for me." Essence smiled, looking over at him, as their eyes locked and D'Angelo's brows raised once he realized she could play the piano without looking at it, making a small playful smirk cross her face while she raised her brows as well.

along with drumming, sometimes D'Angelo sang at the club as well, so not only did Essence fall in love with his instrument-playing, she fell in love with his skillful vocals as well.

D'Angelo let out a soft chuckle and listened to her play as he slowly caught the rhythm of her fingers on the keys and gently cleared his throat, preparing his voice to sing while his eyes gradually shut.

"LEAN ON ME, WHEN YOU'RE NOT STRONG, AND I'LL BE YOUR FRIEND," D'Angelo sang, his brows slightly furrowing in concentration, as Essence smiled widely at him and lightly nodded her head to his voice, continuing to play the piano while she looked at the singing man next to her, "I'LL HELP YOU CARRY ON. FOR IT WON'T BE LONG, 'TIL I'M GONNA NEED SOMEBODY TO LEAN ON."

"okayyy, i see you! you better sang, boy!" Essence joked, giggling, as D'Angelo let out a laugh and shook his head while Essence's piano playing gradually came to an end, "teach me how to play the drums."

"right now?" D'Angelo asked, raising his brows at her, as Essence took her fingers off the piano keys and wiped her palms on her bootcut blue jeans.

"yeah, right now. i played the piano for you, i deserve to be taught how to play the drums." Essence pouted, lightly poking out her bottom lip, as D'Angelo chuckled and shook his head, standing up from the bench and grabbing the woman's hand.

"c'mon. i'ma teach you, pretty," D'Angelo led the woman over to his drum set by her hand and pulled out the drum throne that was seated by the bass drum, "sit right here. i'ma go get another chair so i can sit behind you and show you."

"behind me?" Essence asked, her face slightly twisting up in confusion, as D'Angelo chuckled and walked back over to her with a chair in his hand, sitting it behind her while he gripped the sides of the drum throne and pushed closer to the drum set.

"yeah, behind you, Ess'. i gotta' guide you, don't i?" D'Angelo chuckled, sitting in the wooden chair behind her, as he scooted closer to her and grabbed the drumsticks that were resting on the snare drum, placing one in both of her hands while he nudged her right thigh with his knee, "put your foot right there on that drum pedal. that's how you'll hit that bass drum down there."

"okay so, here's what you're gonna do..." D'Angelo held Essence's hands as he instructed her how to create rhythmic beats, his arms resting on top of hers and his broad chest pressed up against her back as his head nestled on her right shoulder. as she listened to his instructions, she couldn't help but zone out as he spoke to her, drowning in the sexually intrusive thoughts that were beginning to cloud her mind.

with the smell of his cologne flooding her nose and his minty breath fanning her neck, Essence's mind was filled with thoughts so raunchy and vulgar that she couldn't bring herself to say them out loud, and to be honest, she didn't want to say them out loud. she could feel his body heat radiate off of his toned upper body and onto hers, and it only fueled the fire that was secretly growing inside her lower region.

who knew teaching someone how to play the drums could be so intimate?

"...you got that, ma?" hearing this, Essence was knocked out of her thoughts and she looked to her right, seeing D'Angelo look up at her while awaiting her answer to his question. as she looked into his eyes and he looked into hers, the room was gradually filled with sexual tension, and it was very similar to the tension the two felt at the club, but since they were alone, it seemed much stronger than before.

Essence's eyes flickered between D'Angelo's eyes and lips, causing him to mirror her actions, as his head rose from her shoulder and moved closer to her face, their lips inches apart while Essence's breathing softly hitched in her throat. she looked between his eyes and lips for a final time before smashing her lips onto his, capturing his lips in a passionate lip-lock while he returned the favor. D'Angelo's hands and arms were still touching hers and his chest was still pressed up against her back, and it seemed to only increase the burning flame of desire inside of the brown-skinned woman in front of him as she squeezed her thighs together and the drumsticks abruptly slipped from her grasp, the wooden sticks hitting the floor while D'Angelo gave her hands a gentle squeeze.

slipping out of his grip, Essence turned around on the drum throne, her lips still engaged with his, and she cupped his face in her hands as her acrylics ran over his chiseled jawline, making a soft grunt come from his lips while his hands rested on her thighs and caressed them through her jeans.

"got a bedroom you can fuck me in or you wanna make some music together?" Essence mumbled in the kiss, a small smirk crossing her face, as D'Angelo let out a soft chuckle and smirked with her before standing up and picking her up from the drum throne, her legs instinctively wrapping around his slim waist while he carried her over to the red loveseat near his guitars and recording booth.

"Let's make some music, baby."

[fahye]

Hey! I really enjoyed the Last Binding books, and I am dying from impatience for A Power Unbound! I'm also a writer (unpublished), and I was wondering about your stance on posting info about WIPs on tumblr. I haven't done it yet, and I'm hesitating because I don't want it to be stolen. At the same time, it may be good to interact with others about my story, and maybe start to build a small community of potential readers. Do you think it would be a good idea, or that I should refrain until I have a contract with a publisher, or at the very least an agent?

oh boy. this one got long.

if you're mentioning agents and publishers then I assume you're hoping to be traditionally published, so my advice is based on that. (if you're looking into selfpub then that's a whole other ballgame, about which I don't know a great deal.)

it's very very normal and natural to want to interact with people about your WIPs. you want the story to feel finished and real. you want a tiny sip of a sample of how it might feel to have other people read your beautiful complete book and come and tell you their feelings and thoughts.

(it's also GREAT procrastination from the really difficult part, which is....writing the damn book, editing it, and grimly entering the querying trenches.)

but I don't know if tumblr, or any public social network, is the place for it.

I'm assuming you're not talking about putting entire chapters online. (bad idea. BAD. publishers are strict about what counts as prior publication of a story, and unless you were a viral selfpub sensation they usually don't want something that's been published - even in part - online.)

if you share all the details about the plot, or even a really killer hook of a premise that you're proud of: yeah, you do run the risk of it being stolen, and maybe that person writes faster than you and gets it out into the publishing ecosystem first. likely? probably not. possible? sure.

the other half of the argument is arguably even more important, albeit a bit depressing: you're not going to build a community on tumblr of potential readers of an original idea. especially one that doesn't yet exist. or that does exist, but perhaps will never be available for them to read, if the agent/publisher thing doesn't work out.

the exception to this might be if you already have a community of readers, and you're okay with your fandom and authorial personas being directly linked. perhaps you do! perhaps you're a fan writer with a following of readers! in which case I don't think there's any harm in being open & excited on tumblr about the fact that you're also working on original things and hoping to pursue publication.

here's my advice. you can make and post all the aesthetic boards and fun memes and spotify playlists your creative heart desires! do it for yourself, to keep yourself excited about the story. don't hang your heart on anyone else caring about your beloved blorbos yet.

and find a community of people at your career stage. I had a lot of friends who grew up in fandom with me and who were making the shift to original work at the same time. and one day a tumblr friend (hi @english-mace!) DMed me and offered an exchange of beta-reading for short stories, when we were both at the stage of being largely unpublished. and she then invited me into a small groupchat of early-career sff writers who became a great source of support and advice and indulgent listening to me enthusing about my blorbos and wailing about the tribulations of the tradpub process.

sometimes you're lucky. sometimes it's just a matter of asking your best one-or-two friends to let you bounce ideas off them and give you a little confidence boost. and sometimes you have to go looking. there are discords and slacks and facebook groups out there for aspiring writers: find a few, and go digging for your people.

I hope you find a community to share encouragement and joy with, anon. it's so, so hard to be at the stage of being halfway up the hill and bursting to share.

but you're still only halfway up the hill, and only you can get yourself to the summit. keep climbing. pause sometimes and make a beautiful gifset if it makes you happy. and then keep climbing.

good luck!

[donnerpartyofone]

I have been selfishly sitting in the direct path of these fans at church. Fortunately no one is fighting me for the seat; I know old people can get very cold, maybe they don't overheat as quickly for the same reasons? Anyway, now I get to watch the slow death of the lilies placed at the feet of Saint Anthony for his feast last week. I'm a big fan of him, especially as a person who chronically loses things (“Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony please come around. Something is lost and needs to be found!"), but I also like that he spoke multiple languages and was extremely eloquent and compelling. As someone with pretensions of being a writer, that's an enviable claim to fame; people tell me I'm articulate but I don't think I have ever won an argument one single time in my whole life. Imagine being so convincing that people want to do this to your jaw bone?

There's a story about him that seems to both contradict and reinforce this reputation, in which he preaches to a bunch of heretics who ignore or insult him, so he says "fuck this" and goes to preach to the creatures of the sea--who are startlingly responsive. I wish there were more great artistic renditions of this episode than I have found, but I enjoy the Böcklin one a great deal:

(I wish I could find a sharper version but oh well) On a related note, today I learned that the word "daily" that describes "bread" in the Lord's Prayer is translated from a Greek word that appears just twice in the New Testament, and again only in a 5th century Egyptian shopping list. It may have been originally coined to approximate whatever Jesus originally said in Aramaic or Hebrew, and its exact meaning remains controversial and mysterious:

Possibilities include daily as in "quotidian", or daily as in "forever" (like all of the days comprising eternity), or something more like "essential" (what is needed to sustain a day), or more likely "SUPERessential" as in either "abundant, more than necessary" or "beyond material essence and into the essence of spirit". Of course I'm being very clumsy in my own approximations but the Wikipedia article is really interesting. I like the interpretation that says "Give us today the bread of tomorrow," perhaps meaning sustenance for the afterlife.

Of course the copy-of-a-copy-of-a-copy sensation attached to the Bible is one reason why it's hard to get secular people on board with religion (including me). You are always just "taking someone's word for it", but it's hard to even say exactly whose word we are taking. And what the word really is, or was. Even the word "word" is loaded, it's like some hybrid of "concept" and "intention", as in "the Word made flesh". Today when I was looking at the statue of Saint Anthony I noticed that he has a book open--who knows what book, but he can't possibly be reading it because Jesus is stomping all over it. It's funny to think of Saint Anthony trying to read (probably) scripture that the Christ Child is completely in the way of. I guess whoever designed the statue would probably prefer that I not read too much into it.

[cartograffiti]

January '24 reading diary

I finished a whopping 17 books in January, thanks to picking up a lot of quicker reads (novellas! poetry! manga!), and a bunch of them were really exciting!

At Christmas, my mother bought a copy of Taskmaster: 220 Extraordinary Tasks for Ordinary People for the assembled family to pass among ourselves. It's fun and funny, but there's very little in it I'm likely to try. It's also worth noting that the book was published in 2018 and Alex Horne ran a contest alongside it, which means that there are some prompts with a 2019 deadline, and some that require going to specific places in the United Kingdom.

Some cookbooks! Pieometry: Modern Tart Art and Pie Design for the Eye and the Palate was another Christmas gift to me, by the amazing Instagram sensation Lauren Ko. I've always found her very precise decorations intimidating, and I doubt I'll attempt more than the simplest of the ones she gives instructions for here, but they're inspiring to look at, and I very much want to try some of the recipes for interesting fillings and naturally colored crusts.

I picked up Snacking Bakes by Yossy Arefi after seeing someone claim that an earlier Arefi book, Snacking Cakes, had changed the landscape of home baking in the US. I found the recipes in Bakes really basic, but I hopped into the much longer hold line for Cakes, so maybe in a couple of months I can tell you how much that's hype.

I probably won't make anything from Tasting History by Max Miller, but I like him on YouTube, and expected that. This is a book for reading about historical cooking, and the recipes are a bonus if one really intrigues you. Nice details, well laid out.

It fit in nicely with a couple of reading challenges to read a Pablo Neruda collection--I chose The Essential Neruda on the basis that Hoopla had it--and I enjoyed it hugely. I'd read Neruda poems from time to time as a child and student, mostly ones about nature and love, but this collection has a nice breadth to it, introducing me to examples of his work that deal with labor exploitation and political events. I can't speak to the quality of translation, but even only knowing his work in English, I find the rhythm and imagery really special and memorable. I'm especially fond of "Drunk as Drunk on Turpentine." He's one of the most famous Chilean writers, and I'm glad to be more familiar now with the reasons why.

Last month, I said that my mother and I had started working through a hard Nick Bantock puzzle book, and we were very impressed with it. It's called The Egyptian Jukebox, and it's a succession of interesting puzzles about interpreting the contents of photographed shadowbox "drawers." Mom, who is an excellent codebreaker, worked out a core mechanic pretty swiftly, while I floundered with wrong approaches for a bit and then asked her to confirm whether I was finally on the right track; that made the first few pages the hardest part, and the rest relied more heavily on my strengths of observation and lateral thinking. We both found the final solution extra fun because of a personal connection, but I think the journey will be satisfying enough for most puzzlers.

I've been trying to read literally any Becky Chambers book for multiple years without getting around to it, but this month I listened to the audiobooks of A Psalm for the Wild-Built and A Prayer for the Crown-Shy and just adored them. This is a duology about Sibling Dex, a monk whose role is to serve tea and listen to people's problems, and Mosscap, the first robot anyone has seen since robots became sapient and withdrew from human society, generations ago. They travel together, with beautiful writing about nature, spirituality, and various kinds of social responsibility. Every bit as good as I'd heard.

Dumb Witness is a solid mid-range Agatha Christie mystery (which is to say better than most people's), an inheritance murder plot involving a letter sent months after it was dated, interesting poison facts, and key evidence from a dog. It's a bit dated, because it relies on subverting some ideas about mental health and xenophobia that have changed since 1937. I can appreciate what she did, but at a remove.

More than one of the reading challenges I'm doing this year call for reading a manga. I like manga, but I probably haven't read any in about 10 years, since I read all sorts of Clamp and shoujo and shounen with high school friends. I fell off as my tastes moved to series aimed at young adults, which were at the time harder to find in my area. Anyway, I'm excited to have gotten sucked into a manga again! I'd seen some of Shirahama Kamome's beautiful art from Witch Hat Atelier and I quickly fell in love with the story, which surrounds Coco, a young witch being taught to work magic using art supplies. The interpersonal relationships are strong, the apprentices are real people with distinct outlooks, and the larger plot about what kinds of magic are banned, and whether they should be, is fascinating. I tore through volumes 1-5, and I have two more checked out and another on hold. Both cheerful and serious, original, and not set in a school environment. Lovely, and one of several things motivating me to try drawing again lately.

The Emelan group read has gone into the Circle Reforged novels, and we're reading in chronological order. Battle Magic was...fine? Not the most interesting Pierce major arc, but lots of interesting things woven through it. It was written in her period of slower pacing, which I don't like as much.

I know several big fans of Dorothy Dunnett's 16th century historical fiction drama the Lymond Chronicles, and oh man am I on the boat now too. The Game of Kings is so confusing (complimentary), full of emotion and grabby characters, and I fell in love. She expects a lot of her readers. I sent in the chat where I'm live blogging that, "Here's an obscure Ancient Roman. Now understand an allusion to how a particular beetle moves. Jokes in five languages. And there's even a plot." Sometimes it's overwhelming, but it's also exactly my kind of thing, every chapter has at least one perfect scene, and Dunnett does some incredible literary magic tricks. One night I felt like I felt like I was being crushed in a vise. I'm already reading the next one, which has a reveal that made me stop reading for fully 40 minutes while I unpicked what I'd missed. I want to write fanfiction. God.

And yesterday I put on a sim game and listened in one sitting to all of Malka Older's The Mimicking of Known Successes, a wonderful sci-fi novella about a detective (Mossa) on Jupiter collaborating with her former college girlfriend (Pleiti) to investigate a case that touches on Pleiti's research, the study of ecological history with the hope of repairing Earth's ecosystem enough for humanity to return to it. Their chemistry is great, the plot is clever, and the dialogue in particular is shiny and tender. I found a couple of world-building beats underdeveloped--there's a thing about "conservative" being a slur in this future that I don't think stuck the landing of indicating the threat being conservative posed to people who had to change or die--but I look forward to reading the next.

[lutawolf]

Hello lovely, all knowing Luta!

I have two parts to my ask if that’s ok! Firstly I saw your break down of different types of subs (SUPER HELPFUL to a baby sub like me) and I just wanted to know how you would find someone willing to deal with a SAM or brat? I know you’ve said before it takes a specific Dom, and I just don’t know myself how to pick one out or find one. Also along those lines, is there any form of non-sexual bratty/Sammie domination? These might be super niche questions, I just want to make sure I’m educated before trying to get into my local community (advice on that?).

Second, I know for myself I get super attached to people. Is it hard to transition from having a Dom to not? Like if I broke up with or separated with my partner/Dom, would it be hard for me to readjust to making more decisions myself or not having that guidance.

Finally, just out of curiosity because I haven’t seen you lost anything super specific on the topic so feel free to ignore, opinions on Shibari?

Thanks a billion!!!

Hey Hey nonnie!!!

Okay so a short break down of Doms. I'm clearly not going to address ALL of them but I'm going to give you some examples as they would relate to you.

The Degrader Dom – This Dominant enjoys being sadistic; but more on the side of humiliation towards their submissives. Though it does not have to be humiliation. usually if the dom is a Brat Tamer it is less on the humiliation. (This is actually Payu. He does some great examples of degrading.)

The Classic Dom– This Dominant enjoys all the rituals of BDSM, typically very well versed in the BDSM culture. Usually strict and stoic. Their submissives are often taught high protocols and are expected to know how to act within certain situations. These Doms are often seen as mentors in the community. (This is not your type of Dom. Good Dom but won't give you what you are looking for.)

The Gentle and Charming Dom – This Dominant is often the brat tamers. They are typically very cool, calm, and collected. While charming as well. They come across as a protector and will often engage in sensation play or romantic play, but push them too far, and you will see an intensity in them that will send shivers down your spine. Regardless of how gentle they seem, they will gladly give it to you if you deserve punishment. (This is Payu as well.)

The Primal Dom – This Dominant enjoys taking what is theirs when and where they want to, and they enjoy the hunt of the game. A primal Dom enjoys pursuing their prey, and these dominants enjoy chasing and having their subs fight back. (This is the type to enjoy a no kink in a brat.)

There can be mixtures of these just as I explained with the sub definition. So it's always a good idea to write down what your wants are and figure out where it falls on the scale. As far as local community advice . You have to be self aware when going into the kink community. Just like any community there are different types and they are all personal. As well as the fact that some of these groups allow things that I personally find immoral so I strongly recommend safe, sane, and consensual. If you have any triggers at all! Make sure you are part of a group with a licensed doctor and therapist. Know who and what you are.

Once you’ve done that. Search out friends that match your profile. Someone who will take you under their protection. Know that BDSM is a lifestyle/culture and it takes years to understand. There is no fast pacing it, that’s a good way to get hurt.

I am not a submissive so I can only give you my opinion based on what I've seen. It depends on the depth of the relationship and guidelines. If you are keeping it to just scene level and no emotional connection then you would likely be okay. However, are the type that wants to hand it all over including emotions then yeah, it's gonna be rough. I have two emotionally invested submissives, which are my husband and another. One is sexual and one is not but both would not do well if they suddenly had to make certain decisions again. So yeah, be selective. Even more so than dating.

You are one of my newer peeps for sure. I am a Rigger and I very much lean towards Shibari. Though it's been awhile cause it is not my husband's kink. I tend to do knot work in my spell work more than anything these days. For me there is nothing like rope drunk, nothing. The emotions are so intense that I can just think about it and go back. It hits touch and visual senses and suspends you there. It can be non-sexual but it's still gonna feel sexual. There is just no way around that because of how intensely it makes you feel regardless of if you're the Rigger or model.

Hope this was helpful! 💜💜💜

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The beach PARTIES: Regan and Metzli SUMMARY: Metzli has insisted to a very skeptical Regan that they're quite the artist. And though Regan normally wouldn't care, the dead subject matter is hard to resist.

Metzli was an odd one. If Regan had any right to think that. Gull scapulae, fish vertebrae, one long and very dead jellyfish. She could feel them by and under her feet, discarded by the ocean in a delightful collection where the waves met dry sand. As tempting as it was to get started on finding something worthy of an artistic rendering, that would have been rude in a way she actually cared about. The others wouldn’t have tolerated that. Beginning a search for bones, for death, before everyone arrived. It was one of the few pieces of etiquette in Saol Eile that made intuitive sense to Regan. 

She didn’t have to wait long, though, as someone was approaching from across the beach. There was no one else here, in this rather private location, so she determined this person was likely Metzli. The bag of presumably art supplies made that even more likely. It was also immediately obvious both by their gait and silhouette that they were lacking an arm. Interesting. Not something to ask about just yet. And then, something more interesting – the creeping sensation that crawled along her arms and the nape of her neck as Metzli got closer, like death twisted into something perverse and wrong. Regan stood, straight and still, watching them, waiting. “Metzli, I presume. Dr. Kavanagh.” She didn’t extend a hand. “You didn’t happen to pick up something along the way, did you? Something dead.”

It didn’t take long to find the spot Regan had selected. Her directions were clear and succinct, guiding them until they were right in front of her. Metzli had no experience with doctors, but that seemed on par with the occupation. Dealing with ailments and medication had to require that kind of attention to detail, but that was all just hearsay as far as Metzli was concerned. They thought perhaps Regan would provide some sort of proof. Under a cloudy day, no less. Metzli had brought an umbrella just in case, but it looked like they were in luck.

“Yes,” They replied, bowing at the waist gratefully. “I am Metzli Bernal. I look forward to painting—hm?” Standing straight, Metzli tilted their head and arched a brow. They couldn’t recall picking anything up, and even if they had, how would this stranger possibly know? And since that wasn’t the case, Metzli wondered if she was sensing them instead. “I did no picking up of dead thing.” They looked back to where their car was. Had they hit something? No, that wasn’t it. “What are you speaking of? Do I smell?” Which was absurd because Metzli always took special care to shower daily. “I am confusion.”

Confusion? Confused. Didn’t matter. Their accented English made it clear it wasn’t their first language, and even Regan had enough respect not to make a correction unless asked for. She’d had enough of that herself – despite many in Saol Eile having English in their repertoire, most chose to use Irish Gaelic first and foremost, and it took years before she could consider herself fluent. Even now, she felt some invisible pressure to use it more than she had been. There hadn’t been any reason to since fleeing. 

“No,” Regan said, hesitating, “you don’t smell”. That wasn’t it, not really. But it was too abstract, too difficult to explain, and Regan had gained an unfortunate understanding that much of what she’d experienced was beyond the ken of the average person. She wished she were among them again. “Did you bring everything you need? I’m interested in seeing how well you can capture the likeness of something so beautiful. Come, we should find a model for you to paint, don’t you think?” She eyed them cautiously, not trusting the bristling against her skin, but saw no ill-intent on their face. “Do you have a preference? Size? Animal? There are so many to choose from, right here, and right now…” Her fingers itched to start pulling prizes from the sand. “The dreary weather is unfortunate. Your subject would look more magnificent in the sunlight.”

A sense of relief blanketed around Metzli, glad to see Regan didn’t press much further. Whatever she had sensed didn’t dissuade her from the promise of making a beautiful painting. It was the one thing Metzli had been looking forward to for days other than seeing Leila at night. “Yes. Everything I need is in my bag.” They finally said, looking at the shoreline with a robotic serenity. The land was beautiful despite the drab weather the lack of sun caused. With Metzli’s talent, they knew they didn’t need it anyway. The piece would come out perfect. 

“No preference. You are expert. Will only be more beautiful if you pick the subject.” Metzli paused, watching as the reverence in Regan’s eyes grew. That in itself was a gorgeous moment, and they were intent on memorizing it for a future piece. If the two were to become friends, maybe she’d enjoy the moment etched on paper forever. “Will still look good. I assure you.” Placing their equipment down, Metzli walked closer to Regan, looking over to her. “I will follow as you are expert.”

Expert. Oh, how she’d missed that word. Regan had spent years dedicated herself to academic pursuits, becoming a phenomenal physician, but it had all been torn away from her in moments. And in her new world, she was so far from being an expert. The others reminded her, every day, physically and verbally. She gave Metzli a nod of acknowledgement but suppressed a smile. “That I am. I’ll find us something awe-inspiring. Though aren’t they all…” Regan trailed off in a mumble, looking down at the sand as she walked in no particular direction. She could feel them, so many of them, and yet there would always be some mystery. Perhaps just like Metzli. 

There, this was the one. Between Regan’s feet, several inches below the sand, was something radiating elegant, flowing waves of decay. Regan took a deep breath, taking it in. “I’ve found our subject.” She knew, even before she pulled it up. Better put gloves on for this, she thought, stretching the nitriles over her hands. “One moment,” she said, turning back to Metzli, who had – true to their word – dutifully followed her as she’d trailed across the beach, much further than she’d realized. Regan sank her hands into the sand, letting it flow through her fingers, and allowing the prickling on her skin to guide her. She weaved between a couple of shells, some sea glass, and finally found their model: half of a sea gull, with one wing and its feet torn off by great force, glossy eyes, and the bottom of the right rib cage exposed to the elements. Each remaining feather was full of intricate detail to appreciate. She breathed in again, this time really smelling it. The sand protected the carcass, somewhat, but she estimated it was no older than 4 or 5 days. “Here it is,” she said, cradling the dead, ragged sea gull, “the perfect model.”

Metzli trailed behind Regan in silence, admiring the way she all but glided above the sand. She was in her element, experiencing pure bliss and fawning over each being that had passed. It was beautiful. Strange, sure, but who was Metzli to judge? They enjoyed her peculiar hobby, though it felt offensive to call it that. It looked like death was her entire world, so deeply ingrained in her that she couldn’t help but follow whatever force guided her. The beauty was so great that the powerful smell of decay didn’t distress Metzli’s senses. 

Instead, they all but welcomed it, almost able to see the beauty Regan saw. Her eyes sparkled with life, a stark contrast to what was in her hands, but her admiration seemed powerful enough to give life. And maybe it was. Metzli definitely felt something warm their chest for a few beats, and then it was gone. “Yes. It is perfect. You have exceptional skills in searching. It is my turn now.” Looking for the perfect scenery for the background wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as the subject, but Metzli was picky. 

Looking down the shoreline, Metzli’s brows bounced with intrigue, enjoying a formation of rocks that Regan could sit on. “Over there,” They pointed, “Find seat and I will grab supplies.” 

Their turn to look? But she already found – then Regan looked over at Metzli, and took in what they were doing. Scanning, searching for something special and particular just as she had done moments again. For a second, Regan even humored the thought that Metzli might have appreciated the dead gull in her hands almost as much as she had. But if the last five years made anything clear, it was that that was all but impossible. Still, Metzli appreciated something Regan couldn’t quite grasp – their surroundings. She wasn’t even sure she would have noticed if the tide had come in up to their ankles, she was so engrossed in her find. So Metzli could tell her where to go, what light to set the remains in, what to do. She would concede expertise to them now.

“What do you see?” she asked them, squinting across the intertidal zone. She even stood on her toes to see better, despite the clear view. Was it… the rocks? “Oh, a seat… certainly. But what about…?” She looked down, her gloved fingers caressing white feathers tinged with dry, brown blood. She didn’t want to put it down. Could she really trust that Metzli wouldn’t befoul it in some way? Regan sighed, approaching the rocks Metzli asked her to sit on. She didn’t set just yet, instead watching Metzli open up their bag and begin questing for the materials they felt the moment called for. “How much did you bring?”

Before the materials could be retrieved, Regan had grown curious herself, causing Metzli to stop in their tracks. Eyes scanned the land, surveying it with an artist’s gaze, finally landing back on Regan. “I see perfect background for perfect subjects.” Deciding that was enough information, Metzli returned to their task and grabbed their bag, marching back to Regan, who looked a little more than confused. Their instructions weren’t exactly clear, but they thought they were enough. They mentally shook their head, making a note to be clearer in their words.

“You hold remains. Must stay still. Can you do that?” Metzli said, unzipping the bag and first taking out their easel and canvas. They had stretched it themself, carefully and lovingly piecing it together for that particular piece. It was something they did for every piece. The canvas had to complement the work, every piece had to be connected. “I brought all my brushes and my best set of oils. These ones make best texture. Make piece have more dimension.” They clipped their palette on their easel, looking back to Regan once again. “Would you like help with posing or will you pose self?”

The eyes of an artist were a curious thing indeed, and Regan didn’t truly understand. She had long accepted that it would be part of this world that was beyond her – appreciating the fine arts in more than a straightforward, literal way. Some of the others were different; they had room in their strange lives for the arts, even allowing it to be a bright spot in their servitude-filled days, but Cliodhna had other thoughts. She honed in on Regan’s dedication like a bird of prey and swooped down. There had been no room for other pursuits so long as she was around, and Regan was just fine with that. But how alien this all was.

“I understand,” Regan nodded, still caressing the remaining wing. “I will sit with the remains.” And she did just that, setting herself down on a flat part of the rocks, the bird draped over her lap like it was born to be there. Decompositional fluid dribbled down her pants, leaving a wet patch in the sand by her feet. She allowed herself one huff to appreciate the humor of being asked to stay still – having it questioned if she could. “I won’t move an inch unless you tell me to.” But that didn’t include her eyes, and as she watched Metzli unpack a rainbow of different paints and brushes, something thawed instead of her, just a little, appreciating their dedication. And the fact they were here at all, true to their words. “I’ll pose however you want me to.” Regan suddenly felt a tad awkward. Had she sat wrong? Was this not sufficient? Surely the remains would be radiant no matter what, but Metzli had a… vision. And she would comply with it, within reason. 

The thought of touching Regan wasn’t ideal, touching most people wasn’t. She was smart though, right? Metzli hoped pointing and speaking were enough. Their eyes flickered to Regan’s, noticing how she adoringly glided her thumb over the subject’s wing. They had a feeling the portrait would be a masterpiece. All Regan needed to do was adjust her hand ever so slightly. “Raise right hand and let it fall naturally,” They kneeled in front of Regan, hovering where her hand should go on her thigh, but never touching. “Now cross heels, left over right, and then sit straight.” 

They looked to the horizon line, finding one last adjustment. “Raise chin a little.” They mimed the movement, tilting their head as they watched. When she was perfectly placed, Metzli rushed back to the canvas and set to work, outlining the scene with their pencil as quickly as possible. Live subjects never stayed in place too long, always growing tired far too soon for their liking.

“You will be able to move soon if you need to. I sketch outline. Better if you do not, so colors and shadows are accurate.” Metzli paused, picking out a color and mixing it before applying it to the canvas. The silence was nice, peaceful even. Regan had been the closest thing to a perfect subject that they’d experienced. They wondered if she would also require something as awful as small talk, but that didn’t seem to be the case. That was a relief.

Regan both understood and did not understand the instructions. She knew how to let her hand fall and she knew how to sit straight. What she didn’t know was why it mattered right now, why they needed her so still. But as Metzli’s eyes fell over her – remarkably kind despite their oddities – the pieces started fitting together. The painting wasn’t just going to be the dead sea gull. No, Metzli intended to paint a scene, with her in it. Regan’s mouth dropped open as she tried to search for words. No objections came. But it didn’t feel right. “I wasn’t expecting – I mean, I didn’t think –” But Metzli was already delivering new instructions, and Regan obeyed, straightening out her sweater in the process, and not really knowing how to back out of such a thing or if she should. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let Metzli determine how to best proceed with their art. After all, if things got out of hand and the carcass was disrespected, she’d be right here to address such behavior. 

“I will stay still, like one of my decedents,” Regan finally said, agreeing to whatever this arrangement was. And though her lip curled at even the thought of the word magic, it was an apt word to describe the relationship between a true artist and their theater of work – meant far more figuratively, of course, than the use that word saw in the rest of the town. Would speaking make things more difficult? She didn’t want to give them a hard time. So Regan did as she said she would, staying still and studying Metzli right back with just her eyes. She couldn’t help but think that they had an especially difficult task ahead of them with one arm. But she wouldn’t ask, not yet. For now, she was content just watching the magic.

It had been an hour since Regan had been requested to sit still. Metzli didn’t see her move, and if she had even moved an inch, they certainly didn’t notice. Truly the most spectacular subject they’d ever had. They wondered if Regan’d be open to more sessions, more moments captured on canvas. Even if she wasn’t, Metzli wouldn’t push. One time was enough. One time was an honor in and of itself. 

“Nearly done,” Metzli said, finally breaking the silence between the two. They pushed their detail brush down, gliding a perfect line. It was thin and precise, perfecting the shadow of the wing against Regan’s gloves. Stepping back to both inspect and admire their work, Metzli nearly smiled. It had been far too long since they reflected their eyes onto canvas, creating a near-perfect copy of the sight in front of them. Of course, as with any piece, there were some liberties with color and light, but their choices only enhanced the scene. 

“Okay,” Metzli looked back to Regan, stepping to the side. “You may move and come see if you wish.”

Time passed quickly, especially because watching Metzli work promoted relaxation – or at least as much relaxation as Regan was capable of. The dead bird probably helped, too. But just as she enjoyed watching other medical examiners conduct autopsies (provided they did things absolutely correctly), she also enjoyed watching other experts engage in their perfected craft. And though she couldn’t see what was on the other side of the canvas yet, something inside of her knew it was going to be beautiful. It was the care Metzli placed in each stroke, and the way their eyes settled over even the smallest of details, like the leg draping down or the stray feather that had detached, dropping down by her feet.

And finally, just like that, it was time. Regan’s eyes widened at the invitation, and she hesitated, knowing that once she moved it would be impossible to settle back in precisely the same place, in the same way. “You’re certain?” Ashe asked, just to check. But Metzli had stepped aside, and was waiting patiently for her to come admire their work. She couldn’t deny that. Carefully, she set the bird aside and approached Metzli, once again ignoring the way her skin tingled around them. What she saw was worth it. The carcass was beautifully rendered, sunlight added to gleam off the exposed flesh, and each feather its own masterpiece. Regan’s jaw dropped as she soaked it in. But then she looked at her – painted with an equal amount of care, but inspiring something else inside of her. She closed her mouth, suppressing the roiling feeling in her stomach. Don’t think about it. Just look at the bird. It was easy to get lost in its beauty again. “Metzli, you are an impressive talent. But of course, you’re aware of that.”

It was too often, especially in childhood, that voices go unheard. With so many out there, crowding together in a mess too loud to discern, it was easy to get lost. Or worse, be told not to add any more echo to the waves of sound. Sit still. Be seen and not heard. It was why Metzli took to painting so easily. Without a voice, they would transfer thought to paper, and bring to life everything they ever felt with each stroke of their pencil. And later on, paint.

Little by little, Metzli learned that not all language contained words and they found they could speak many. Each medium had its own linguistic flare. Anyone could understand if they simply looked. That’s exactly what Regan did. Her eyes lingered as if she was in a moment stuck in slow motion, and she was willing it to pause. Yes, art speaks when you can’t, and if someone was willing to listen like Regan had, a different piece altogether was created. 

“I am glad you like it, Dr. Kavanagh.” Metzli bowed their head respectfully, closing their eyes as they inhaled the moment. “Still needs drying but I can frame it for you if you wish. Pick special wood and carve it. Complete the piece. All free. It was pleasing to paint two perfect subjects.”

“Like it?” Regan asked, her voice sincere, “I more than like it.” The others would have even found that permissible. They weren’t supposed to take a strong liking to material things, anything that Death could remove with such swift ease, but bone-inspired art was a notable exception. And paintings in their likeness. So many of them were self-important. Regan flinched internally again thinking about the fact she was in this painting, too. Metzli’s offer was generous, but could she really have a portrait of herself hanging up on her walls? She hardly recognized that face. “I…” she hesitated, unsure how to explain her need to decline the work of art. She didn’t want to insult them. It wasn’t them or their art. “The place that I live is supposed to be devoid of distraction.” Her gaze traced over the beautiful work. “This is eye-catching, you know. I don’t think it would work.” She looked over to Metzli, hoping not to see a dejected expression. 

The uncertainty in Regan’s spoke volumes, her explanation only a small addition. Metzli understood, took no offense to the objection of their offer. Their walls were also meant to be devoid of distraction, the teachings etched into them throughout their time with Eloy. “Okay,” Metzli gave a solemn nod, thinking of a few ideas. “You do not have to take. But…” Something came to mind, a tool they used to prevent the fading that came from exposure to all sorts of lights. “ I may have solution. I can make a special cover fitted for the frame. You have it but with cover it will not be distraction.” They tilted their head, “Does that work? Not bad thing if it does not. I can keep, but you work for this painting. Found perfect subject and you model.” 

No offense seemed to have been taken by Metzli, but Regan couldn’t help but think there was a tinge of disappointment in their voice. She wanted to shrink inside of herself, but such thoughts weren’t allowed. She needed to be better. She would be better. “A cover?” Of course Metzli didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that it wasn’t merely about distraction. But they had done so much, and – wait, did she owe them? Cliodhna would have chided her for not realizing it sooner. Perhaps she could settle their score by taking the painting. It didn’t have to even be hung up. What had she done to deserve such kindness from a stranger? “Fine, yes, I will accept the art. It– it really is lovely.” She looked at Metzli, the sensation of death falling over her once more, and nodded. That still lacked an explanation. But perhaps Metzli stepped on a mouse or something and didn’t realize it. 

“You’ve been an acceptable companion today – an unexpected one, despite our planned meeting here. I don’t have anything for you today. I’m sorry for that. I would like to pay you – after all, you worked harder than I did.” But it was time they parted. This was the longest Regan had spent around someone who wasn’t deceased in months, not counting Reilly. How did goodbyes work again? She certainly didn’t make any before moving here. Regan stood up straight, shifting the weight between her feet like there was sand in her shoes. There wasn’t. Slowly, she extended her hand and gave Metzli a hard but not unkind stare. “You are skilled, Metzli, and I have spent days doing far worse.” Thank you.

Well, that was a quick change. Regan declined one second and then accepted the next? It was confusing, to say the least. Was she taking the painting out of pity, or was she trying to convince herself to not take it, and all it took was Metzli pushing? Hm…they thought it was best if they didn’t ask. Those kind of questions were meant to remain unsaid, never to be answered. “I will frame it and have everything ready by the end of the week.” Carefully, Metzli placed their brushes aside and began capping all of their oils while Regan praised their companionship. They had half a mind to do the same, but she was speaking enough for the both of them. 

“Same. People talk too much. You do not.” Metzli set their equipment down and faced Regan, noting the subtle goodbye in her tone and needing to object to payment. “No. I do this for work but this was for fun. Was honor painting beauty.” Just before they bowed their head, Regan unexpectedly extended her hand, offering the worst thing. Internally, they groaned, but if anyone deserved a handshake, she did. “Thank you for your compliment.” They grasped Regan’s hand firmly, “Please travel safe home and I will contact on web when this is ready for pickup.”

Regan couldn’t argue with that – it was an honor being in the presence of such beauty. She looked lovingly upon the bird once more, noting the presence of some new green bottle flies that seemed to agree with her. They always had impeccable taste and timing. “There are worse ways to spend one’s time.” She stared down at her hand, waiting, wondering if it was a mistake, but finally Metzli accepted the shake. And with it came a jolt, pins and needles scurrying up her arm and then down her spine. “Oh–” It was not the gentle embrace she felt when clinging to the gull or any of her bones, but something stranger, corrupted, and she didn’t like it one bit. And, she realized, Metzli’s hand was cold. Or at least not as hot as everyone else’s. There was something wrong, but she maintained composure, simply pretending she was shaking the hand of one of her decedents. That was a better thought.

But when she looked up, there was only Metzli. A disquieting reality. Regan withdrew her hand from the cold enigma of Metzli’s touch, stepping away. She couldn’t take that oh back, but she could leave before she needed to offer an explanation. Quickly. The strange sensation only grew stronger as the distance between them shrank. “No thank you is necessary, really – ever. It’s never necessary. And you know, maybe I should get going. It’s windy. And we were already saying goodbye, I think, so I’m just going to –” And Regan departed, but not before scooping up the dead gull, splashes of decomposition fluid dripping from it and marking the sand as she sprinted away.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

cw hallucinations, intrusive thoughts

I always believe I hallucinate and it is getting so hard on my nerves. I see something unexpected in the corner of my eye and think "You are hallucinating" and when I turn my head I see, that there is really something. Like now I was leaving the bathroom and I thought my bf was on his pc but he was laying on the couch in the dark. I could only see his face being illuminated by his smartphone screen. So I saw that and thought I was hallucinating until he said "hey". And I was so shocked. I don't even know, why I have this expectation in my mind, I didn't even ever hallucinate?? Probably some gaslight "this never happened, you just imagine it" rests.

In all fairness, I occasionally, when I walk around, eyes on my smartphones screen, greet a pile of clothes because I think it's my dog. This really doesn't help. While it is somewhat natural, small, very fluffy dog who just lays down wherever she wants, my mind then always goes "Ha, see, you hallucinated! I always told you! You are in the right age for schizophrenia to start, most pears with your disorders have hallucinations too, see, you weren't spared!".

My problem seems rather intrusive thoughts but those are not my usual ones, with which I can "argue" or consider how to behave. They are just quickly one-liners. And they kick at an open door. I don't know how to make this stop.

Hi anon,

I'm so sorry that you've been experiencing this. This must be really unsettling and distressing to go through.

While I wasn't entirely sure what this might be, I looked some things up and found this article talking about Responsibility OCD and fears about psychosis. It says "Individuals may have overwhelming intrusive thoughts related to psychosis, hallucinations, or acting outside of their control."

Please know you're not alone. "Intrusive thoughts of any nature are nearly universal, and it can be difficult for someone dealing with these intrusive thoughts to know the difference between real signs of psychosis and anxiety resulting from these thoughts, especially because they can both cause physical sensations such as headaches, lightheadedness, and difficulty concentrating.

In psychosis-themed OCD, you may find that your thoughts are increasing in distress and frequency, no matter how many times you try to stop them. Your compulsions may also be increasing in frequency and occupying more and more of your time. Another indicator of OCD is an inability to disengage from these thoughts, no matter what you do when they pop into your head."

While you may not necessarily be dealing with OCD, these things still seem to speak to what you're experiencing.

If you can afford or access it, and if you don't have it already, I recommend looking into getting a therapist. A mental health professional could help explore this with you and find ways to cope with these episodes.

I hope I could help. If anyone has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[danpuff-ao3]

55

oh hello! Thanks for the ask!

55.) Have you noticed any patterns in your fics?  Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

This one is interesting. As in: probably there are patterns, as I'm a very self-indulgent person, so why wouldn't I play with what I love and enjoy over and over again? But also they're so ingrained in me, they might not be obvious to me; or they might not stick out to anyone but me.

Part of the problem is also that I often prefer to be quite subtle with some things (and as I've learned lately, probably too subtle sometimes 🤣), which means a lot of words are thrown at the wall but they don't all make the final cut. And I don't often reread my own works due to the cringe, so....idk all this to say "probably more than anyone will ever know about" 😂

I don't know if this really counts as a pattern, but I do like to focus a lot on the physical. Part of it is that idea of "showing rather than telling" and more focus on the physical sensation of an emotion, and the action/reaction to it. But there's also the indulgent side of it when it comes to appearance, which can lean either quite lush or quite harsh. Both of which I find indulgent!

Let me wax poetic about how ugly Snape is, please. Then on the flip side get me into his POV very bitterly worshipping at Harry's altar. And I'm forever a sucker for poetic eye descriptors, so there's plenty of me having all of the fun describing Harry's eyes. Emerald green, leaf green, absinthe green, arsenic green....I even compared them to snake scales once! 😄 And Severus is such a dark romantic, I fully lean into all the overblown poetry in his perspective. 0 cares, let me live my life, I'm writing this for me and me alone.

I also just feel super strongly about....not everyone has to be a model. In some POVs I can't go as hard as I want, but when I can....I do! Let my man Severus have his greasy hair and his crooked teeth. What's wrong with that?? He is the sexiest ugly man who's ever walked the earth. Let people have wrinkles or stretch marks or belly rolls!! My preoccupation with Snarry keeps me from exploring more of that in the way I want, but I swear most of my will to write other ships and characters is finding new imperfections to play with and love on. Be they physical or otherwise.

Extremity and chaos are big driving forces for me. Since I am a lady of extreme emotions and also chaos. 😂 Everything is big and wild and messy and scary and I like to portray that. I can appreciate people who like to focus more on the mundane or simple parts of life, but I'm here to talk about love that is like a hurricane, like a wildfire, like tornado. Love that is big and powerful and turns your life upside down and absolutely wrecks you. And the more complex matter of holding very different feelings or ideas at the same time.

This love is wonderful and terrible. Severus is ugly and sexy. This is my heart's desire, and also my greatest fear. I'm excited and terrified. I'm overjoyed and enraged. Also: confusion and/or misunderstandings. Harry who thinks he knows Severus' motivations, but he doesn't. And at the same time, Harry who has no idea what he thinks or feels at all, because everything he's dealing with is "too much" to even begin to comprehend it. So...big and messy is the ongoing theme.

Also: overuse/misuse of punctuation 😂 It's all quite intentional. I'm very meticulous about word choice and punctuation choice. And it's all on the vibe 100%. Some things are less about correctness and more about the feeling and the flow, because there is no room for logic when I'm trying to infect people with Emotions. All that to say I sometimes make questionable decisions but they're almost always on purpose! 😅

Virginity loss is also a big theme. I love it. I play with it a lot. It ties a lot onto existing preoccupations of mine such as "extremity" and "messiness" but also a level of "possessiveness" (that might give people the ick but oh well.) Then also, on a more personal level, me playing with and exploring my own feelings about not only the resurgence of purity culture in general, but the treatment of sex and shame specifically where I was born and raised. It's just one concept that hits so many very specific happy points for me while also doing some very real work in me, so I don't imagine that one will stop cropping up anytime soon!

Anyway....I feel like this is a jumbled mess and I answered it very badly but at least I tried! 😅 I'd be curious if any readers noticed any patterns whether I listed them or not 🤔

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