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#THE COLORS ON THIS ARE SO BRIGHT AND PRETTY
shapard · 12 hours
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Albino Snake🐍
Lucifer x Human!fem!reader
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Alastor kinda reminds me of Dr. Facilier
A/n: I want to cry. I accidentally posted this🥲
You found a cute little albino snake. You named him Apple.
Soft Lucifer
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You love your home New Orleans.
The streets are filled with jazz and Happy people dancing around. It brought a smile up of your face.
It’s been so long when the streets were this filled. A big number of murders started to rise in New Orleans. Everybody stayed at home, especially you. 
News spread quickly that the Series Killer got killed by a hunter. The Hunter thought he was a deer and gave him a shot right in the middle of his skull.
The days that were cold and dull started to gain color again. And your live just became more stressful. 
Back to two jobs and a small apartment.
You worked in two Restaurants only to fulfill your dream. You want to live that dream you and you father talked about from morning to dawn. Sadly, he’ll not be able to see you reach this dream.
You’re almost there, just a couple more shifts. Just a few weeks of hard work.
You groaned when your alarm clock started ringing in your ear. Exhausted you pressed your hand onto the alarm.
You yawned and stretched your body; a small cracking sound emits from your bone, and you sigh in relief. 
“Next shift here I come!” 
As usual people side eyed you when you past them with a tray of food. Working in gastronomy is hard.
Terrible chef, terrible co-workers and even worse the customers. Your chief always tormented you that you'll never reach that dream. That it was useless. You are born poor and you stay poor, especially for a woman.
But that never lets you down. Then you'll be the first woman who'll reach the top without marrying off to a rich man.
The ring bell tuned, and your rich friend Charlotte and her father walked happily into the small business.
Charlotte smiled brightly at you when she saw you. “Y/n! There you are! I have an important question to ask you.” You laughed softly at her antics. she always was always so outgoing and a bright soul. 
“Of course.” Charlotte squealed and was quick to grab her father's purse. “Do you think you can make some beignets? You’ll get paid off, of course.” Without even waiting for your answer, she pushed couple hundred dollars into your chest and ran out of the store without even touching the beignets. 
Charlotte already paid and it wasn't rare that this happens. All your attention was now on the money in your hand. 
With this money it’s more than enough to buy the restaurant you and your father always dreamed about.
Soft tears pearled down on your face and your boss mouth was wide open in shock. “Huh… Wait… WHAT?!” 
When you shift was done you were quick to make a visit to the former sugar farmhouse.
The house was pretty worn down but that didn’t hold you back. You swung around the house humming a soft tune as you imagined how the place will look in the future.
"I'm almost there~..."
A soft clink echoed through the hollow place, bringing you back to reality. Scared you looked around you. Maybe a mouse?
Following the clinking sound, you saw a small snake hurt in a water cup. The snake looked up to you with soft red eyes. The white scales reminded you of pure untouched snow.
The snake was probably an albino. 
You spread out your hand and took the little injured creator in your hand. Your heart swelled when the little snake slithered up to your wrist embracing it softly.
Its red eyes never left yours and you patted his head slightly. 
The Snake watches as you walked stressed out up and down through your little room. A small bandage adorned its little tummy and a small bow tie was around his head. 
To say he was embarrassed was an understatement. But the way how happy you applied the little bowtie on his head was giving him pure joy. So, he didn't protest.
When you finally looked at the small clock that was on your room wall you gasp at the time. You grabbed your little purse and the beignets for the little costume party.
Theme: Kingdom.
The snake you named apple slithered up to your neck. It looked like a designer necklace, and you loved it. 
You stood unmoving in one of the stands from the party. The landlord of the place where you found him was informing you that someone pays way more than you do.
Your whole body feels like it's going to crumble. You were so close to that dream. You were so close to making your father proud.
All those years for nothing?
Apple looked up to you and he saw the face of pure despair and sadness. His heart broke when you ran towards the landlord in despair. Tears were pouring down your face as you shouted the landlord’s name. 
You were close to a panic attack. Apple rested softly on your neck like a scarf. He tried to comfort you in any way.
A woman with a wine glass in her hand accidentally pours the wine onto your dress and Apple hissed at the sudden wetness.
When you turned to look for the landlord he was nowhere to be found. And for the first time you really felt defeated.
Your legs under you gave up and everything around you started to mix in one black hole.
Charlotte hugged you from behind when she saw your broken state. Charlotte dragged you along with her when she looked at the damage on your dress. 
She gave you a new dress your mother had designed for her.
A gorgeous flowing dress that beats every physics. A little Tiana was on your head and the color matched perfect with your skin color. 
Apple watched with an immense blush on his scales.
You look so pretty in this dress. 
You plumped softly onto the bed where apple was laying. He laid under your chin cuddling into your heat. "Oh Apple. I don't know what to do." You whined as soon as those words left you.
“I can help.” As soon as you heard Apple talk you shot up, falling with full force onto the hard floor. 
Red mist covered the whole room and in front of you stood a man with white skin, red eyes and royalty looking clothes.
His smirk was large, and he held an apple cane in one of his hand. “Do you trust me princess?”
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A/n: I'm obsessed with Tyla's new album.
💫
@i-have-no-life-charlie @sirenetheblogger @concentratedconcrete
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vintagerpg · 2 days
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I8: Ravager of Time (1986) has a little Union Jack on the cover, which means it was produced in the UK. If you look inside, that’s pretty obvious if you’re at all familiar with the UK-series modules — this one is laid out similarly, with big art pieces and a flare for graphic design that is not really present in the US modules. The interiors are by Tim Sell and are a good deal darker (in tone and in form, lots of heavy line work) than US modules. Cover is Jeff Anderson, a name and style I don’t really recognize, but it’s really an excellent cover — bright colors, full of movement and narrative.
I generally like the UK adventures because they aren’t so dungeon obsessed as the American products. This one…doesn’t have a single dungeon? It’s all wilderness or city encounters (er, town, I guess). The players are drawn in because of a murder (complete with a trial!) and have to puzzle together what is really going on, a mystery that has an evil sorceress who feeds on youth (thus aging her victims) in order to stay…uh…I guess slightly less old. Though not technically a hag, she sure looks and acts like one, which makes this adventure, with its moorland and its sense of generational decay, feel like a Hammer horror film or maybe a folk horror jam. It ISN’T, really, not quite, but the atmosphere there. It’s distinctly British in a way I am not sure any of the other UK modules match.
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slayfics · 3 days
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Explosive Tendencies a slow burn fan fiction about the readers developing relationship with Katsuki Bakugo.
Chapter twenty-three: The School Festival.
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Finally, after all that practice the day of the school festival finally arrived. Everyone was running around getting ready for the performance.
"Here you go," Mina said handing you the costume for the performance.
"What is this?!" You asked, looking at the costume horrified.
"It's the outfit we all are wearing for the performance! What's wrong?" She asked.
"These are so cheesy and over the top! I'm not wearing this!" You complained.
"Oh, suck it up! You can change after the performance if you want! Besides- they are orange, isn't that Bakugo's favorite color," Mina said giving you a playful wink and nudge.
"Cut it out!" You yelled as a blush ignited on your face.
"Fine- but hurry up it's almost time!" She urged you as she ran around handing the costumes to the rest of everyone.
Regrettably, you changed into the costume and took a look in the mirror. It looked ridiculous and you hated the thought of walking out on stage in it. You pulled out your phone to check the time- only 10 more minutes before show time- butterflies fluttered in your stomach. You wondered if Katsuki was feeling nervous as well.
You unlocked your phone to send him a quick message.
These costumes are hideous. Can't believe they are making me wear this thing. Ha, you got a uniform too? Yup, bright orange and blinding. Are you feeling nervous? Of course not. You better not be either. We're gonna murder these dumbasses. See you out there. You smiled and placed your phone back in your pocket.
"Alright everyone ready!" Mina called and gathered up the rest of the girls to make their way to the stage.
Your nerves caused everything to be a bit of a blur. Before you knew it Katsuki had let out an explosion that started the performance and you let yourself go on autopilot remembering all the dance moves.
After a while you tried to steal a glance at Katsuki during the performance causing you to slip up on one of the moves.
Mina gave you a pointed glare indicating for you to focus up. You followed through, stopped trying to steal glances, and stayed focused for the rest of the performance. At the conclusion, everyone cheered and seemed overwhelmed by the performance. However, you were just excited that it was over with.
Afterward, you were all helping to clean up the mess from the special effects of the show.
"You did really great up there, Bakugo," you spoke walking up and handing him some ice to explode.
"Tch- thanks... you weren't so bad yourself," he mumbled, causing a blush to form on your face.
"Hey, you two!" Eijiro said excitedly. "I heard there are some obstacle courses and races at the festival! Want to check them out?"
'"Ha! You already know you're not going to be able to beat me shitty hair!" Katsuki said grinning at Eijiro.
"Oh, I'm gonna do my best! Come on, let's go then! We're pretty much all finished up here," Eijiro said waving his arm for you both to follow him.
You joined the two boys and couldn't help but laugh at their competitiveness. The two of them competed on every obstacle course and race there was at the festival. Even the silly carnival games.
"Here-," Katsuki grumbled, shoving a teddy bear into your arms. He beat Eijiro at another carnival game and was rewarded with a plush toy as a prize. "I don't need that," he said before turning away to join Eijiro at another game.
Even though he turned away just as quickly as he shoved the toy into your hands, you didn't miss the pink tint that painted Katsuki's cheeks as he did.
As you three made your way through the festival you came across the haunted house that the general studies class had put together.
"Hey let's go!" You said excitedly, pointing to the haunted house.
"Tch- no way!" Katsuki barked.
"Aw come on it'll be fun!" Eijiro pleaded.
"I said no!" Katsuki yelled.
"What are you scared or something, man?" Eijiro teased his friend.
"HAH? Of course not! I just don't want to risk popping my quirk off by accident dumb ass," Katsuki explained.
You suddenly had a scene play out in your head of Katsuki getting jumped scared and instinctively using his quirk and exploding the whole haunted house. You squeezed the stuffed bear in your arms while you thought of an idea to help Katsuki.
"Here," you spoke and reached out your hand to grab Katsuki's.
Katsuki's eyes widened as he watched you interlace your fingers in his, "What the hell are you doing?!" he said angrily, as a full blush spread on his face. Despite his complaint, he didn't pull his hand away.
"Well, this way you'll have to pull your hand away from mine before using your quirk, and by that time, you'll be able to remind yourself it's not a real threat," You explained.
"Oh, great idea! Come one Bakugo let's go please!" Eijiro begged.
Katsuki's face scrunched up as he looked at your hand holding his, despite his best efforts to look annoyed the blush on his face told a different story. "Fine whatever- if you two want to go that bad let's just get it over with."
You three entered the maze, and to everyone's relief, Katsuki was not agitated into exploding the whole maze. However, while walking through Shinso popped out from the top of the ceiling giving you both a good startle.
You and Eijiro screamed and immediately began to laugh. Katsuki's grip tightened on your hand, and as he was startled, mini explosions came off his fingers before he relaxed again.
"Sorry...," He muttered to you and tried to pull his hand away.
You laughed off his apology and gripped his hand tighter refusing to let him escape your grasp, "It didn't even hurt don't worry about it Bakugo."
"Come on guys I see the end!" Eijiro called excitedly, back to you both.
You both hurried and made your way out of the maze. Eijiro glanced at you two still holding hands, provoking Katsuki to pull his hand away and enticing another blush on both your faces.
"Let me see," Katsuki demanded looking at your hand.
"I said it's fine don't worry about it," you said hiding your hand from him.
"Uh oh- did you accidentally let off an explosion?" Eijiro asked.
"Tch- I told you both it was a dumb Idea! Now don't be so stubborn," Katsuki said agitated, and made a grab for your hand. He carefully inspected your hand in his, and Eijiro made his way over to take a peek.
"I don't see anything," Eijiro said after a moment of gazing at your palm.
"Told you- I barely even felt it Bakugo, stop worrying," you said gently pulling your hand away.
"Fine- are you idiots about done with this dumb festival? The sun's going down now," Katsuki noted.
Eijiro let out a yawn, "Yeah I think that was everything I wanted to do."
You nodded in agreement, "Yeah I'm ready to head back to the dorms."
You three made the walk back to the dorms as the sun began to set. You gripped the teddy bear in your arms the whole walk back playing with the soft ears and arms.
"Awe you gave it to them Bakugo?! That's so sweet," Eijiro said observing you playing with the bear.
"Shut up shitty hair!" Katsuki grumbled stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.
Eijiro laughed at his friend's grumpiness. "Alright alright, sorry~."
You three walked into the common room and Eijiro stopped a moment. "Well, I'm uh- gonna go upstairs then. See you both later," he said awkwardly and tried to make an exit.
"Hu? What the hell are you doing we are going the same way dumb ass," Katsuki said, confused by his friend trying to leave you both behind.
"Oh uh- yeah I know I just thought..." Eijiro said awkwardly playing with his fingers and looking away from you both.
"Thought what? Spit it out Kirishima!?" Katsuki urged.
"I uh- just thought that you two would um- want to say good night without me here," Eijiro answered.
Katsuki's eyes widened and his lips pressed together in surprise at his friend's words.
Eijiro's words had left you frozen as well. Had he noticed something going on between you and Katsuki? Did that mean that Katsuki felt the same way about you that you did about him? Being lost in thought and overwhelmed by this information prevented you from saying anything, and it was too late when you noticed Katsuki anxiously searching your expression for an answer.
He wanted you to speak up and say what he couldn't. No matter how accurate Eijiro's assumptions had been- Katsuki couldn't bring himself to admit it. So, he waited for you to do what he couldn't- until the silence became too much for him.
"Tch- don't be dumb shitty hair," Katsuki said, finally turning away from you "Good night," Katsuki called to you as he walked away. Although it was just two short words- they felt as though they were laced with venom and a deep sadness.
Eijiro looked at you with his puppy eyes expression before he took off following his friend, leaving you alone squeezing the teddy bear in your arms.
"Hey man wait up!" Eijiro called as he caught up to Katsuki.
"The fuck was that all about Kirishima? Why did you have to make that shit so weird!" Katsuki barked at his friend. The hum of the elevator buzzed louder as it made its way up to the boys' rooms.
"I was just trying to be polite! I thought-," Eijiro began to say.
"Well, you thought wrong!" Katsuki said angrily, his hands were tight fists in his pockets.
"Oh, come on, can you blame me? You gave them a cute teddy bear- and held their hand in the maze-"
"SHUT UP!" Katsuki yelled and stormed out of the elevator as it opened to their floor.
"Hey man, why are you so mad about this?" Eijiro asked following his friend.
"Because- it's not like that, you're making something out of nothing," Katsuki said swinging his door open.
"I don't think so man- they were so happy when you gave them that bear," Eijiro argued.
"Tch- then why- never mind good night," Katsuki said and attempted to close his door, but Eijiro stuck his hand out holding it open.
"Why what Bakugo?" Eijiro urged.
"Forget it!" Katsuki yelled.
"Come on man tell me!"
"Ugh- isn't it obvious! They didn't say anything just now because they didn't want you to leave me alone with them. I'm not an idiot." Katsuki exclaimed.
"No man- they were just nervous. Why don't you go back down and talk to them?" Eijiro suggested.
"HAH! Not gonna happen," Katsuki laughed and successfully slammed his door this time.
Eijiro let out a sigh and made his way to his own room.
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Tags: @anon-mouse223 @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @sikuthealien @queenpiranhadon @melrs21 @poemzcheng @kazuumii @bakunianadecorazon @ur-crusty-uncle @reads-stuff-quietly @chixkadee @perfectsukii @faetoraa @fem-weeb @nagicats @lees-chaotic-brain @maelibo @zanarkandskylines
Thank you all for reading and following the story! I can’t believe there’s only one more chapter left 🤭~
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sericasong · 3 days
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Sheepish・✦ oneshot
adjective - embarrassed or bashful, as by having done something wrong or foolish.・✦
The poor thing's never been trained on how to appear to events with a date on his arm. Or if he was, he's forgotten completely just by a glance at you.
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO @takami-takami HAPPY WAY LATE BIRTHDAY THIS WAS MEANT TO BE A DRABBLE AND IT GOT SO OUT OF HAND ALSKHKDGLS. I've been trying to figure out what exactly to write for it and decided you deserve a mishmash of everything we adore about the birdie. Much love always and an incredibly happy (month-after-I'm-so-sorry) 26th. 💕
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For someone with such a fun-loving persona, one would think that number two pro hero Hawks would enjoy this sort of thing.
Keigo does not.
Well, he usually doesn't.
Events hosted by the Commission tend to be just like the front it puts up: bright and decorated displays of prestige with little substance under the glitter. A media staging, as usual.
In years past, he's greeted these Hero Galas with a scowl and a cynical remark in the privacy of his thoughts, the only place where he can scorn his handlers all he wants and get away with naught but a wasted evening.
But tonight? Tonight he's greeting you as he escorts you in.
You look nothing short of radiant, dressed in something he'd caught a longing glance at and convinced you to let him buy, just this once, babe, c'mon, lemme spoil you.
And god, he finds new gods to thank that you let him.
It's perfect on you, its shapes elegant and its colors gorgeous on your skin, wrapping you in what may as well be diamonds.
He pockets the thought- solitaire, halo, three-stone, vintage? Details to consider later with the question of how to ask.
For now, he shows you around the venue. Shows you off, in a way, shows his most earnest expression of pride when he introduces you to everyone he can just for the sake of doing it.
Mine, his poorly-tempered smile gloats, they're mine.
As much as he'd like to, he doesn't say that. It's "this is my partner" instead, warmth floating in his voice with the sound of your name.
He's the picture of lovesick at dinner; sliding your chair back for you, sitting right beside, he barely lets you leave the seat because he's preoccupied with rushing to do everything he can for you.
His eyes have barely left you for half a minute in total the entire night, and you get the feeling that the number won't grow by much.
It sure doesn't raise by even a single decimal when the crowd moves to the ballroom. Those golden hues are set on your features like it would hurt to look away, unapologetic in his captivation.
Except for when you step onto the dance floor together, which is when he turns into the most hopeless fool you've ever seen.
Hawks knows what to do here.
Hawks has been through years of discipline, strict regimens for how to act in every possible situation, combat and negotiation and formal gatherings alike. Taught how to present himself with the easy grace befitting of the Commission's winning prize.
But Keigo?
Keigo is forgetting how to dance.
"Uh, dove," his hands linger in the air, hesitant, "do you mind if I-?"
Even when you nod, he's uncertain of it. Not of the fact that he wants to dance- he'd keep you in his arms for the rest of his life if he could.
But for some reason he can't place, his nerves fold upon themselves until they can no longer tell his limbs to move. He looks like a deer in headlights and his legs feel like a fawn only just standing.
When you send a questioning glance his way, he can only give a sort of helpless gesture. "Sorry, babe- I just, uh-"
"You look too pretty tonight, s'just..."
He trails off with heated cheeks as you press your smile to the back of his hands, pouting with a terminal blush as he admits, "feels like 'm gonna mess it up."
"The dance?" you question, just to be sure, and he raises your hands to hide behind them in embarrassment with a mumbled, "yeah..."
You can't help but laugh at the look on his face, like a schoolboy with a love letter outstretched, and don't bother resisting the urge to tease him as you pull him towards a more secluded corner. "I thought you told me that you knew three different kinds of partnered dance. What happened to that, birdie?"
"I know," he protests weakly, burying his flush in your shoulder as he lets a groan escape him. "I know, I know. And- and I do, I promise."
When you respond with a skeptical mhm, he huffs at you, petulant indignation even while his eyes crease at the corners. "I do!"
"It's just... you're so... you look so..." A sweeping gesture at you as if he can't put the words to it; from his brief silence, you figure that's likely the case. Several moments pass, and he continues more quietly, "you look sacred, dove. Feels like it'd be a sin to treat you wrong."
He's sweet. It's probably the most romantic thing you've ever heard.
You let your lips curve upwards in something between fondness and an utterly shit-eating grin. "You're shy."
Keigo does his best to pretend to disagree, and eventually gives up, only responding with a silent nod. That softens your teasing, fingers carding through his hair and sorting the strands. "You don't have to be embarrassed, you know... I'm a little nervous too. It's not like I'm very used to elaborate things like this."
"But you're the last person who should be," he complains, melting easily into the brush of your touch. "You're too good to be here. You look better than everyone else by a million."
"I think you do," you counter, letting your hands settle around the back of his neck as his face makes a home in the crook of yours. He just hums, flustered but appreciative, allowing you to sway him gently to the music in your little dance floor for two.
His voice is quiet when he speaks next, after a song has passed in your corner. "I'm gonna marry you someday, I swear to god."
He looks up at you as if to examine your reaction, his lashes fluttering when you lean forward to kiss him. After you pull away, he's nearly beaming, and he brightens further at your next words.
"I'll be waiting for it."
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koboldfactory · 2 days
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i love your art so much that i decided to use the walking garden as a source to articulate everything i love about it
use of color is bright and vibrant, feels full of life
lines are sharp and distinct, not smoothed or blurry (personally love this)
character design has many detailed parts but isnt overly noisy or cluttered
details of the kobolds in the tail & near the neck and the visible branches of the trees in the tail
big thighs
the mecha dragon has those distinct kind of eyelids and eyelashes (and theyre both very pretty)
diverse mix between hard (limb plating, armored(?) pelvis structure) and soft (upper-arm covers, fluid in the neck) components
background detail gives real presence to the mecha dragon
mecha dragon's purpose/implied narrative alone is really interesting
i love your artstyle so much, it checks all the boxes (cheerful colors, awesome scifi design, kinda hot, silly kobolds, detailed and articulate)
tl;dr: you are my favorite artist :D
Aaa thank you so much!!! It’s really nice getting such a detailed analysis of my own art. I appreciate it and I’m glad you like it so much!!
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laracrofted · 1 day
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dip you in honey (so i could be sticking to you)
synopsis: harrison drinks honey lattes and has big hands.
pairing: harrison knott x emma coves (oc)
warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, swearing, explicit smut (semi-public sex – in the back of a coffee shop, which is probably some sort of health and safety violation; harrison also eats it from the back; dirty talk and praise and overuse of pet names and all that good stuff because it's him) (wc: 3K)
note: i named the fic after daylight by harry styles, and i named emma after chateau lobby #4 by father john misty because "you left a note in your perfect script, stay as long as you want, and i haven't left you bed since" is such a harrison coded lyric. enjoy! 💛
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Golden sunlight follows after him as Harrison ducks into Bluebird Coffee, his presence announced by the little gold bell that hangs above the door, a joyful chime.
Emma watches him make his way to the counter with her balled fists shoved in the pockets of her robin's egg blue apron, one of the many spots of bright color in the small, color-packed space. A string of incandescent bulbs glow above her head – as cheery and bright as the wide smile that fills Emma's freckled face at the sight of her boyfriend.
He looks good, so good.
A half-a-size-too-small shirt stretches deliciously snug across his broad shoulders and wide abdomen – across muscles firmed by years of surfing and heavy lifting. It's an ocean blue that makes his pretty blue eyes shine and gleam, like bursts of sunshine, dancing on a building wave.
He looks so good, in fact that Emma almost forgets to be surprised to see him.
Her dark brows dip ever-so-slightly as Emma peers up at him with a shy smile. "Hey you. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
He works down the street at Lost and Found – an eclectic record store that somehow always manages to have rare pressings of her favorite records.
Emma had just started working at Bluebird when Harrison started coming in – and later, Harrison admitted to spotting her in the window and wanting an excuse to talk to her. She remembered him and his order almost immediately: the cute and charming regular with the ocean blue eyes who always orders a Red Eye and chokes it down at the counter like a man in severe pain.
After a while, Emma took pity on him.
She convinced him to expand his horizons and move him away from his usual Red Eye  – a brewed coffee with a shot of espresso, basically a panic attack in a cup, Emma gently explained to him – and you know... drink coffee he’d actually like.
Lately, Harrison's been partial to a honey latte.
He loves to order them in this one particular way.
"Can I get a honey latte from my honey?" Harrison asks with a lopsided grin, nacho levels of cheese in his deep voice. He's so... stupid and adorable, and Emma's so damn fond of him.
She makes a big show of her rolling her brown eyes, but really, she adores him, and Harrison damn well knows it.
Grabbing a wide-mouth jar from the row of clean glasses and multi-colored pastel mugs, Emma gets to work.
It's a ritual Emma knows well. Two shots of espresso. One cup of oat milk. Two heaping tablespoons of honey because after years of consuming coffee purely for the caffeine, Harrison likes his drinks on the sweeter side now.
She fills the glass with ice, pours in the milk and espresso respectively, and gives it a quick dusting of cinnamon for a pinch of something extra.
She slides it across the counter with a smile and bends forward to lean on her elbows, resting her chin on her bridged fingers and looking up at him through her dark lashes.
"Thanks, Em," Harrison says warmly, fondly.
Her boss usually isn't in on the weekends, but just in case, Emma looks around for her, craning her neck and checking her corners. She doesn't see her anymore so Emma dares to sit on the edge of the counter and dash a quick kiss across Harrison's lips.
He tastes like sea salt and sunscreen and honey.
His lips part in a smile. A warm, radiant smile that warms her down to her toes and makes her feel like Emma's been down at the beach, laying in the sun for hours, and not in the AC-chilled shop since the crack of dawn.
"What're you doing here?" Emma asks him with a grin. She can still feel the pleasant scrape of his stubble on her chin. "Taking a break?"
He is still smiling, lip pulled between his teeth. "A storm's coming so Cooper's closing the shop at noon, and I didn't want my girl biking home in the rain." My girl. Her grin is stupid wide. "Thought I'd hang here and watch you work and drive you home after your shift." A hint of mischief quirks the edge of his lip. "Unless I'll be distracting?"
"You?" Emma feigns shock. "Distracting? Never."
Smiling to herself, Emma goes back to the register to help the customer who is coming in, and Harrison finds an empty stool at the counter to drink his coffee.
But damn, Harrison really is distracting.
She can feel his flame blue eyes on her, burning hot, and – when she reaches up to grab more coffee grounds from one of the high shelves – on the hem of her dress, sliding up the backs of her legs.
She's wearing shorts underneath, but god, Harrison's smoldering attention makes her kind of wish she wasn't wearing anything at all underneath.
So okay, Emma's a little distracted. But really, it's fine.
She breaks one of the for-here mugs and sloshes almond milk all over the edge of the counter and onto the floor because Harrison is here with his big biceps and his broad, freckled shoulders and his knowing smile and his slutty gold chain.
And god, all Emma can think about is this morning when Harrison woke her up with his head between her legs, pressing an enthusiastic trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses across the insides of her thighs, mouthing messily at the dampening fabric of her panties until her searching fingers found their way into his silky hair with a breathy, half-awake moan.
God, Harrison, please, Harrison, oh-oh-oh my god...
He pulled her spit-soaked panties down to her knees and worked her open with his clever mouth and his big fingers and wouldn't let her have his beautiful cock until Emma begged him.
Please, Harrison, please, I need it, ah-oh, need you, need...
"There. That's better, isn't it, honey?" Harrison cooed against her shoulder, pushing into her from behind, his grip on her hips just shy of bruising. He was so big, stretching her around him, so gorgeous, moving slowly so Emma could get used to his size.
He was pressed to her back, warm and absolutely everywhere, and sweat dotted her brow, beading and running down the side of her neck. He's always so much, so good.
He seized her hair with one hand and tugged her head to the side, licking a stripe up the side of her neck, licking the sweat from her skin. "God, honey, you're dripping all over my cock, absolutely soaking." He rolled his hips, moved slow slow slow. "That feel good, honey? You're taking it so well, baby..."
Iced coffee runs over and spills over the sides of the glass and down the back of her hand, shocking her from the daydream, and Emma swears under her breath. She wipes the puddle from the counter with a wad of paper towels and presses the back of her clean hand to her forehead.
Jesus. Is it warm in here?
She feels warm.
And also sticky.
It's fine.
Her fourth alarm – or the back-up-to-the-back-up alarm – rang as Emma was about to fall over the precipice Harrison was painstakingly working her toward with his hand between her legs, all but folding her in half on the mattress.
And Emma had to shower and go to work before Harrison could make good on his promise to make her come around his cock, but it's... fine.
Harrison drums his fingers on the sunshine yellow counter and noticing her eyes on him, gives her a long and borderline inappropriate-for-public once-over. He ends his appraisal with a cheeky smile, crinkled blue eyes glimmering knowingly.
It's really so fine.
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Her shift passes agonizingly slowly, and by the time Harrison follows her into the back at a quarter-after-one, Emma's coming out of her skin. She is fidgeting endlessly, running the sun-shaped charm on her gold necklace up and down the length of the chain, gathering her shoulder-length dark curls one-handed against her nape and letting them down again.
"Which locker's yours?" Harrison asks conversationally.
But Emma's so done with conversations.
Ignoring the question, Emma grabs the collar of his shirt with both hands and pushes him into the nearest locker and kisses him.
She catches the corner of his mouth more than anything else, an inelegant mash of lips and stubble, because she caught him off guard and he's so damn tall that he really needs to bend down to meet her, but it doesn't really matter; she just needs to be closer to him.
His big arms wrap around her, lifting her onto her tiptoes, as Harrison deepens the kiss and swallows the half-moan that escapes her mouth. She'd probably be embarrassed except Emma's so fucking wound up that Harrison could probably rock her down on his broad thigh and make her explode.
"Someone missed me," Harrison croons, pulling back with his hand on the front of her neck, his broad fingers spread wide. "It's only been a few hours, honey."
He grins, and god, Harrison really is so handsome, big and strong, strands of sun-kissed hair curling at the ends, cheeks ruddy from sun and laughter. His eyes darken as Harrison really drinks her in.
And what a sight she must be, practically drooling over him, needing him so badly, so desperately.
"Fuck me," she whispers against his mouth, voice husky, and Harrison shudders, practically crushing her against his hard abdomen.
"Here?" Harrison asks, a mix of disbelieving and unbelievably turned on. "Don't you want to go home?"
It's so cute of him to ask – so scandalized, as if Harrison hasn't fucked her on the beach multiple times by now, laying her out under a blanket of stars on the longest night of the year.
She kisses up his neck, his strong neck, nibbling at the constellation of freckles and beauty marks on his tan skin. Licks the next words against his hammering pulse, against the width of his shoulder. "I can't wait, baby, I need you right now. I'm so fucking wet for you, Harrison, please."
"Jesus," Harrison groans.
A large hand presses in between her shoulder blades, bringing her closer, bending her into him, and Harrison's leg slides in between hers, pushing at the hem of her dress.
He makes quick work of the apron around her waist, crumpling it into a ball and flinging it away from them without looking. She'll need to look for it later, but right now, Emma doesn't care because Harrison is running his hands over the soft fabric of her dress, over the curve of her hips, palms hot and burning like an iron.
"Is this dress new?" Harrison asks, so casual, so patient. "I haven't seen it before."
God. He can be such a fucking tease sometimes.
"Who cares about the dress?" Emma snaps.
He only chuckles, a low and gravelly sound, rich like good coffee. "Don't be impatient, honey."
He reserves their positions so Harrison can press her against the locker. His rough palm slowly slides up her leg, lingering on her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, until Harrison is cupping her through the spandex shorts. Her head drops back against the metal with a dull clang.
"Ow," Emma breathes, more surprised than in pain.
He pauses immediately and asks, "You okay?"
"Mhm," she hums, not trusting herself to form real words right now, and he presses a tender kiss against her temple and works his way over to her ear.
“You’re soaked, honey. I can feel it through the shorts,” Harrison murmurs, hot against her ear. A purposeful flex of his fingers makes her whimper, pressing in the exact right spots through the layers of fabric, and Emma rocks into his hand. "Oh, baby..." He sighs into her hair, stirring the curls. "You need it so bad, don't you?"
She nods, biting her lip so hard it almost hurts to hold back a loud moan.
Finally, Harrison slips his hand down the front of her shorts.
She holds onto his arm, sunflower yellow nails digging in, leaving half-moon circles in his skin, but Harrison doesn't seem to mind. He works his way underneath the scrap of lace, the only thing left between him and her dripping core.
One finger slips inside of her easily, and Emma can actually hear how wet she is. She grows warm, and Harrison swears again. "How's that, honey? That enough for you?"
Of course not, she wants to scream.
He knows the answer, but of course, Harrison wants to hear her say it out loud.
She grips his nape with one hand, running her fingers through his hair, mouth gaping open. "Another, please, Harrison, please."
He always likes that word, please.
Harrison adds another. And another.
He curls his fingers into her, swearing under his breath, murmuring sweet and filthy nothings about god, you're so wet for me, so responsive, baby, fucking perfect and all for me, my sweet and perfect girl.
He knocks her legs wider, pushing his strong thigh between hers again, knocking her off balance, and it's enough that Emma needs to lean into him even more. He's practically holding her up now, practically pinning her up against the locker, shielding her completely, just in case.
"God, I must be the luckiest man alive. You're so sweet, so wet for me, soaking my hand, honey," Harrison praises.
His wide palm grinds against her clit, sending a whole firework show's worth of sparks across her skin. A familiar feeling starts to wash over her, a kind of weightlessness, like Emma's floating on her back in the ocean.
"Such a needy little thing. You couldn't even wait for us to be alone, be home? Y'needed my fingers filling this needy pussy as soon as possible, didn't you?"
He doesn't need an answer, but still, Emma nods mindlessly, makes a kind of half-audible ye–holy shit–ah noise. She needs him to keep going, needs it like air.
His chest rumbles with a satisfied sound. "Don't worry, honey, I'll make it all better."
Moisture gathers in her eyes and streams from the corners, smearing her mascara, and Emma buries her face in his solid shoulder, looking for something to ground her. She inhales deep lungfuls of his familiar scent, citrus and sea salt and musk, breathing in the smell of the ocean that somehow always seems to cling to his clothes, to his skin.
Her mouth falls open in a muffled moan, which is mercifully drown out by the upbeat pop music her coworker Adrienne put on for the afternoon crowd.
Emma's never been more grateful for the downfall of One Direction and the subsequent launch of Harry Styles's solo career than in this exact moment. Thank fucking god.
Watching the door carefully, Harrison cradles the back of her head in the crook of his bulging arm, holding her close, and pumps his fingers in and out of her with obscenely wet sounds.
"Look at me," Harrison says. A gentle order.
Head swimming, Emma lifts her chin, eyes glazed over, and Harrison leans down and devours in her mouth in a ferocious and enthusiastic kiss.
His fingers work harder, rubbing her harder and faster, coaxing her over the edge. And when Emma whines against his mouth, so close, Harrison grows rougher in his ministrations, pinching at her clit with two fingers and not letting up as Emma goes off all over his hand, lips sealed against his, crying into his mouth.
He doesn't let up until Emma's sagging in his arms, shaking and over-sensitive.
A rosy pink flush spreads across his collarbone and up his neck as Harrison pulls his fingers out of her with a pornographic squelching sound.
His eyes are bright as Harrison looks down at her, gaze flicking between her glassy eyes and her mouth, kiss swollen. His voice comes out a little gravelly, a little hoarse, a little strained. "Was that good?"
A blissful nod, and Harrison's lips curve into a smirk.
"Good because I'm not done with you quite yet. Turn around."
Emma blinks at him, still dazed, and asks dumbly. "What?"
"Turn around," Harrison repeats, regarding her with half-lidded eyes, "so I can get on my knees and clean up the mess you've made of those pretty little panties with my tongue."
A shiver runs down her spine as Emma's brain catches up with his words. She faces the locker and rests her forehead on the cool metal and breathes.
"Stay real quiet for me, honey," is all he says before he drops to his knees and lifts her dress. "Can you hold this up for me?" She white-knuckles the fabric. "Good girl."
He peels off her shorts, then her soaked panties, slipping them into his pocket.
And hell, Emma really does want to stay quiet for him, but Harrison bends her forward ever-so-slightly and audibly groans at the sight of her. He parts her cunt with his fingers and leans in, licking into her with enthusiastic and searching strokes of his eager tongue, living up to his promise of licking her clean.
He grips her ass with both hands and spreads her even wider and when Harrison presses into her to circle her clit with his tongue, Emma's done for.
She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of his name, shaking against his face and sagging forward, practically boneless.
He slowly stands and wipes his hand over his dripping chin and sucks his shining fingers – sticky like honey – into his mouth with a satisfied hum, deep in his chest, and hooks his hand around her jaw to pull her into a kiss.
She licks into his mouth. Licks her taste from his lips, relishing in his deep groan, seeing stars.
Half-slurred, Emma asks, "D'you want to go home now?"
She could use a nap – or four.
Harrison drops a wet, grinning kiss on her cheek and pulls her into his side, his arm over her shoulders.
"Yeah, honey. Let's go home."
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note: you know what else is harrison coded? eating it from the back. okay bye!
tagging a few mutuals and people who interacted with my posts about the fic and also harrison lovers (my boyfriend, real): @sometimesanalice @theharddeck @callsignspark @bradshawsbaby @withahappyrefrain @ryebecca @lewmagoo @hangmanapologist @attapullman @sebsxphia
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heavenlyhischier · 2 days
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𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧
word count: 1.8k
warnings: almost entirely plot and no dialogue, more of a prologue than anything, mentions of a hookup, tito is a wee bit of an asshole but not in an actual mean way, awfully translated french (please tell me if it's wrong), unedited
note: this is going to be part of an interactive au and a mini series in one so feel free to send me any ideas, thoughts, questions you have about anything!
series masterlist
The first time you met Tito, you were only fifteen and still very much in the awkward phases of your younger years. You wore clothes you thought were trendy, but made you cringe whenever you would look back on them. You had your hair in a ‘sock bun’ more often than not. Your arms and neck were decorated with chunky and bright colored jewelry. The only good thing about that time was you hadn’t gotten into makeup yet, so the most embarrassing thing about your face were the braces that decorated your teeth. Combine all of that with being stood in front of your older brother's attractive friend, and it the thought made your skin crawl just thinking about it. 
You didn’t even talk to him after Mat had introduced him to you, too shy to approach the boy that gave you the prettiest smile you’d ever seen, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his broken English made you blush like no one had before. It didn’t take a genius to see that you had developed a crush on the older boy, but you hoped that Mat hadn’t developed any sort of observational skills while he was at camp and he was just as oblivious as he always was. You knew he wouldn’t have approved. 
You didn’t see Tito again until the next year after both he and Mat managed to somehow be drafted to the same team. It was as if fate was speaking to everyone, telling the world that Anthony Beauvillier and Mathew Barzal were meant to be friends. When you saw him later that night, you waited for him to approach you because the small crush you had formed for him last year never died down like you thought it would. If anything, it increased tenfold. He saw you standing off to the side as you searched through the drinks in the cooler and that was when he excused himself from the group he was previously talking with.
“I think your brother took the last Coke,” He said from behind you, catching your attention as he shoved his hands into his pockets. 
“Of course he did,” You rolled your eyes as you turned to face Tito, doing your best to keep your outward appearance calm while your insides flipped, “Congratulations. Hopefully your new team is prepared for the both of you or they’re in for a shock.” 
His lips turned upwards into a smile, his blue eyes sparkling as he speaks, “Thank you. It’s pretty crazy we’re going to the same team.”
The air that encased you made your skin crawl, your nerves spiked as his eyes stayed focused on your face and he looked down at you. You hoped he didn’t notice the way you swallowed the lump in your throat, or the way your entire face was a deeper shade of pink than it was before. Luckily, the sound of your sister calling your name provided you with the exit you needed before you embarrassed yourself. You bid him a goodbye before turning on your heels to walk towards your family. 
“Oh,” You paused, looking over your shoulder with a mischievous smile, “Ton anglais s'est amélioré.” (Your English has gotten better.)
Tito couldn’t help but shake his head in amusement as he says, “Ton français n'a pas.” (Your french hasn’t.)
After that, you would really only see him when you were watching the Isles play. The two of you would make small talk in passing, but it never went beyond that. You were his best friend's sister, and you were off limits. You knew that the likeliness of Tito ever developing any sort of feelings for you was slim to none, but there were subtle comments and looks that left your brain hazy and hopeful. You had accepted that it was only ever going to be simple fun for the both of you, but then the Isles went to the playoffs.
You and your family went to every single playoff game that you could to support the team. The atmosphere was electric, everyone’s emotions amplified times ten, and that included the way Tito felt for you. It was getting increasingly harder for him to keep up the charade of you being just Mat’s sister the more he saw you. Each time he saw your entire face light up in excitement after the games, or when you would always go out of your way to check on him after a loss, the more he just wanted to pull you into his chest and kiss you until neither of you could breathe.
He was doing his best to keep his composure and respect his friendship with Mat, but then you knocked on his hotel room door to check on him after they were kicked out of the playoffs. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing you then, after you told him how proud of him you were, and when you told him he didn’t have to stop, there was nothing that could keep him from having you the way he had thought about for years now. You thought that night was going to change everything, but when you woke up the next morning and he told you that it couldn’t happen again, you had never felt so used and heartbroken.
A small part of you wasn’t all that surprised because Anthony Beauviller was, after all, a professional hockey player. They had a reputation for a reason and that was the very reason Mat had tried to keep you away from them since he started playing hockey. He knew the likelihood of you getting hurt was greater than not, and he wanted to keep you safe. But of course, you didn’t listen.
Your relationship with Tito changed after that, and not in the way you had ever hoped it would. Every interaction you had with him after that night was awkward and sticky. It made your stomach turn, but not in the way it used to. You found yourself going out of your way to avoid him rather than seeking him out like you had always done before. It was for the best, you told yourself. He had made his feelings crystal clear, and you wanted to put as much distance between the two of you as you could. You wanted to move on.
Tito knew it was his fault that you stopped talking to him. He remembers the way your face twisted in pure heartbreak when he looked at you that morning and told you that you couldn’t tell anyone because it shouldn’t have ever happened to begin with. It was the face that haunted him in his sleep. He thought about reaching out to you almost everyday, but he never followed through. It was for the best, he told himself, you deserved far better than he could ever give you. 
When you found out that Tito had been traded to the Canucks, you knew neither him nor Mat were okay. They had been friends for years, nearly attached at the hip, and now he was being forced to move quite literally across the continent with no warning. You had called Mat the second you found out, and you could tell he was upset almost the moment you heard his voice. He tried to convince you that he was okay, that he understood it was just a part of the job, but you knew better.
You put your feelings aside that night and texted Tito as well, asking him if he was okay and telling him that he was bound to be great no matter where he played. You didn't expect a text back the same night, but then a few days went by and the message still went unanswered. You tried not to dwell on the situation too much, instead throwing all of your focus into moving into your new place in a city you’d never been too, but like always, he was always at the back of your mind.
When he got traded to Chicago in the beginning of the current season, it was Mat who called you to complain about it. He was droning on and on about how he doesn’t understand why they don’t see just how good his best friend is. He kept saying how if he had anything to do with it, Tito would be back with the Isles and he wouldn’t go unless Mat did. You tried to listen, but he didn’t really let you talk anyways. Though you’re not sure you would’ve been a great conversationalist as all you could think about was how Tito must feel.
You had just gotten out of the shower after a pretty hectic twelve hour shift when you heard your phone vibrating on the table. It wasn’t late enough in the evening for you to be worried about getting a phone call, but the way your stomach slightly dropped made you nervous. When you picked the device up and saw Mat’s picture staring back at you, you felt yourself relax as you slid your finger across the screen.
“What’s up,” You greeted, walking into your kitchen.
“Just checking on my favorite sister,” He chuckles.
“Oh dear,” You roll your eyes, placing the drink you had grabbed onto the counter, “What do you want?”
You heard his over dramatic gasp echo through the speaker and you know he’s clutching his chest as he says, “I’m offended you think I have to want something to say that.”
“Mathew,” Your voice goes flat as you raise your brows despite him not seeing you.
“Fine, fine. You’re right,” He gives in, and you can hear some shuffling around before he continues, “So, you live in Nashville, right?”
“Did my geography lesson not stick?”
“Ha ha, so funny, but anyways. Hear me out, okay? So, Tito got traded to the Preds and he’s supposed to be there tomorrow and he doesn’t really have a place to stay, so,” His voice trails off.
You go through two different emotions in the span of ten seconds. First, your heart cracks at Tito being traded for the second time in a season. You know that he has to be feeling defeated, let  down in himself. Second, panic bubbles in your chest as your eyes dart over to the door of the empty second bedroom in your apartment. Certainly Mat wouldn’t have done exactly what you’re thinking he did.
“You didn’t,” You breathed out, your eyes wide and heart beating against your ribs.
“I might have.”
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arabellas · 2 days
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about the tutorial: just one about dark scenes in general would be great :)
sure :) here's a tutorial on how I work with dark scenes:
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before we start, it's important to mention that working with dark scenes is so much easier when your video/ screencaps are high quality. I personally refuse to gif dark scenes unless I have 4k quality footage lol.
my general coloring tutorial is here in case you want check it out!
alright, let's start! after resizing and sharpening my gif, here's what we're working with:
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STEP 1: levels. I use the pipette tool to select the lightest and the darkest parts of my gif, it's a great guide that helps to neutralize the overpowering color:
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in this case, the lightest part is the little white dot in the corner of his eye and the darkest one is around his hair (if there are many dark shadows in my gif, I just click on a few darkest looking spots and see how it adjusts the coloring and lighting of the gif and just pick the one I think looks the best). basically, this layer is a good guide on how to make the overall look more natural if there is one obvious dominant color and we want to get rid of it (for example, my gif has quite a lot of blues, but it's not too crazy, so I won't need to adjust that much):
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and this is what we've got just after using the levels adjustment:
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the gif is lighter and the blue was reduced a little bit, the scene now has more green and red undertones. sometimes I mess with the settings myself if I don't like the way it looks, but in this case I'm pretty happy with the automatic adjustments and I didn't even have to do that much!
STEP 2: curves. I do the same thing that I did with the levels, using the pipette tool to select the lightest and the darkest parts and also pull the rgb curve to the middle to brighten my gif even more:
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and here's the result after setting the curves layer opacity to 37%:
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STEP 3: brightness and exposure layers. next up, I just want to brighten the character a little bit more, but not the background, so I'm adding a brightness/contrast layer and an exposure layer, here are my settings:
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but since it adjusts the whole gif and I don't want that, I select the mask on my brightness layer and pick the eraser tool. I erase the part of my gif that I don't want to be affected by this adjustment, I colored that part bright pink so it's obvious:
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and then I do the same with the exposure layer.
in my gif the character is not moving that much, so it looks pretty natural when I brighten just him. here's where we're at:
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STEP 4: selective color and gradient map. I'm happy with how bright it is, but I do want to deepen the shadows here and just mess with the coloring itself, so next up I'm gonna use a couple more layers.
here are my settings for selective color layer, opacity set to around 40%:
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and here are my settings for a gradient map to deepen the shadows:
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and here's the result:
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ADDITIONAL STEP: I sometimes like to add another layer and just put some soft color gradient to one side of the gif.
in this case I used a soft blue color, set to lighten, 62%:
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I'm not very good at tutorials and I put this together pretty quickly, but hopefully this was somewhat helpful, let me know if you have any questions! <3
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regretfulcorrine · 2 days
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Every time I see your art, my mind always goes, 'ooo, lesbians?' Then I'm like, wait a second. Oops, it's still very wonderful. You use very bold colors and I adore it, LOL ANYWAY thought it would be funny to share
LMAOO thank you so much!!!💖💖 💖I get that a lot so no worries I also find it funny when people do a double take, I like drawing pretty boys and bright colors, I'm a simple woman 😭 BUT here's some ACTUAL drarry lesbians for you! (because it was high time I actually drew them, lol)
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Welcome to my post that sums up all of the insanity that I've been experiencing over the similarities of Philza's lore from both Hardcore and QSMP and the lore of Grian from various places, with EVOSMP, Hermitcraft, and Life series being the main ones. I need to no longer be going insane about this alone.
This piece mainly talks about Watchers from EVO and the Enderking from Phil's hardcore lore and QSMP, but the two characters also have links to eachother. It is not just Fishing-Obsessed British Bird Men.
So firstly, we have the obvious link, of the villains color scheme and depictions in lore.
Watchers are generally depicted as purple, thanks to the color of the Evolution SMP Logo, and the fact that they reside in the end. We know that Listeners can be purple colored thanks to Martyns final limited life episode where they are shown for the first (and so far only) time.
The Enderking is shown as purple as well, definitively canon in lore, as shown in the QSMP Stream "Break past the Void". Also, the Enderking obviously has connections to the End, just like the Watchers.
Both reside in the End initially, before ending up affecting the overworld.
Secondly, we have the link of depictions in lore for the two main characters.
Phil is canonically a bird in QSMP, and although I'm not sure if it's canon to hardcore lore, he certainly flies around a lot, and I'm pretty sure he's been called a bird by the hardcore gods. (Rose, Blaze Empress, and Ocean Himbo man.) He's also known as the angel of death.
Now, Grian is, in EVO canon, a Watcher. Now, Watchers are depicted as angels in lore and in fanart, more traditional statues on the actual server, but then became more eldritch with biblical angel looks after the fans got to them. This helped contribute to his bird hybrid headcanons from the fandom, along with living in the jungle and liking parrots.
(You can probably see the similarities here with Grian's lore being slightly more vague)
Third, we have the abilities of the Watchers vs the Enderking.
Both can canonically possess people, with the Enderking going for Phil, and succeeding with what happened in QSMP from the Stream "Greed comes with a price..." , and the Watchers controlling Martyn in his Limited Life Finale, potentially tipping the balance to him winning.
The placing of obsidian. In EVO, when Grian steals from the Watchers, they chastise him, call him greedy, and place obsidian over every single one of their chests. Alternatively, the Enderking puts Obsidian in all of Q! Phil's special places, specifically crying obsidian.
Also, as a side note, I would just like to say that in Hermitcraft 9, Grian had a large rift underneath his base that leaked magic into the surrounding area. It was bright magenta, and turned into a huge nether portal when it was activated by Grian thanks to his pressing a button. When the portal starts to close it gained both crying obsidian and normal obsidian. --- It ended up closed until the end of the season, where it reopened with a ring of crying obsidian that let him transport realms to the next season of hermitcraft.
Both of these are caused by the god-like entity judging the person as greedy.
So. Thank you for coming to my essay. Probably the first of many.
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fandomfluffandfuck · 2 days
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TELL ME ABOUT THE SHOES!!!
related to this
Okay, okay, okay, first, I have to mention that every day I drive home from college, I drive past two different sex shops and one strip club and one of these sex shops has an LED sign that advertises a bunch of different spicy stuff, and the other day they had one word up--
Shoes
And upon reading that, I was hit over the back of the head with the first shoe-related thought I have that relates to fandom:
You always want what you can't have
Bucky mentioning in Captain America: Civil War how Steve used to wear newspapers in his shoes speaks to me about the depression, how he must've had beat up, worn out, hand-me-down shoes with newspapers stuffed in them to make them fit better, to make them warmer in the winter, to try and at least make them feel like there weren't holes in the bottoms of them. Steve drawing here and there throughout the Captain America movies--drawing himself as a dancing monkey, sketching buildings--makes me think of his artistic eye. An artistic eye that we see beyond drawing, with his comments about Stark Tower being big and ugly, plus, similarly with, according to Steve, the ugly brown van they use to save the world. Both Bucky's comment of the way things used to be and Steve's appreciation for aesthetic makes me imagine that Steve could gravitate toward shoes. Pretty, slim "women's shoes," as well as generally shiny, bulky "men's shoes."
The first time he notices shoes is early, when he watches his Ma slip into her Sunday best heels. Her stockings might be laddered and torn because she doesn't have enough pairs to have a special Sunday pair--she needs to use all the ones she has when she's nursing, dealing with all sorts of untold grossities at work, often throwing them out--but this pair of shoes look brand new. She takes good care of them, so much so that Steve's not allowed to touch them. Her Sunday best heels are hardly scuffed or creased because she never wears them to work or anything, just to church. They're pretty and special, and on the way, she's always careful, not stepping in puddles, on cracks, or anything.
The way his Ma treats her Sunday best shoes makes Steve investigate during church, more interested in eyeing all the other special shoes than listening to the preaching that Sunday, peering over the open Bible his Ma holds out in front of him. He's cataloging all the differences between the men's and women's shoes. Both kinds are shiny, but women's shoes are especially so. Angular and polished and bright, often with tiny details that men's shoes don't get the luxury of having--tiny buckles, little bows, patterns pressed into or cut out of the leather, etc. Women's shoes are so delicate, clicking across the floor while men's land much heavier, more of a clunk. A thunk even.
As soon as he's drawing, his interest translates there, too. It's the shine, reflective and glinting, every crease exemplified; the angles, shapely and precise; the colors, usually more muted but occasionally very bright and attention grabbing, either way, they're always saturated. It's fascinating to draw shoes. The lines are so clean that it's easy to make a mistake. And it's so challenging to capture the way the positioning of the shoes changes the shape of the whole thing! But that's what makes it interesting. Every angle holds new details. Steve discovers quickly that he can tell stories through shoes, too... where the creases are and how many there are, scuffs, rough leather, loose threads, color bright and bold or not, the angle he draws the shoes from, too--looking down at them from where he stands, lying on his belly and sketching straight on, detailing the bottoms--there are endless possibilities.
But, as Steve gets older and the more it sits in his head, the more it becomes something deeper until it's something beyond a passive, special interest. Beyond somewhere where his eyes always go when he meets someone new--glancing at their footwear just to see. It becomes something of desire.
Desired because of how forbidden it is. Women's shoes are for girls. Steve isn't a girl. He can't have them. He wasn't allowed to touch them. He's still not allowed to touch them.
There is a desire for men's shoes, too, but he knows men's shoes. He appreciates the sound of a big, tall man walking down an alleyway by the hidden bars around their run-down cold water walk-up with the swaggering thunk thunk thunk of their boots on the street. He does like that. Something about it makes shivers crawl up his crooked spine. But, he knows them. Bucky wears work boots. They live in a heap next to their front door. Plus, Steve has his own shoes. Men's shoes are familiar.
Steve buries his desire for men's shoes deeper, for whatever reason. It has nothing to do with internalized homophobia, no, why do you ask?
Women's shoes, though...
They're forbidden and unknown. The closest Steve's gotten to fancy, truly bright, and angular ladies' shoes (outside of staring at them through shop windows) was when Bucky brought home a blonde dame--Steve never got her name, she just came and left once--with a rich Daddy. Her shoes were kicked off by the door when Steve got home, sitting fallen over next to Bucky's heavy boots. Steve's heart pounded unevenly in his thin chest, just seeing them together. Darting between the shoes. The contrast.
(That dame must've been short, too, like Steve. Her shoes were so little, especially next to Bucky's. By the looks of it, they might even fit Steve. Maybe. He wouldn't dare touch them, though, not even to straight them in the way he grumbles but organizes Bucky's footwear.)
The second time Steve really comes close to the off-limit territory of women's shoes is after the serum, dragging through the USO Tour with all the chorus girls. Their glittery, flashy, short, and bright uniforms. Meant to attract, so can Steve be blamed? Because suddenly, it seems like Steve can't go ten feet without tripping over one of the girls' pairs of shiny, bright, tall heels.
Once, just once, one of the gals leaves her heels behind. She's going back home, her service done with, so...
With his heart pounding strongly in his broad chest, practically echoing through it, he swears, Steve grabs them. Hastily stuffing them under his trench coat and wisking them back to his private tent--the luxury of being a technical captain.
Alone and in private, Steve knows just looking at them, understanding space strangely well these days, that they're too small for his feet. Even if they weren't too small, Steve is sure he couldn't bear to try them on. Not here. What would he do anyway? He's never thought past getting his hands on ladies' shoes. He couldn't walk with them on. Could he? No. He would be scared of someone hearing the click click click. And he couldn't... he doesn't have anyone to... show?
So, what would be the point?
There isn't one. And Steve doesn't even try to put them on. Instead, he sets one of the pair of the heels in his lap. Cradling it, the shoe is a lot lighter than he expected it to be. The material is much thinner than he thought even though he's drawn shoes a ton. He's studied them. And he studies them again now, up-close and personal, just... looking.
He just holds it.
Without realizing it, he starts to subconsciously stroke the shiny, patriotic-colored leather. It's so smooth. It's cold to start, but quickly, it isn't anymore, warming up to him. The heel isn't as sharp on the edges as he would've thought, but it's not too soft, either.
He's more familiar, having it in his hold, but they're still exciting. Fascinating. Interesting. No matter how often he sneaks away to hold one or both of the stolen shoes in his hands, they're still so different.
They're special.
Steve loses the pair when he walks to Austria. He's not sure what happened to them, and he's afraid to ask. Did someone find them? If they did, what did they think? At worst, they probably just thought Steve spent the night with one of the chorus gals, right? They wouldn't know about... about what Steve did? (And what did he do? He just held them!?) He can't stop thinking about them, though. His hands are so calloused these days, and all his shirts are grimy and coming apart at the seams, holes everywhere, and wouldn't it just be nice to touch something smooth?
Bucky sees through him and asks him what he's missing, but he falls before Steve can say it out loud. So, the secret dies with him.
Steve doesn't let himself think about something so soft and delicate when he wakes up. He can't stomach it.
Eventually
Bucky is back.
Steve has Bucky back.
And they're both trying to heal.
Healing takes many shapes... including, apparently, the shape of a sleek, biege box with a looping, white font delivered to their front door, which contains rich, red, and shimmering tissue paper, fragile and weightless, and a pair of matching, shiny black heels with blood red bottoms.
Steve doesn't even want to know what they cost Bucky. He vaguely grasps the pop culture knowledge to understand how infamous heels like these are, how expensive they are, and he's not dumb enough to miss all the details, thoughtfulness, and exorbitant materials. Shockingly, they have money now, existing somewhere, acrewing in a bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely, and between the two of them, Steve is the one who doesn't know what to do with it. Bucky knows.
Bucky knows.
Bucky bought him a pair of heels, not so bright, save for the bottoms, but still delicate and shiny and alluring. The shoes feel more like Bucky's style than Steve's and... Steve likes that. He likes that Bucky chose them, he likes that he wants to see him in them, and he likes that they're here.
Steve's almost afraid to put the shoes on, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across the smooth, perfect surface. He's not even sure if he wants to put them on or not. He's only ever drawn or held shoes like these. He's not put them on. Does he want to cross that line? Is that even a line? After all the things he's done, is this even daring?
What if it's not special? What if it's not as good as he wants it to be? Does he want it to be good? What's good?
Should he put them on?
Steve's head is so full of questions that he can't do anything but stand there, a contemplative statue; Steve's supposed to be brave and daring, but there are moments where even he's allowed to hesitate.
Right?
Bucky isn't so hesitant. He knows his best guy is going to look killer in those heels, and he knows whatever Steve has built this up to be in his head... it'll be fine. He just has to let go and do it.
With some convincing and a few charming grins, Steve puts the red bottomed heels on and...
It's good.
It's better than he imagined.
While he's wearing them--falling apart at the seams and succumbing weakly to the fever raging through him--Bucky fucks him hard. Deep and good. Leaving Steve unable to hold back the ah, ah, ahs that pour out from inside him and causing him to put bruises, dents really, in Bucky's back with how tight his legs are wrapped around his stocky waist. He can't. Bucky's dick hits his prostate again and again. Oh, god. It's making him so weak--his dick always does. It forces Steve's brains to melt out of his ears, struck stupid with his lips falling open, bright red and wet.
With another hammering, ah, ah, ah, dick carving so deep in him, sparking and hot, desire courses through Steve so strongly that his toes curl until the soles of his feet cramp. As his toes curl, it forces the shiny heels to slip off of his feet just as he crashes through his orgasm. His moans pitching higher--shattering suddenly, shaking apart with the pleasure coursing through him.
Bucky is merciful enough to fuck him through his orgasm, leaving him a whimpering, shaking mess, all too docile and sweet, but he doesn't say merciful. He's awful. Terrible. Evil because he's slowing his hips to a filthy, deep grind. It's slow enough to have Steve's gasping, his body electric and white-hot, making him go haywire and stay achingly hard. He doesn't do anything about it, though. He doesn't reach to jack him off or touch him or do anything but--
Bucky spares one hand to grab the shoe from where it landed haphazardly on their ruffled bed before sliding it back onto Steve's foot after using his strength to uncurl his leg from around his waist, straightening his leg so the back of his knee is at Bucky's shoulder, all so he can put the stray heel back onto him.
He's so flexible.
The position makes Bucky's cock get in deeper.
AH!
Fuck, Bucky is treating him like he's delicate and cute, kissing the thick curves of his muscles and making sure nothing is out of place as he worships him, fucking him like he isn't soft or delicate or nothing. It's like he's being fucking out to make sure Steve's heated draw to heels is even worse after this!
Also, secondly, I keep thinking about:
You wear your devotion on your sleeve
By the time Steve gets to the front and gets to Bucky, pulling him from the jaws of Hell, dangling above its throat, on the cusp of being swallowed, Steve is fucking sick of...
Everything?
He's sick of being in a body that doesn't fit. Chronic illnesses first. A lifetime of rasping lungs and fatigue that follows him like a shadow, always growing taller and longer with the ever slowing dip of the sun in the sky. Then. This. Whatever this is. A body that attracts attention, eyes always dragging over his form, never leaving him alone when before no one would ever even glance his way. He was invisible and agonized; now, he's in the spotlight and burning up.
Something in him yearns to be small again.
The only refuge he finds for that is at Bucky's feet.
He finds the feeling of being small yet respected, taking up no space at all but still being seen and heard, at Bucky's feet while he's shining his boots. He knows how much appearance matters to Bucky. His hair is always done just so, even in the middle of the rain and wind and wilderness. He's always freshly shaven, no matter if there's running water nearby or not. And his boots are always shining, never mud caked like all the others.
So, when Bucky ended up with bruises shading his ribs, barely able to sit up, let alone bend over or breathe as good as he should be able to...
It's only natural that Steve offers to shine his boots for inspection for him.
At first, honestly, it's terrible. He's holding Bucky's leg as delicately as he possibly can, scared to even slightly squeeze him too hard and leave more bruises or, god forbid, break his bones, but Bucky won't have it. Bucky tugs on his hair, shaking his head to get the point across, making sure he's looking up at him before he assures him he won't hurt him. He can't. He needn't hold him so delicately, and, c'mon, if his boots are gonna be clean, he needs to put some more muscle behind it. A smile cracks across his face, and, suddenly, it's all good.
It's great.
It's so fucking nice to be staring up at his familiar face and be small and--
How does Bucky convince him to wrap himself around his leg and grind against his newly polished boots until he's messing them up, so he has to lick them clean again? 😮‍💨😮‍💨
(I wanted this to be longer, but I don't have the time right now, ughh)
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mayfast · 3 days
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What's in a Name? (UnBetaed Ficlet)
“So, that’s my name?” His fingers hover over the wet sand, terrified to mess up the pretty lines and loops and dots in the shore. It was clean and spread out evenly. He let his eyes wonder over word again.
It was his name, but it’s seeable, not spoken. That’s his name. They’re on the ground for anyone to see if they wanted. However, it was just shared between them. On the East side of the village, where people hardly go. It’s between ocean blue skin and mellow brown eyes. Hidden in their soft words, and distinctive physiques. Tuck under there forms as a tan pinky points at the symbol. It’s amid their souls. Him and Spider.
“Yep, although we can get rid of this apostrophe if you want,” The elder’s smallest finger taps at the dot between the circle and the next symbol, it looks like the curve of a net falling into the water. Spider’s other hand floats in the air next to his larger, pinky less one. It makes him appreciate the difference and similarities between them. The careful articulation of the digits, and soft pads. But the striking color contrast when he slips the elder’s fingers between his own.  Even when it’s a little awkward to feels a digit on each side of his fingers, or when his hand swallows Spider’s smaller one. Ao’nung welcomes the soft squish of the other’s skin and sensitivity of his slimmer palm, “I just think it makes it look cooler and emphasizes the direct change of morphemes.”
“I like it.” He does, mainly because of the way Spider’s dark eyes reflect the bright sun when he gets to explain the organization of the symbols, letters, and how he’s putting them together to form a visualization of Ao’nung’s name. He looks so excited. His blonde hair glows like syuratan. Ha, imagine that, syuratan that glows during the day.
They were on the shore, kneeling on the semi-wet sand. Sea water occasionally licking at their toes. Ao’nung couldn't help but be captivated by the sight of the human’s long, blonde curly hair. He’s never stood before someone with such salient hair, He marveled how every strand seemed to catch the light, creating a halo of golden warmth around his head.
A gentle breeze played with Spider’s curls, causing them to dance and shimmer. The way his hair framed his face, accentuating his features, it made his stomache twisted wonderfully. Spider’s hair was different, thinner. So thin, that sometimes, the strands allowed the golden curls to puff up just a bit when they were dry. Like now. He watched as Spider’s ran his fingers under his hair, pulling it back from his face, and he couldn't help but feel an urge to cup one hand along the other’s jaw while the other caress the loose, undreaded hair.
It truly was yellow-yellow. It was like an endless current of yellow. Some strand darker than others, and the pieces would weave themselves in and out of each other. The other glanced over his sand shaded shoulder, turning to him with a smile, blunt teeth showing off and, his deep, murky water eyes sparkling with joy. Eyes delighted at seeing him. He returned the smile, feeling the fangs tug at his bottom lip.
            “What about your name?” He queries with a serene hum. He feels the need to bump his head against the gold mane, letting his tough skin feel the slick and smooth glide of the blonde ocean beside him. His does such, feeling the soft tufts along his cheek. It tickles his nose as the curls rub against it. He smells of an odd mixture of something bitter, ocean salt and hard metal. It’s a weird comfort, but his tends to enjoy weird things.
            “Which one?” There’s a small pressure resting on his wrist. He cracks an eye, just widen enough look at Spider’s other hand resting on top of it. His tan look so bright on his blue. He feels held as they lean on each other. “Miles or Spider?”
            “Your name.” He repeats gently. Sighing and feeling the flyaways brush against his skin as they move with his breathe, dancing with the air before falling back onto his cheeks.
            “Okay.” A saccharine utter hummed back.
            Spider leans away from him to put his finger into the sand. Carefully tracing his own symbols into the ground. There’s a similar number of symbols underneath Ao’nung’s name. But it’s dot is on top of a line instead of between symbols.
            “I like it.”  He answers, resting his chin on Spider’s fluffy hair.
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tsaikonautz · 12 days
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hey what do you think of this? *holds up tails plush*
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ricky-mortis · 10 days
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Time Bastard trapped in Tinky’s blorbo box
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saeiken · 14 days
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☀️☀️☀️☀️
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novelconcepts · 10 months
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There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.
Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.
Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).
But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?
How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.
How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.
How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.
How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.
How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.
How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?
All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?
They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.
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