#an unnatural phenomena

[keeperesque]

blows a kiss to the areas my vacuum doesn't quite reach. for Dust

#not peach #fatt #psd liveblog #maybe austin should stop putting daisybait unnatural phenomena into the game :/

[misterradio]

the hands of orlac is so weird its like. you're absolved of your nonexistant sins now. okay so i was acting insane for years for no reason

#original nonsense #personal #bizarre movie for SURE i think i like the idea of supernatural elements more than whatever was happening. #well maybe there were supernatural elements at play anyways even if they try explaining it by the end. yay ghouls and ghosts #and unnatural horrible phenomena..!!

[petorahs]

u will never find someone who cares about makoto yuki as much as user petorahs does

#i feel like my breakdown over playing the answer says it all #aishi.txt #makoto yuki #minato arisato #its so inane like i dont tend to overly like silent protags without putting my hcs on them and personalizing their character #BUT MAKOTO... hes so. he is soo #idk i feel like scientists should study this unnatural phenomena #i just care him #anyway i need to immortalize the twt live reaction thread i did while playing the answer #embarrassing as it is. it conveys the exact emotions i have regarding him #5 stages of grief speedrun babeyyy #persona 3

[perpetual-ash]

↑ i am constantly thinking abt this reply because it is deeply reflective of the general attitude i see displayed toward palamedes, and camilla too, wherein people seem to assume that they are inherently more rational and comparatively unbiased as a whole when compared to everyone else. they are treated as if they are comparatively free from the same confines of thinking that affect other characters; they are characterised as a shining example of a truly equal necromancer-cavalier bond, of loyalty and love, and are treated as if they are perfect geniuses who can do no wrong—an attitude i feel very much inclines people to romanticise their devotion & treat paul's birth as a victorious thing.

@dve i feel summarised this phenomena the best: "i think cam and palamedes are nowhere near as revolutionary as a chunk of the fandom would like for them to be". i'd even go as far as to say that, in their role as foils to gideon and harrow, they are meant to showcase just how damaging the necro-cavalier dichotomy is to the individuals involved. i've spoke on this before but the bond is explicitly modelled on the example of john & alecto—which is already not ideal—and was built on a foundation of deception, with john hiding the fact the lyctoral process did not necessarily have to end with the death of the cavalier: the sacrifice of the cavalier is baked into it, because the history of cavaliership is indelibly tied into the avoidable deaths of the first cavaliers.

the equality ascribed to their bond is based on their seeming inversion of the exploitative nature of the necro-cav bond—compared to silas' siphoning colum, it seems improbable to say that they are anything but true equals who break away from the model, revolutionary in nature. they are devoted to each other, endlessly loyal! to the point camilla will violate the wishes and autonomy of palamedes in the name of her devotion.

camilla frames the fact she cannot sustain both of their souls in her body as her being weak, as opposed to being a product of the reality maintaining two souls in a single body the way they are doing is extraordinarily difficult and unnatural, doing herself a disservice in the process, because in her eyes she is failing in her duty to him.

his presence in her body is killing them both, and she frames this as [their] choice, but then wants pyrrha to lie to him about the fact it's killing her: meaning his choice would be based on her exploiting his absence in this moment, on a deception.

they can't keep this up forever, it is killing them both, but camilla's devotion to him means she won't accept that and doesn't want to give him reason to vacate her body. she wants pyrrha to lie—even though it's killing him too!—because she doesn't want to let him choose to let her live at the cost of his own life.

her death is avoidable but her role and her duty is to die for him, to sacrifice, to hold the sword for her necromancer. she won't let him, the necromancer, choose the cavalier's life because it is intended to be used by him—a soul to be eaten. she won't let him choose, violates his wishes and autonomy in the name of her devotion to him; i personally don't think equality in a relationship is based around denying the other their autonomy and lying to them, do you? and in this moment, camilla is treating herself as expendable, their inevitable death as inconsequential because it prolongs palamedes for as long as possible.

palamedes, conversely, has a very interesting perspective on lyctorhood:

he presumes that the original lyctors, the first necromancers and their cavaliers, sought to merge themselves from the start and that they achieved this incompletely. he posits the existence of true lyctorhood; palamedes views two becoming one, one being two, as something admirable, a truth not yet seen—grand instead of petty.

we also see somebody else who expresses a similiar belief in a perfected lyctorhood, one of the original lyctors, mercymorn the first:

the original lyctors did not seek out to merge with their cavalier, their other half in necro-cav terms, and only did so as a result of a lie, the idea of a one-way energy transfer. from mercymorn's perspective true lyctorhood is a process that preserves the cavalier; from palamedes' perspective true lyctorhood is a process that merges the cavalier and necromancer to form something new, the truest response to the call of "one flesh, one end" yet seen. palamedes' conception of lyctorhood is removed from the original context of lyctorhood's formation, and is shaped heavily by the ideals of the society he and cam were raised in.

If the cavalier and the necromancer do not take "one flesh, one end" as a maxim for their passion for each other, their bond is nonexistent. They must each take the other as their ideal. […] Their love is the love that fears only for the other: the love of service on both sides. Some have tried to characterise this relationship as the cavalier's obedience to the necromancer, but the necromancer must be in turn obedient to the needs of the cavalier without being asked or prompted: theirs is arguably the heavier burden. — Tamsyn Muir, A Sermon on Cavaliers and Necromancers

suffice to say, i do not think paul is a defiance of the empire's ideals, so much as a perfected expression of them; paul is the embodiment of the love of service on both ends, the product of a mutual death. their choice to die as two to become one was exactly in line with what a necromancer and a cavalier are intended to do.

"One flesh" is the underpinning of our whole Empire [...] One end is one empire. — Tamsyn Muir, A Sermon on Cavaliers and Necromancers

#the locked tomb #cavaliership #camilla hect #palamedes sextus #meta

[the-phant0m-cat]

ECLIPSE PHOTOS!!!!!

Starting with the good total eclipse photos (from my mom)

And then the partial phase photos (also from my mom)

And some pinhole projections

and finally, the photo my dad got at the end of totality, with the sun just starting to poke out and a star still visible in the sky

Some additional notes about the whole experience, in no particular order

it's amazing how cold it got, like the temp dropped a solid 10-15 degrees Fahrenheit

the thing that no photos I have seen really capture even close to accurately, is how strange the horizon gets, it's sunset in all directions and the whole sky in general looks incredibly unnatural and surreal

the moon's umbra approaching in the seconds before and receding in the seconds after totality is SUPER COOL! looked like storm clouds in those directions

the other partial phase phenomena, were all very cool, the way the shadows changed, the shadow bands floating around the ground in the seconds before and after totality, and the way the colors distorted was something that, had it not been pointed out beforehand, I might have missed. I saw a good video by SmarterEveryDay on youtube that went over them and it was super cool to notice them irl

the fact that staring at the sun for hours straight give you really bad sunburn, and a clear line of where your glasses were on your face (ow)

I was playing with a magnifying glass and just after totality even at the most magnified I could get it, I couldn't feel it at all, and this magnifying glass was able to light fires at full sun

might add more later if I think of them

Additional notes: the experience of just after totality ended was super strange, with the sun being bright enough that it looked like full sunshine, but was still cold was so strange, there was no discernible temperature difference between being in the sun and being in shade.

Still haven't gotten over how strange the world looked in the ~30 or so minutes before totality, it didn't feel like the world had gotten darker so much as it felt like it had gotten its colors muted. it was so strange feeling

#solar eclipse #total solar eclipse #eclipse2024 #eclipse 2024 #pinhole projection #I think the “star” might actually be the planet Venus but I'm not sure

[snek-panini]

Today I've got binderary book #3 to share! It's a lighthouse (burning) by books-and-omens. This is a really excellent canonverse (sort of) historical setting liminal ghost story-esque fic that I read practically in one sitting sometime last summer. It's fantastic, well-characterized, angsty and fluffy and fairly plotty and with some really unique worldbuilding. I honestly can't sing its praises enough; it's one of the only times since taking up this hobby that I've known I wanted to bind something before I actually finished reading it.

Have a look at the rest of the photos under the cut; this one came out really well and I'm in love with it.

For this cover we have lineco book cloth on the spine, a strip of chiyogami paper that I got in one one ChibiJay's random paper packs, and blue-gray sketch paper for the primary gray space. It's a little hard to tell in the photos but the HTV for the titles is in two different colors, silver for "a lighthouse" and pewter for "(burning)". The effect is more pronounced in person and I love it. The pewter came in a multi-pack of cricut foil HTV and I can't seem to find it on its own anywhere, which is a shame because it's beautiful. The sort of streaky effect on the cover was unintentional but I'm kinda liking it? It's a more porous paper for drawing or painting or something, and I tried to wax it for waterproofing, but when I used the heat press to get the title on the wax darkened in the spots where the glue was applied to the cover board. At first I was disappointed, but the fic features a really massive unnatural storm, and it sort of looks like water running down a windowpane, so I'm leaning into that and calling it an aesthetic. The back didn't get this heat treatment, so it doesn't have the pattern.

Top view, showing the bookmark and handmade end bands. The bookmark is a navy blue ribbon cut from the inside of a shirt, and I chose red and white because there are so many picturesque lighthouses that have red and white stripes. It's the only color in the book that's not blue or gray. The endpapers are a navy blue silk moire, and I had better luck with them than I did with the platinum ones on my Persuasion bind even though they are the same brand. Maybe it's practice or maybe navy just hides more sins than platinum.

For the title page I went fairly simple (for me anyway) with just a frame I pulled from rawpixel. It suits the story, though, being set sometime around or before the early 20th century. I also played with text colors on the title page, with some words being grayed out to mimic the effect on the cover. The section break is me getting clever with a feature of my printer. I often use a gray line to denote section breaks, but for whatever reason my printer doesn't like them and often makes them blurry. It is only these lines that come out blurry; larger images don't do this even if they are complex. So for this one, where a major feature of the story is trying to figure out what's real and what's a supernatural occurrence, I made one that was deliberately heavier in the center so it would come out sort of smoky or fuzzy, like it wasn't quite real and couldn't be clearly seen. It doesn't look this fuzzy in the unprinted file but I love the effect and I feel very clever for manipulating the printer like this.

I'm going to show off some interior shots but this bit contains spoilers for the story, so if you don't want to see that then maybe skip the rest of the post.

I wanted to get creative with my title placement since a lot of my binds look very similar inside, and this concept really let me try that out. The plot of the story is that the reason there are so many supernatural phenomena at this lighthouse is that someone in the future ran an experiment to harvest energy and accidentally cracked spacetime with it, and bits of the future and the past and the might-have-been are seeping through the cracks, and the longer the cracks exist the more seeps through them and the worse the ghostly stuff gets. At first it's not clear whether there's anything weird happening at all, and it becomes clearer that something is wrong the further in you get because the cracks are worse. So I had this idea for a vintage lighthouse illustration with an overlay of cracks in glass, that become more defined as the story progresses until something is done and they're sealed up in the end. I am not a visual artist and even this straightforward concept was too much for my skills, so I chose the lighthouse and the crack overlay and my amazing husband did the actual image manipulation. There are five different images, with the cracks invisible in the first and final chapter and most visible in chapter 10 and 11, when the characters are trying hardest to fix the problem. I'm really really proud of how well this turned out.

And that's it! I have several more binderary books to post but they are all still waiting for titles before I do the photos, so I don't know when I'll have them up.

#guys i love this book it came out so pretty #though it was a struggle at times #it got trimmed crooked and the gilding had to be scrapped and then the case was too small #so it actually got trimmed like 4 times #totally worth it though i mean look at it #everyone look at the cool thing i made #i'm so proud of it!! #bookbinding #fanbinding #snek makes books #good omens #fic rec

[sin-sidejob]

Insidious Inside Job: Halloween pt. 2

Note: Inspired by skoshibuns fanart on instagram + I have songs linked with each segment for the specific portion that goes with the monster, the plot, or both + reminder, I may be an english major but this thing is barely proofread

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Minors DNI, AFAB + GN PRONOUNS, RAW SEX (wrap that rascal), monster-fucking, tentacle fucking, inhuman creatures, furry fucking? One brief scene of alluded almost sexual assault/assault (that gets stopped and interrupted) incredibly vague nothing actually happens, drug use/roofied/narcotics, I guess, werewolf (slight A/B/O dynamics), breeding kink, talks of missing body parts and death, cockwarming, somnophilia the undead, zombies, doctor play, doctor kink, doctor/fake patient, living dead, experimentation with cadavers and dead bodies, mention of illness/cancer, various Halloween-y phenomena + probably more

Content: smut, spooky scary spectral holiday smuttening, monster and inhuman creature fucking, usual debauchery you can expect from me, dicks and pussy, inhuman and monster genitalia, reader has AFAB nethers/genitalia and a cunt but I don’t describe about tits so folks are safe, I used gender neutral pronouns all throughout as well. Mentions of underwear and generalized clothing but no bras or gendered articles of clothing. Southernification of Robotus (you’ll see) + probably more

! ! ! This is part two, with Reagan + Brett + Andre + Robotus + Myc. Part one, located here, includes Gigi + JR + Glenn + a bonus character ! ! !

Reagan Ridley: MAD SCIENTIST

• songs: Evil Eye - Franz Ferdinand

- You were used to the chaotic cadence that came with knowing and loving the reclusive Dr. Ridley, enjoying the maniacal dynamic and aiding her in her experiments, helping her tidy up should a test go awry. You aided her in all her endeavors, even the unsightly ones, and that dedication and mutual trust blossomed into friendship and then eventually love and list. Simple creatures, you two were, and instincts were a gravitational pull as equally potent to magnets as to mankind.

- The latter half of the year, when the weather turns and the leaves change and shed their green covers to don the classic golden hues, is when she came alive even more. She found energy in the fall and winter weather, more likely to be within the confines of her laboratory and adding scrawled, scratch-like lines into her notebooks and texts, running about with her coat billowing behind her like a shadow tethered to her, fluttering beside her with the grace of a conspirator.

- There were times when she would not need your assistance and you would be free and left to your own devices, wandering about the extravagant library and traipsing through the halls, snooping where you shouldn't, and happily receiving your punishments. Life was good and continued to be so, almost mundane in an unnatural, phenomenal way. There was no dark side of the moon to you, only the light because the shadows were your home, and the person you called lover languished alongside you in Moonglow-shaded craters.

- But your favorite moments had to be when it was you she was examining, you who she was teasing and playing with, black patent leather gloves that were entirely unsafe and unethical in a lab environment used on your form, drawing out pinpricks of chills. Especially now as Reagan hums at the sight of your disheveled state, silent beside her idle noises and internalized dialogue as if she is annotating already-written notes within the confines of her brain of you as her hands draw out more data to analyze, almost pulling all your secrets pool forth from moaning lips via her ministrations.

- Reagan is seldom tender or ginger in her touch, not in a harshness but more in a neutral, guiding, directing manner. Like moving you about with the same grace as working with her equipment and tools, movements memorized and muscles well-accustomed to all that you are. She can be softer, in aftermath moments where your body and senses can not make heads or tails of where the two of you ended or began, fully enwrapped and enveloped in one another like coiled vines of ivy, cascading upwards and intertwining in great efforts. But now, her touch is not soft, but steady and purposeful.

- Cold gloves remove clothing and secure straps onto your body, across your limbs, and holding you tight against a weathered and soft wooden table, built with the intention to be used for medical seminars and demonstrations. You lay, naked and taut upon a staged table in the center of an empty auditorium for the use of educational experimentation presentations and viewing seminars for research and study. The arena on her property is empty, no event planned for today, just the two of you in the grand room and feeling infinitesimally small, yet powerful simultaneously.

- "Not too tight?" Dr. Reagan Ridley asks softly as she busies herself with hovering over the straps that secure your wrists and ankles to the examination table, gloved hands running along oiled leather seams. "Perfect." is your answer and her smile matches the word, pride in her eyes at her wonderful assistant, her previous lover. "There's my darling, now what are te rules?" she asks, unbuttoning her labcoat to expose her blouse and slacks beneath, slinky and clinging to her body in a way that makes your firsts clench just so, palms opening and closing with the yearning need to touch.

- "Nuclear is stop, gradient is slow down, and prism is keep going, or good." you answer, squirming a bit against the restrains for show and shuffling your ass against the soft wood, feeling the cool air caress your exposed, already leaking pussy. "Wonderful," the Doctor trails off, wandering away from the table and leaving you to lay spread and scan your eyes across the planetarium-painted ceiling above and marvel at the gold leaf details in the stars and constellations, drawing you back in when she returns and adjusts her gloves with a small thwack, "now, where should we begin?"

- You don't respond immediately, not knowing how or where to answer, unable to distinguish a clear mood in her dark eyes for what she wants and what she is planning to take from you. The hesitation makes Reagan decide on her own, a dark chuckle emerging from her lips and settling in the base of your spine, curling like a funnel stormcloud. "Alright then, guess it's up to Doctor's orders." She smooths softened leather against your inner thighs and parts your lips, blowing cool air in puffs against your exposed cunt and clicking her tongue in notes as her mind wanders in fascination.

- "I think I'll start here, test your sensitivity first hmm?" she asks aloud, mainly to herself, the table raised to her waist so she can easily maneuver around you and toy with you, like a doll. It feels all like a pleasurable version of The Princess Bride's pit of despair but mixed with a sex dungeon and none of the latex. "There, how does that feel?" it feels good, decent, not enough as the first portion of her pointer finger breaches your walls, the texture not adding much besides a cooler sensation. You answer the same, and she hums before moving on, shifting in a manner reminiscent of a cat's sly sway.

- "Space for improvement, good." she comments, a stray hair falling into her forehead from her tight ponytail, dark hair pulled back and away from her face and allowing you to fully watch her move and her shifting expressions. She thrusts the finger into you, slowly and watching as you clench around her, gaping and closing in a rhythmic pattern. "And this?"

- "its g-good too," you choke out, shifting your head from looking at her to nothing, eyes shut and you try not to squirm, letting her venture as she pleased, "but not good enough?" Reagan asks, and you nod in agreement, prompting her to curl her finger upwards, matching with her second finger, and smirking, brows arching as she watches you grow more and more disheveled.

- "ah," you moan out, lip tugged between your teeth as you bite down, fists clenching and unclenching once the pleasure begins to initially build, feeling it bubble forth in your belly like a tide pool on the beach, collecting and growing as more gets put into it. "Now that's a reaction, keep speaking beautiful." she directs, curling in upward strokes from within your walls

- You nod, mewling a bit as your voice breaks and pitches, feeling her slide in another digit, pointer finger to ring finger all slotted. Her gloves are thicker, making the stretch a bit wider than what you're accustomed to, and you break a tad, grinding your hips down and wriggling, aching to get something more, and that something ends up being Reagan's attention.

- "Oh this won't do, I think you need some more advanced methods." Reagan murmurs, enjoying the look on your face as she steps back and out of your line of vision, holding back laughter as you whine and make confused tones, wondering why she stopped when she had finally gotten to the good part. "Easy now, just a moment, you can be patient for me, can't you?"

- "Yes, Doctor." She whips her head around and drops the tool in her hand, and you're worried for a second she didn't like you saying that but she arrives moments later with a silicone dick and a small vibrator in hand, accompanied by a sly grin. "Doctor, hm? We're keeping that." she states as she sets the items in her hands down beside you on the flat table, now away from your sight before you could see any of the specific characteristics or facets.

- You squirm again, chills from the exposed air finally overriding the pleasure in your veins and cooling your body. Reagan tuts at that, smoothing her dry glove up your thigh in an attempt to warm you up, "phrase?" she asks, gentle and present as she looks at you. "Prism." she smiles and nods before her expression shifts, popping the cap off a bottle of lube and warming it between her hands as she looks you over, a small smile emerging once she spots your cunt, clenching around nothing from the show she put on of her rubbing her palms together with her exposed forearms rippling.

- "Ready for me?" she asks, adjusting her gloves and then sucking off the slick residue from her one hand, purposely staring you down as she does it with intent. "Always, Doctor." a shudder that she fails to try and hide rolls through her spine at that, not fully used to you ever calling her that, especially when you're bare and at her mercy.

- "good answer." Reagan responds, lubing up the silicone and sliding it through your folds slowly, watching as you tense and begin to grind. Her hand plants your hip down still, forcing it to stop as she fixes you a warning look while she props the dick near your cunt.

- Sliding it in, she sinks the silicone dick deep into you and watches as your cunt takes it in, noting aloud how the gloves prepped you better than what she does manually glove-free. Keening out, you force yourself still and feel her hand move to instead grip your hip instead of planting it still, guiding you along in a tempo that matches the ministrations of her other hand, fucking the fake dick into you over and over slowly, picking up the pace gradually.

- "That seems to be treating you better. You agree?" barely managing a nod, you respond with a grunting moan as she angles the silicone against a spot of nerves, making you jolt and gasp. "I'll take that as a yes." Reagan jokingly responds to herself, reaching the hand once on your hip to reach away and grab the vibrator, eager to get your pent-up self breaking and shattering like glass.

- You don't realize what's happening, too blissfully unaware due to how she continues flicking her wrist, rocking the dick into you at a pace that builds tension but doesn't get that knot of pleasure unraveling at all. When the vibrator comes to life and thrums in her hand, your head whips up in that instant Pavlovian response, knowing she's about to make you see God.

- "Holy fuck please use that thing on me." you blurt out immediately, drawing a laugh from her that's dark while she fixes you a warning look, a brow raised and you rush to find your words. "Please, Doctor." Reagan hums, pleased, and then reaches down to plant the vibrator on your clit, rolling it in circles and shapes that make your legs struggle against the stirrup-like straps, body wriggling and squirming as it tries to get comfortable to handle getting fucked this way.

- "Well would you look at that, pretty damn effective." She muses, upping the vibrator speed casually with one hand as the other splits you open on the silicone cock with ease. "Next time we're going to have to test this with having both of your holes filled, probably get you squirting in minutes."

- The idea alone that she planted like a seedling in your head blooms, making you even more turned on if possible. The way the dick nestled the spots inside that already got you seeing stars? Multiplying the effect. And now the vibrator rolling over your clit and thrumming incredibly sends you over the edge, barely able to warn her coherently before you cum with a squealing moan.

- "Fucking gorgeous," Reagan marvels, fucking you through it and lowering the setting on the vibrator, still keeping it there but rolling it in softer, smoother motions while she gently fucks the dick into you, working through an orgasm that she manages to draw out for roughly a minute or so. "So goddamn pretty like this."

- She keeps going for a while until your legs stop shaking, then she removes the toys from you and moves about, undoing the straps and stirrups holding you then grabbing a nearby blanket and wrapping you up in it. You sit up and scoot over to the side of the table, legs hanging off as Reagan stands before you, smoothing your hair back and checking you over.

- She busies herself with rolling her fingers over the slightly indented marks where the straps were, double checking to make sure you were okay but she doesn't catch your adoring, sleepy look until you tap at her arm and then raise your hand to lift her chin, beaming dazedly at her. "Hi Reagan." you murmur, pressing kisses to her cheek and jaw lazily.

- "Hello yourself, feeling okay?" she asks, amusement in her tone as she looks you over, making sure you're fully covered in the blanket and warm, trying to prevent you from getting overly cold.

- You giggle and look up at her, grinning wide and honest, "I could not be any fucking better than I am right now, now gimme' a kiss." Reagan obliges, and everything fades as it always does around her, in the best and most comforting blur.

Brett Hand: FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER

• song: Body - Mother Mother or My Boy Builds Coffins - Florence + The Machine

- Brett wishes he could manage to carve a place for himself in your life and at your side with as much ease as he has with loving you, completely enthralled and enamored with everything you are, all that you’ve been, and all that you’ll be. He’s fascinated by you and the intricacies in your movements and routines, the way your brows furrow when confused or frustrated, the smile you don’t show unless you’re caught by surprise and unable to remember hiding it.

- He gathers these little facets of yourself like river rocks and stones, wearing them down in the revisits of his memory, rolling them flat and small but soft in the way he reveres them. If only you loved him like he loved you. If only you actually knew him, not just of him. You’ve met before, known of each other practically since his initial creation. Yet he’s not satisfied because he doesn’t know what it’s like to be with you, only knowing you at the arms reach that he has from you helping him and fixing him up.

- You’re an assistant to his father, his creator, an up-and-coming scientist fascinated with his methods in Reanimation and modern-age necromancy, hoping to study his techniques and model some of his talents with your own. His father, Dr. Quentin Hand, made all of his siblings as initial creations and had Brett last, the youngest and most rushed one of the collection. He was an accumulation of spare parts, the battered bits left in the barrel, a literal representation of what comes from patchwork scientific craft and lacking interest. That’s not to say you didn’t treat him kindly or matched his father's lack of enthusiasm.

- No, you treated him carefully, just like the rest of his siblings. You gave him extra attention and care, sewing back on fingers should they get snagged and fall off his hand, making a few jokes all the while you thread the needle and fish it in and out of his flesh about how his hand’s should be better taken care of, especially since it’s his last name.

- his heart was monitored and he prayed you hadn’t caught the speeding up of the pace, the rapid ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum of his pre-owned heart firing off in awe of you and your presence. If you did, you don’t mention it and you just continue hemming and stitching him back together, returning his ring finger back onto his left hand with care, humming all the while some song stuck in the back of your head.

- “there,” you nearly startle him, pulling him from his reverie with a pat to his knee as you sit up from your chair and clean up, putting your supplies away and disinfecting, “all fixed. Let me know if there’s any trouble with your seams again and I’ll patch you up — no sweat.” His eyes, one hazel and the other bright blue, peer up at you with nothing short of pure adoration. It’s always there, poor boy can’t do anything to hide it. He just loves you is all.

- "Thank you, I'm sorry you have to always fix me up all the time." Brett states, rubbing his arm subconsciously, truly meaning it and knowing it had to be at least a little redundant to mend him after every trip and fall or tumble down the steps. Poor thing had no balance, something you try to work on in your spare time between projects and lessons with Brett's father. You turn, taking your gloves off and disposing of them while looking his way, a sad frown on your face making his dissipate like smoke. "Why are you sorry for that? It's not something you can help, sweet boy, and besides --" you trail off while stepping near him and fixing his hair and looking down at his still-sitting form, "I'm happy to help you, its what I'm here for!"

- and with that, you depart, heading to another appointment to experiment under supervision, He dreads the days that come forward now, nearing when you would be leaving since your education under the apprenticeship of his father ends to a close. You'd be gone, with your own experiments and helpers, a life completely devoid of him. he likes to think you'd write him or call, maybe see his name scrawled in your looping cursive handwriting and hear your words drawn across a page and yearn to find your love within them.

- but even he, Brett, a lovesick optimist knows that would be too good to be true. Within the month, you'd pack and leave and the spanning acres of his family's estate would be empty of your presence. Your quarters would miss your belongings, the posters, and art on the walls, the little personal items and books littered about. It would be as if you were never there, but to Brett, he would always remember you being there. He may have been reanimated, but the days where you roamed the halls and came across his sight were the only days he felt truly alive.

- Little did he know that you had been planning your departure for years and hoped you would go about it, what exactly you would leave or sell, what you would pack, how you would pack, and who you would take with you. "Dr. Hand, I have a request," you start, making casual conversation while you've currently got your forearms embedded in a cadaver's inner organs, organizing things, "I was wondering if I could take one of the experiments with me when I leave early this week?"

- Doctor Quentin Hand is no meek creature, nor does his stature indicate such. he was almost frighteningly tall, but with age has developed a slight hunching slouch making him roughly 6'5 with the rugby player's stature. The man is thick and bulky, with a head full of auburn hair turning grey and the shade of sunned strands with his age. "Depends on which of the creations you'd call to you, and if they'd like to go. The eldest are off limits, but should one of the children agree, you are free to take them. But only one."

- he is currently invested in combining chemicals to inject within the bloodstream when reanimation is to take place later, and luckily so. He misses your entire face light up, beaming from ear to ear behind your surgical mask and eyes glowing with excitement. "I've already decided who I'd like to bring with me."

-"Oh?" he doesn't even turn, swirling an open beaker that smells of disinfectant and acid, "who?". Dr. Hand shows no concern and even that worries you, knowing there was little love shown to the creations, and none whatsoever to your favorite. "I was planning to take Brett, the youngest of them."

-He waves a gloved hand and nods, "Of course, pack his things if he hasn't already. Be sure to invest in a lot of sutures and sewing materials as well, you will definitely need it." if you didn't need this formal apprenticeship, you would've killed him with his own reanimating equipment. "Yes sir."

- later, when you have cleaned up, changed, and wrapped up the experiment which once again went as a success, you settle down in your room and continue backing up your personal belongings into extra bags and suitcases for the items you gathered in your time here. A record plays, crackling initially but still pouring out the cadence of the Lungs album from Florence + The Machine as you wander about, clearing your shelves and delicately folding posters and emptying the walls.

- just as you flip over the vinyl to the b side, a knock rattles against your door. When you open it, you didn't expect Brett's tear-stained face to be the first thing you see. Nor did you expect him to rush and hug you, drawing you into his form and holding you close while he buries his head in your shoulder. "Why do you have to leave?"

- You think it's cruel, but it was always going to be a surprise for you to take him with you. The feelings were obvious and only reciprocated a few months ago. Sadly, you couldn't act on them until you got out from under the eyes of Doctor Quentin for Brett's sake and safety. But now that's not a worry, and you leave after breakfast tomorrow morning with the patchwork babydoll of a man before you.

- The sight enough is heartbreaking, especially with the direct feel of his tremors shaking through him, and then through you with the closeness. It takes several attempts to ease his cries and pry him up from your shoulder, stepping back to close the door behind him then flicking the lock shut before you cup his cheek and lift his head upwards. "Brett, sweetheart, how could you think I'd leave without you?" you soothe, thumbs rolling over his cheek and swiping tears away. "I wanted to surprise you but I think you need to hear it now, I'm taking you with me. I was never going to leave without you in the first place."

- Brett blinks blearily, wiping the tears from his multicolored eyes to stare at you openly and dart his gaze between your own eyes. "You're serious?" he asks, still buried in disbelief, "why would you want to take me, you barely even like me." Brett's met with laughter, not caustic or harsh and at his expense like what he's used to, yours is lighthearted and kind, just like your eyes. "Sweetheart, I care for you a great deal beyond just liking you." you say, taking his hands in yours, the ones you've constantly tended to like the rest of him.

- "What does that mean?" Brett asks, squeezing your hands tight and finding it impossible to look anywhere in the room besides your face. "It means I love you, silly thing, and I refuse to let you stay here any longer when you deserve the world. Let me show it to you." His tears reappear again but its relief, the feeling that swarms his body and makes him feel shrouded in Moonglow. You care for him, you love him, that his years of pining after you and hoping, praying for a miracle were worth it. You loved him, your silly ragdoll.

- "Say it again." he says, his hands moving from yours to your waist, brushing the bare skin where your shirt has ridden up with ease, aching to feel more of your warm skin in his palms. "I love you Brett." you murmur, forehead pressed to his as you press your palms to his chest, fingertips tracing the material of his henley while humming in a pleased tone once his hands begin to wander.

- "One more time." he whispers as he leans forward to catch your lips with his, admiring how your eyes flutter shut when he does. You kiss, lips shifting back and forth as you murmur how you loved him into his open mouth like a secret, and he'd cherish and protect it as such. Brett pulls back, palms cupping your warm cheeks just as you had previously with tender grace and you spot his tears have ended.

- "I will never let you down," he promises, smile bright and crooked, perfectly him and equally as charming, "I swear, you'll never regret this, never." and you know its the truth, not because he says it but because you've known for ages that there was no one else you'd care for this much. As if he was made solely for you, perfectly patchworked together.

- In an act of bravery or stupidity, you grab his hand and step backward towards your still-made bed, peering up at him from lidded eyes. "I know that, but how about you show me just how much you love me right here, hm?" you tease, loving how his mouth fell agape and his arms fled to your waist again, eagerness steeped into his actions like tea. "Can I?" brett asks, always the soft, chivalrous, perfect man. "Absolutely." you respond, already ushering out of the shirt and baring your chest to his hungry, heterochromial eyes.

- he spares no time in crowding you against the bed, climbing atop your languid form and pressing doting kisses at your lips then making his way down to your neck, eagerly leaving hickeys and marks while he undoes your belt and shucks your pants down. He bares your underwear to him and leaves you to kick off your socks with your pants, making a pile on your rug you don't mind at all. "Can I taste you?" he practically pleads, lifting up to stare down at you, beating you to the question you were just about to ask him, making you laugh once more, still that lighthearted sweet sound. "Maybe later, and then ill be able to suck you off. Right now I just want you in me, Brett. That okay?"

- he's torn between crying, busting a load in his jeans, or both. Brett just nods, lip tugged between his teeth and moving with all the enthusiasm of a hyperactive puppy, kneeling on the floor to help you slide off your underwear and nearly drooling the second he spots your bare cunt. He's running on more basic, bare instincts but wants nothing more than to flood your cunt with his cum and keep it there, keep himself there as long as he can. Never wants to leave you, and he never wants the marks and signs of him on you to fade either.

- "are you-" "yes I'm sure Brett, now can you please take your clothes off so I can ride you?" he nearly trips over himself in the process of standing and yanking off his shirt, which he does in that hot lift it from the back of the neck and tug it forward trademark style that has a new layer of slick pool forth. His jeans are mid-rise but are slung low, boxers peaking out briefly before he abandons those too, revealing one appendage you never had to mend. You're a bit glad, you ended up with a surprise too tonight, who would've thought?

- Brett returns, not knowing where to sit or lay until you shove him back to sit against the pillows upright, allowing you to sit on his lap and lay your arms over his shoulders while hovering, teasing before you to be gifted this man's virginity just like you were given his heart and soul. "You sure, baby?" you murmur, knees outside of his own and pressed chest to chest, "I can wait however long you need to." Brett grins, playful and teasing in his own way, and nips at your lip. "I'm okay, m'good, cant wait t'see what it feels like to be buried in you, probably even warmer than you feel right now." He emphasizes with a large and running up your bare spine, sending you arching and your knees threatening to buckle. You sometimes forget how big he is, and with the hefty dick bobbing near his stomach, you're not sure how you could have ever forgotten.

- "Take me then, babydoll" and he does, large hands encompassing your hips as he guides you to sit on his dick, slowly letting it enter and let you get accustomed, "there you go, nice and - fucking tight" Brett murmurs, voice deeper and getting you more riled up than you know what to do with. You had seen him bare plenty of times, but never fully, and the experience was doing you wonders right now as you rested for a moment and let him breathe before you started bouncing on him and making him cum way earlier than you know he'd like. You'd enjoy it anyway.

- He whines after a few moments, his hips shifting and making you both groan, his head falling back into the pillows and his fair falling into disarray, strands of auburn and reddish brown falling into his forehead. "Please, just fuck me, have me I just need you." Brett whines into your neck again, no tears this time as his arms wrap tautly around your form, allowing you to feel divinely sculpted muscles hold you tight and made your walls clench, relishing in his squeaking moan. You'd break him. good thing you know how to put him back together. "Easy baby, I've got you." you murmur, smoothing back his hair before you lower to your haunches and lift your hips, slamming back down and sending him yelling your name while biting his teeth into your shoulder.

- Oh yes, you were absolutely going to break him.

- You fuck yourself on him, feeling his hands grip and drag across your body as you use him, rolling your hips in shapes, occasionally spelling his name out through your gyrations and smiling to yourself as you watch him fall further and further into a mess, hair mussed, mouth agape and eyes tight shut. The skin of his lip is nearly broken open from how much he's bitten and tugged on it, puffy and reddened on his flushed and freckled face. Brett rises and clings back onto you, suddenly shifting his hips and fucking up into you, letting you hear louder slaps of skin against skin while he manhandles you. "M'gonna' cum, gotta' cum can I please cum — I wanna cum so bad, please." he begs, planting kisses at your collarbone and pulse sporadically between broken moans and pants.

- You never expected the reaction nor your own, unable to fight the feeling emanating from your soaked and silken cunt as he fucks up into it, stretching you wide in a way you'll never be tired of. "You can cum, go on and fill me, Brett, wanna' feel you for days. Please Brett, make me feel good." your boy delivers, jackhammering into you and making you cry out, tugging at his hair while his hands plant themselves at your waist in order to maneuver you around, biting deep at your shoulder when he cums with a broken, shattered shout of your name.

- The way his hips stutter in that frantic pattern, battering your cunt that has you squirming and grinding, you cum rapidly and heavily, whiting out and feeling your surroundings blur to nothing as you repeat his name over and over, clawing down his back as he slows and finally stops, holding you impossibly close. You take longer than he does recover and return to the world, head lolled back and breathing heavy, allowing brett to lay the two of you down and upon the pillows, wrestling the comfort and sheets over your sweat-slicked body and his.

- He always wanted to be a part of your life, and now, years later, he can't stop smiling and hasn't stopped since. Your silly, smiling ragdoll of a husband.

Andre Lee: W E R E WO L F

• song: Howlin’ for You - The Black Keys

- Andre was superficially open, not talking of more intimate aspects of his life but being carelessly free with the rest, and the personal factoids and tidbits emerge in passing comments in conversation send your brain whirling.

- he’s never answered any of your questions as to why he avoids full moons or why he’s unreachable during some times of the month, closest you’ve gotten was Myc cracking a joke about menstruation but you know damn well from a fuck ton of personal experience that he’s absolutely packing heat.

- he’d been sick the past few days, not fully present in meetings and a bit light headed. It got shrugged off as side effects from any number of drugs but you knew better. The disregard and dismissals that came from him when you showed concern were what made that worry and concern grow, manifesting and sprawling into a thorny expanse of knots tugging at your conscious, fixated on helping him.

- so you stand before an older home, 1920’s brick masonry hidden behind modern day paint, sidled beside the other brownstones on the block and fish out your key on the chain he gifted you, a little cartoonish duck smiling brightly while flipping you off, and turn the series of locks in the door while balancing some takeout on the other side.

- after several moments, you make it inside and lock back up, setting your keys alongside Andre’s in the bowl near the door and spotting the matching fuck duck keychain and smiling before making your way through the house, easily navigating through the darkness and making it to the kitchen to drop off some takeout for the egg drop soup he always ordered when sick. “Andre?” You get no response, the house quiet and your brows furrow while your lips purse, that worry unfolding again, “sugar? Where are you?” You get no response and your words echo in the house

- you get no response but you hear a groan, muffled and heady, soft and barely heard. But it’s his, and you drop everything in your hands upon the counter and follow the sound, brain a slurry of what ifs and remembering his medical history should you need it. By the time you make it back further in the house and to his bedroom, the doors locked shut. Real shut. You knock harshly and call to him, voice a bit desperate “Andre honey, you okay?”

- “go away.” It’s him, but not, deeper and meaner that the Andre you’re used to. It’s not a deterrent. “Not if you’re not okay, let me in.” You try the doorknob again and he shouts out “it’s not safe for you right now, go away.” He says more but you don’t hear it through the door. “What do you mean it’s not safe, Andre let me in.” you cry back, banging the side of a fist against the door, beating it loudly trying to persuade him to let you in. Probably not the most convincing manner.

- “GO! You’re not supposed to be here, m’gonna hurt you.” confusion could not even begin to explain what was going through your head, throat taut with fear, “Andre, I could give a fuck, I’m not leaving you like this.” He’s pleading in a sad rage, like a storm with no lightning, all thunder, “I don’t want t’hurt you, please, please just go.” You refuse, and say the same before you break the lock on the door then try and come in, not getting through until you back up and ram a shoulder into it once, twice, finally busting it on the third impact.

- he had warned you for good reason, and the yellow eyes that meet your gaze from a huddled, shadowed corner solidify that. “Should’ve run.” comes murky from him, his mouth moving oddly and you realize with horror he’s not in his regular body. It’s a larger, hulking form of shaggy fur in muted brown and chestnut hues, dusted with black and grey into a slurry of fur. A fucking wolfman was not on your list. “Werewolf?”

- “Yeah.”

- “Considering our jobs — this isn’t all too horrifying.” He bares his teeth, canines glinting, “I take that back — somewhat.” Andre chuckles, darker but remains curled in on himself in the corner of the room, staying far away from you. “Why am I not supposed to be here sugar?” You ask softly, stepping hesitantly further into the room and eyeing him warily, unsure about the entirety of this situation and wishing Elliot fucking Mothman had better-prepped staff for other forms of cryptids.

- “‘cause I’ll fuck y’ and I won’t stop.” He growls out, nails digging into knees bare of clothing and covered in fur, “not safe f’you, I could hurt you.” He doesn’t meet your eyes this time, eyes turned away and trying to shrink as far as possible into the corner, wanting to keep you at bay before his senses and instincts took over and took you. Andre doesn’t see you, but he feels you in the room. The way you smell and he puffs of breath, the thud of your heart.

- so he immediately clocks the second your pulse races at his words and how your heart flutters, along with your cunt. Andres eyes snap back to you just in time to see a shy but sensual smile on your lips. “What if I want you to hurt me?” Is what he hears from your lips, and he forces himself to sit still, ignore the erection against his thigh and the urge to fuck you until your womb got stuffed to the brim and he got you knocked up. “You better mean that.”

- “oh,” you strip yourself of your shirt and other clothes swiftly, like a subtle strip tease but far smoother and graceful than anticipated, “I mean it. Show me how much you love me sugar, I can take it.” You walk over to the bed on the other side of the room, curling up against the pillows and grin, spreading your legs and exposing the entirety of yourself, eager to mark off this box on your sexlist checklist. “Fucking better.” Is what Andre responds with, rising slowly and missing the tall ceiling by merely a foot, taking his gangly form towards the bed and closing his eyes, sniffing visibly and having his body falter, your scent encompassing any logic he had left.

- “look at that,” he chitters, teeth making his grin a bit more daunting, “already spread for me. Cute. Now turn around.” Andre orders, lurking before the bed as you shift, resting on your folded forearms and raising your ass in the air. “Good,” he praises, a hand grazing your arched waist while he settles behind you, “couldn’t follow orders earlier, but that’s just because you were worried, hm? Going to be good f’me now. I know it.” Andre settles himself on his knees behind you, arms planted on either side of your torso and he leans atop you, breath fanning your ear as he teases you, makes the eager nerves alight as goosebumps trail across your bare, vulnerable form.

- “gonna’ let me fuck you? Let me bury my cock in your pretty cunt over and over until there’s nothing left in you but me?” He muses, erection tapping at your ass and feeling much heavier than what you’re used to. You hum, trusting him to take care of you and fuck you right. “Mhm, let you stuff me like a fuckin’ brood mare, now please, c’mon and fuck me Andre.” He swats your ass with his hand, watching the fat of it jiggle and your waist bend high, “don’t have to tell me twice.”

- You bite back a few comments the second he brushes his flared, sloped cockhead into the opening of your cunt, the tip alone bringing a stretch of pain. Burying your head in the pillows around your forearms, you mewl and whimper aloud tossing both your head and your ass back. Andre’s one hand is beside your torso to plant himself while the other is on your hip, guiding your hips back towards him so he can slowly enter and sink his cock into you. "Atta' babe" he croons, breath fanning across your back in a way that makes your spine tingle.

- He lets out a whine that huffs hot air across your spine, sinking in his cock as much as your cunt can fit, several inches still untended to between where the two of you meet. His balls brush your clit when he bottoms out, and he stills, Andre's restless lungs beating his chest into your back and you can feel him through and through. "Fuck, tight little cunt, gonna' fucking break it." Andre groans low and heady as he begins to rock back and forth, in a humping motion that sends his balls smacking into your clit with little pats, making you grateful a hand now plays underside and holds your belly while the other holds him up, your body on the precipice of collapse with the angle, the feeling, all of it.

- "fucking stuff me," you blurt, pathetically trying to rock your hips back into his and you cry out each time, bulbous cockhead nudging your cervix with each shift, feeling him in your guts, "breed me full, knock me up." These were words you had used previously during sex with him, the concept not being new, only to the situation at hand. With Andre being fueled by rampant urges and instincts, barely holding on, your words were like an on-switch that sends him immediately pressing you into the bed and snapping his hips roughly, snarling. into the skin of your neck like he's on a mission, and in a way, he is. Meant to mate.

- "ah, oh fuck, Andre." you keep crying out his name between crying out incoherencies, encompassed by the way he absolutely fucked the breath from your lungs, knocking everything out of you and then drawing it back in just as he slots in, and out of your drenched, dripping cunt, slick now sprawling from his dick and balls, your thighs, to the torn and tossed sheets beneath. There's a fleeting, barely conscious thought of now knowing why sex was called the beast with two backs, the words of Othello never even a full thought as you get plowed from behind.

- oh yeah, you were never going to leave him to deal with a full moon alone, not if this is what your good deeds and diligence get you - being bent over like a broodmare and fucked like it's a need to survive, to breathe. You are livin' good.

- "taking me so damn well, gonna' pump you full, fill you over and over until others no space inside that I haven't covered." he rambles, hurried and frenzied and deep in pitch, snapping his hips rapidly as the sound of skin slapping melts into a blur with the heavy pants and breaths, the snarls and moans and groans the two of you let out, animalistic and primal, fucking elite and top tier in your honest, raw-dogged opinion. "Gonna' give you a child, claim this fucking pussy, all of it, s'all mine."

- You groan out, burying your head in your forearms and feeling his weight atop you, the way he keeps bullying his giant dick into you and fucking you apart, working you like dough in the way he works you over. "Like that? Like me marking you up, being Andre's breeding bitch?" he snarls, sounding so potent in your ear where his head hovers, splayed across your back while his hips do the work.

-"Just feel that," he murmurs, hand pressing into the fat of your belly to press against where he thrusts into you, making you squeal into the pillows as he shows off, his demeanor so contrasting than how he usually is, even in a raging fuck, "gonna' fill you to the brim, baby, already stretching you wide. Belly full of me."

- "God, please — fuck," you're babbling, fucked out and quote literally drooling upon your forearms and the pillows holding your head up, as backing into his thrusts and mewling with the brush of his balls against your clit, everything wet and sloppy, "wanna' be bred, wanna' be yours — I wanna' be yours." Andre lets out snarling laughs, darker than abyssal skies, into your shoulder blades which he litters with nips and bites of sharp teeth, little pinpricks adding to the utter euphoria of getting absolutely pounded.

- "gonna cum, arent'ya?" he drawls, leaning to huff through his nose near your ear and you smell him, sex and musk and earthy amber, you wanna drown in it. "Go on, soak this cock so I can fuck you stupid." It takes a few thrusts later, but you do and you absolutely blackout, the world turning into a white canvas that slowly lifts as you feel Andre fucking into you, pace hurried and faltering as he babbles rapidly, stitching together curses and praise like an ornamental garland.

- Cum is absolutely pouring at that point, rivulets stuck in smears across your ass and thighs, drenching his balls and making them smack wetly against the mouth of your cunt. He's come already at least twice by the load of it and is working on a third orgasm that makes your ass ripple with the force behind his thrusts. "All mine, no one gets to see this, have this, my pretty mate." he's talking to just himself at this point, assuring insecurities while nearly fucking you through the mattress, hell it's a miracle the bedframe hasn't broken. Or the wall.

- You whimper and moan weakly, just taking it at this point because all you feel in your bones is the warmth of orgasmic bliss, full lethargy and no intent to move, feeling so sated and tender than you could simply pass away with a beaming, I just had sex grin that would out do anyone else's, besides Andre's. What plucks the strings of reality a bit is a moment his teeth latch onto your shoulder, marking rows of teeth into a bite marking you as his. He fucks you through it, coming with a shout of your name that is more of a gravelly howl than anything, cum literally flooding your cunt and dripping down everywhere, making a mess of everything.

- Andre's near whimpering, fucking into you weakly while his erection softens inside you, laying on top of your form before wrapping his arms around and having you both shift onto your sides, him spooning your considerably smaller form in his considerably sized state, completely enveloping you in his hold, warmth, and love, soothing your fucked-out and pumped-full state onto the precipice of slumber.

- "M'love you." he mutters into your neck, nuzzling against your pulse as his arms coil around your belly, ensuring you stay in his arms and snug around his dick, "love you too." is what you reply, sounding not like your own voice in the exhausted, airy lilt. It's the last thing you remember before being woken up in the morning to an apologetic and scruffy Andre, back to normal with a plate of breakfast in hand.

- "Andre, honey, we are definitely going to be doing that again."

Robotus Alpha-Beta: D E M O N

• songs: Devil’s Advocate - The Neighborhood or Have A Cigar - Pink Floyd

• fanart: by @olexxx right here

- you’re desperate, and tired of calling after things in the light and day that don’t answer. You now call out for and beg for something from the night, standing in the crossroads with a box of offerings in your hands and a plea so heavy on your tongue it weighs you down like an anchor to a boat, dividing the seas currents in cleaverlike strokes. Crying out into the night, screaming for an answer, yelling out that you’ve done the right things brought the right stuff, made the right calls, you’re frustrated and distressed in the middle of this night, clad in clothing that the wind whips around your form, slinky against your chest and thighs. You’re a vision of desperation in this witching hour, and who would he be to deny your broken-hearted, bargaining pleas?

- “mighty pathetic looking, aren’t you, pretty thing.” He strolls out from the tree line, hands in his pockets of the seersucker suit he wears, hiding his eyes in the shadows while he meanders his way over dirt path and dandelions, plants dying in the markers where his footprints lay. “Pray tell, what brings you to my spacious lay of the woods?” He drones, and you’re too consumed in your own ordeals to fully analyze his appearance and demeanor, ready to bargain and barter down to the bones should it go that far.

- “I just wanna’ deal. That’s all.” You start, laying the tin box down on the ground between the two of you where you stand in the clay dirt and ash of the crossroad, pitch black sans the one flickering, sad looking streetlamp. “What will you take for sparing someone’s life?” Is what comes from your lips next, and he’s almost surprised at the dedication you show in selflessness, musing to himself in the ongoing internal dialogue that you should get one of those flimsy gold stars.

- “Depends on a lot my dear,” the demon drawls, hands gesturing in a manner that reminds you of evangelical television preachers or cable game show hosts, “who am I curing and what ails your beloved patient?” He picks the dirt from his fingernails and you wish you pry out the nails from that tin box you got from a coffin, and force them one by one into his skull for his nonchalance, his disinterest in a deal that meant more than the world to you.

- “my friend, she’s sick. Cancer. I want her cured and for her to live a healthy life and die naturally of old age. What will you accept in exchange?” You’re direct, straight and to the point, shoulders squared and eyes flint and steel, fire flickering in the shards of your irises. Refusing to let him abuse a loophole, you’ve stressed every requirement and plan — ramming the nails in straight. “Straight to the point, I like that.” He drawls, crooked grin smarmy and slimy in the snake oil style, making you envision car dealerships and the price is right but shrouded in brimstone and fire. “The question isn’t what I’ll ask of you, but what you’re willing to offer, dear.”

- he claps his hands together, a MontBlanc pen appearing in his hand and a weathered paper, looking older than your entire bloodline in the way it looks like if the wind blew a fraction harsher, it’d disintegrate. “Alright pet, lay your offers on the table and I’ll see what I’ll accept — but remember,” the demon before you with sky blue eyes pauses, looking like a walking business advert with his suit and tie, shiny cufflinks and a glittering Patek Philippe watch, “no promises.”

- you bite back the myriad of things you’d like to say to this bastard in human flesh-trimmings, but you need your friend more than anything. She’s your world. You’d give your own up for her, and you plan to do exactly that. “My entire self —“ he raises his brows, lips splitting into an amused grin and attempts to interrupt, but you wave a hand and fix him a look, the don’t fuck with me while I’m talking stare, “for part of the week, for the rest of my natural, long and healthy life. You’ll get Tuesday through Thursday, and I will be free to do what I wish the remainder of the week, every week. Sans holidays which I get to myself.”

- he’s still smiling as if it’s within the job application but looks about as pained as if he’s suddenly contracted a bout of irritable bowel syndrome. “And you’re completely mine the entirety of those three days, the full 72 hours?” You nod, face as polished as stone, equally as cold and ungiving. Hes never encountered a wayward soul like yours. Intrigue mars his mind more that he’d care to admit, but it makes the results of bartering so much better. “We have a deal then.”

- he scrawls in loopy old fashioned cursive, slanted and sloped in a manner that reminds you of history class, and fills in the blanks of his document signing your life away to him. He flattens the paper, then signs it himself and hands it to you to sign as well. You spot the larger A and B initials, shortened to AB, but can’t make out the last name, only the large R and the mussed squiggles behind it. Doctorish scrawl, hasty and impatient.

- you sign your signature and life away, not regretting it the instant you get a series of texts from your friend, her energy and liveliness returning in an instant. You pocket your phone then get dragged forward by the elbows, calloused fingertips and softened palms cup your cheeks before drawing you into a fleeting kiss. He pulls away and before you can act, he vanishes in a cloud of ash and dust, the contract within your grip and an emptied tin box at your feet. A kiss to seal the deal.

- you don’t see him until the next week, spending your time with your loved ones and with your best friend, cherishing and relishing in how she’s safe and healthy again and she would always be. The chime of reality rings twelve times, the man appearing in a click of loafers against the tile floors outside your apartment and wraps of his knuckles against the front door, coming to collect you. You’re alone and have been, making sure to be in the comfort of solitude once your first day as a demon’s bitch begins. AB opens the door and strolls in, hands in the pockets of some pinstripe slacks and a chain dangling from near his hand to a slim pocket on his suit vest, thin white stripes against navy fabric making his already tall form elongate.

- the demon struts in with the casual air of devil-may-care, eyes like a cats in how they’re languid but attentive, drawing everything in and sitting until something interesting pulls his direct attention forth. “Quite a home you’ve got here, just you?” AB muses, sauntering with the air of a spoiled house cat. “Yes, just me, now can we get on with whatever you have entailed for my next 72 hours, the suspense Y’know, got me absolutely hooked.” You respond, end of your sentence dripping in sarcasm like a freshly immersed pen nib into an inkwell and equally as dark.

- “impatient too, aren’t you just a bag of tricks,” he muses, lulling and faux cadence in a demon's silver tongue taste, “all in due time. Best to wait and see you squirm.” AB stands before a bookcase, fingertips tapping along spines of books then dusting over a picture frame with your friend, weary Polaroids paling in comparison to this snapshot of her and you several years ago, faces lit in the warmth of lanterns in summer sunset. He holds it longer than he’d deem appropriate, and he doesn’t seem to care or know why.

- “are you always this articulate or does it come with the Armani suit?” You snap, knee bouncing as you sit on the couch, lips chapped from how frequently you’ve gnawed on them in your nervous state, wanting to lose your sanity but unfortunately finding yourself incredibly lucid and stable. Against all odds. “Naturally, pretty thing, some creatures possess decorum and manners — I see you speak from inexperience.” He teases, setting the frame down and wiping his hands on his slacks, adjusting the cufflinks that glitter with initials laid in obsidian and platinum.

- He continues speaking, giving you no opening once more to speak or further deride the demon before you, meandering about your home as if he was not just showing the place, but was trying to sell it as a realtor and making the process as painfully personal as possible. "Do you have a tendency to get squeamish or easily frightened?" "I doubt it, due to how there's a demon I'm casually conversing with, so I'm going to have to say no."

- He chuckles darkly, and you see a glimmer in those glacier eyes of something far colder, and you mark it down for later. "Clever, but such a costly trait. Mind your tongue." You sit and take it in stride, having been braced for an overgrown petulant toddler playing around in daddy's suits. "Since you're being so patient," he mocks, he rolls his sleeves to the forearms after shucking off his jacket and snapping it away in a move that makes you think of hammerspace, "we'll get started. You are to shadow me as I go about dealing. Mind your tongue, presence, and entire demeanor. You are here to help me, gain insight on a modern human mind and soul, not to aid anyone but me due to how I control something far greater than your own life."

- He doesn't hesitate to gut you in the way you've been hung out to dry, hollowed like a side of beef swinging from a hook in a walk-in freezer, dripping onto a frozen floor in tandem with your bravado slipping. AB glances over your expression and smiles, childish and juvenile in a charming, redeemable fratboy sort of way. "Alrighty, now let's get you started."

- and with a snap of his fingers, the two of you began the first day of deals. It flew by, as they all would, you watching from the sidelines or removed from sight to watch as a deal went down. You could clock the bastards who were overly cocky, thinking they could outsmart someone so much older than them it was like the universe looking upon Earth's moon. Planet to sand grains. Pathetic - no match.

- the souls would fade one by one and you would spend your hours prior to the deal observing them from the outskirts in strangers behaviors, deception now a part of your ensemble in equal to your rings or shirt. "Did you observe me before we struck my deal?" you had asked later on in the duration of your servitude, roughly a year into your partial work weeks under the eye and lens of the demon. He laughed, a chiding yet lilting sound that resembled when storm clouds rumbled when the sun still shone, "Oh absolutely I did, my dear, quite entertaining and almost heartwrenching the way you went about your plans. Absolutely precious."

- AB speaks over his cocktail, Pappy Van Winkle bourbon dark and syrupy in the basin of his Waterford crystal glass, sliding about the thick ice cube like molasses, "I will say you have been the most entertaining of my companions in a long time." The way he says it lingers and you assume it's longer than you could perceive, centuries being seconds to the being beside you. It is a fleeting moment of wistfulness before he clocks his newest wayward soul and stalks forward, running a hand through his hair and barely messing his strands up, the greying streaks in his auburn hair falling upon his forehead like a staged motion, queued up to go for a movie scene.

- You tried not to watch more than you needed to when having to help him with his deals, but this time in the low light of a seedy corner alley bar, he glittered like the cufflinks he always wore. Dark obsidian and platinum, simple yet something so potent about it resembled him. If you hadn't sold your life away to the entity, he'd resemble a side character from American Psycho, far too charming to make it into the main role. It was harder to hate him than how he looked, the manner in which you dealt your days away gave you your friend back and a more stable life, albeit the hellish tasks.

- You didn't quite care for how much you cared for him, why you get enamored with him and all that he encompassed. It was disastrous and bordering a Stockholm syndrome, or at least that's what you told yourself when indulging in ice cream and childhood movies. What worsened your situation was an event that occurred in your off hours, out with friends and enjoying yourself in a night of freedom and levity. It went wrong, as you assumed it could, but had not expected the situation to unfold as it had nor the end result to your night.

- "I still don't understand, you crushing on your boss? Understandable, not doing shit about it, perplexes the fuck outta' me." Rory, a friend from high school mentions and brought a series of laughs from your booth at the club. "It's improper-" You're suddenly cut off. "Since when did you ever give a shit about proper?" another friend chimes in, and you sigh before downing the remnants of the drink before you. You get up, go to the bar to get a drink and avoid the terrible topic along with trying to escape the environment altogether. It's not your scene, too loud and overwhelming. It gets even worse after the initial sips of your drink when the world turns hazy and you don't know where you're going, nor whos leading you away.

- "Move them this way, out of the light - there, I told you no one was going to find us here." one of the two figures surrounding your hazy, barely conscious form voices, the other laughing along as they work at your shirt before a dark laugh comes from the opening of the alley, and a glint of polished silver meets the glare of a streetlamp. Its something out of a noir film but you're relieved when you hear his voice, trying to sit up and failing. His name falls from your lips, faint and sad sounding, and his glacier eyes melt away into a darkness never seen before even in the furthest of depths within the oceans.

- It takes no time for him to dispatch the two who had drugged you, the rage pouring off of him in waves you can almost see, even in your bleary state. It's as if someone coated your brain in a fog and dipped it in some liquid nitrogen. "Oh, pretty thing, what have they done to you." is what he says when he crouches near your form, bloodstained but almost holy, a savior without wings. You try and answer but he shushes you, lifting you into his arms securely with the strength beneath his tall, barrel-chested form. The two of you dissipate from the alley and leave behind blood trails no one will find, bodies gone as well to languish on hooks in rings of hellfire AB will personally see to.

- The next thing you recall after being saved up in his arms is waking in a bed far too luxurious to be your own, and enveloped in silky sheets and even silkier pajamas, deep navy blue wrapped around your form so comfortably you just snuggle back into the pillows before you fully wake to reality with a start, remembering what almost happened and sitting up, flying out of bed and wandering out to figure out where the fuck you were.

- "there you are, dear, feeling okay?" is what greats you, AB sitting at a couch reading from a book that once again looks more ancient than your entire bloodline, genuine concern feeding into his expression and making you blink, sleep still laden in your heavy eyelids begging you to go back to sleep. "You saved me." he shrugs off your comment, rising to meet your form in the doorway and taking you by the shoulders, trying to turn you around back into the bed you left. "Go on to bed, I'll bring you something-" he fixes you a look, "its an order, go rest. Your loved ones know you're safe and sound. Now, bed."

- You fall back asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, and the next time you wake there's a change of clothes on a chair near the bed, a plate of food on the nightstand, and a pitcher of water with clean glasses readily available. In no rush, you take your time eating and then getting ready before padding barefoot out into the home you find yourself in, spotting AB finally in a kitchen you'd drool over in an issue of Architectural Digest. "There you are, rested?" you nod, cupping your glass of water in your hands and seating yourself down at a barstool beside the kitchen island, glancing around at the sprawling chef's kitchen, "they've been taken care of." AB trails off, in a casual button-down and slacks, leaning against the countertop with his arms crossed over his chest, taking a second before he looks over at you with steely, ice eyes.

- "No harm will ever come to you." your brows furrow at that, wondering why he would care so much about a person he literally owns. You voice it out loud and he guffaws, looking at you incredulously as if the answer was always there, and in a way, it had been. "Dear, you're mine. Contract bound and now, by design. No one ever lays a hand on you let alone exists a second afterwards." The glass in your hand is set down and you lean back in your chair, staring at him and wondering if the entirety of the past months of partnership you were not the lone one pining. He validates it when he approaches and falters, warming once you breach the gap and take his hand into your smaller one.

- You finally break, grasping for him and hugging him close as his bulkier form bends to hold you, knees bent in order to acclimate to your seated position. He rubs your back as you shudder and shake, warm broad hands soothing you down and facing you until he kneels and looks up at you. "I promise you, you're safe." and you want to say you believe him, but you still don't feel it, just take his hand off your knee and imbed it into your heart so he can feel how it beats, how the fear creeps into your lungs like an infection. there's no need, for he cups your cheek and tilts your chin to meet his gaze. Then it's over.

- the waiting ends, and he kisses you, tender and delicate and something so utterly unlike him that it takes you aback, almost slack-jawed for a millisecond before you realize it's him kissing you and you relish in it, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him closer until he's caged you in, safe from harm. He groans, and you part your legs at the sound, letting him fully press against you in the chair and wrap around you. "My pretty thing." AB groans against your lips, and you whimper at the sound of it so broken on his tongue, so different than the calculated and meticulous tone he took.

- "Prove it" is what flies from your lips as you bite his, feeling him grin darkly against your mouth as he lifts you into his, different from the bridal carry form the other night with how he hefts a handful of your ass into his palms while your legs wrap around his waist while he carries you into the other room. "Gladly." is whispered once he deposits you into a lavish dark bed, his own, and strips himself of his shirt and bares a chest scattered in auburn hair matching in grey streaks like his head, making you wonder about what lies lower.

- He doesn't make you wait long, and he strips himself of his boxers and pants, planting himself above you and grinning at how you observe his body and movements, letting you gasp in surprise once he lets a shudder roll through and some red markings reveal themselves, cuffs and bands of red marks paired with inscriptions of languages so old they outdated writing itself. You trace a few as he undresses you, mouth over them lavishly and kiss them tenderly, trying to show and give all the love you can to make up for what he's missed.

- "Never going to let anyone touch you," he murmurs, breathless against your skin as if he's the one rendered weak before you, "only mine, m'all yours. Gonna' keep you safe and sound." AB's wrecked already and he's hardly touched you let alone himself, the evidence leaking and resting heavily upon your now bare thigh. You feel not just safe and content, but powerful and hungry, greedy for what lies within arms reach. You get granted a freedom in his presence finally, and you take every step in stride.

- "All mine," purrs your voice in his ear, tugging on auburn locks and feeling your body thrum like musical cords when he groans low and deep, reverberating from a barrel chest that covers your form, "going to make me feel good? Treat me right, make a mess of me? Show me just how much you actually care and that I'll always be yours? Go ahead, AB, give me your all."

- "All?" he growls darkly against the column of your throat, nearly snarling if it wasn't for the pleased smirk present with teeth with slight points, "oh dearest, ask for more, don't you know I'd give you everything?" he murmurs low stripping you fully bare and letting rough and calloused palms from another lifetime's work wander your body, mapping out your skin like a cartographer. At that moment the words were euphoric enough, but his hips grinding against yours until he slotted against your weeping cunt was the emphasis to your already wavering body, the final blow to your grip on reality. Oh, what a plunge it was.

- AB rocks against you, forehead knelt down against your collarbone in a piousness akin to prayer and nudges his swollen cock against your cunt, hips grinding once, twice, before he slides into you and fills you. It's a stretch that makes you cry out, nails embedded in his skin near his markings as you whimper and cry out his name. Your chest squirms and your hips remain stilled, his broad hands encompassing your hips as he does so. With his head against your shoulder, he gets to see himself disappear into your slick-soaked pussy, and the sight is too moving for his eyes to handle. Thumbs bruise your hipbones while he stills then asks you questions he repeats several times before you process them, already hazy and fucked out and he hadn't even actually fucked you yet.

- "May I move?" your body reacted before you could even form a response, legs shifting so you can take him in deeper and fuck up back onto him, nearly squealing out as you feel him absolutely stuff your cunt, walls clenching and sending the both of you into a hurried frenzy. "There's your answer." you bite, literally and figuratively as your teeth sink into his ear. His hips stutter and you smirk, so proud of yourself before locking your legs and rolling him beneath you, still seated on his cock but now residing on top, beaming down at him with your hands planted on his marked, hair-covered chest.

- You don't even warn him before you slam your hips down, relishing in how he jolts and buckles, eyes shutting then opening back up, so torn between the feel of you and how you look, an angel of his own making seated above him and using him like a throne, getting yourself off and being nothing short of resplendent. AB thrusts his hips up to meet your grinds and ministrations, one hand splayed across your ribcage while the other snakes down to rub at your clit, beaming with pride when he feels you shudder and falter.

- "You're so pretty." comes broken from the demon beneath you, reduced to merely a man with the way you use him, treat him, love him and fuck him all at once, centuries worth of longing packed away emerging forth into glacier eyes now as warm as spring skies, and the look he gives you sends you over the edge as a crushing blow. He catches you, sitting up and wrapping his arms around you as the orgasmic, earth-shattering waves take you under. He anchors you, falteringly weak thrusts getting him to where you are in seconds, cumming and stuffing you full with a cracking groan against your heated flesh.

- He holds you, sitting upright with his arms wound around your torso and holding tight, hands splayed across your back and side as your head nestles into the crook of his, nose at his pulse and smelling hints of rosemary and bergamot and ash, and you burrow closer, wanting to sink into him like bed, he's more comforting than down comforters and pillows anyhow. It takes a while before the witness behind your eyes fades, his humming being what plucks you forth from an orgasmic abyss and you smile against his skin, soaking up the silence and him breaking it.

- "About that contract-" you joke, and AB laughs breathlessly before turning to you with a devious smirk, hands wandering and eliciting a squeaking moan from your lips, "I think I'd be open to renogiation." he murmurs, breath fanning across your mouth before your lips meet his and he hums, licking into your mouth and staking claim to it just as he had you.

Magic Myc: Z O M B I E

• song: Under My Skin - Jukebox The Ghost

- You'd been there when Myc's dead body got carted in. There were more people making jokes, cruelly grateful for his absence compared to the small group that actually missed him, and mourned him. And you were one of the very few who loved him enough to grieve his loss in such a manner it would even overpower the longing of the moon should it ever lose the sun and stars.

- He wasn't everyone's taste, hell, he was barely your taste. But you still loved him anyway and trying to work, eat, and live without him got harder and harder since he got eradicated from your life as swiftly as one strikes down a cleaver against a cutting board, final, irreversible. Permanent.

- You had thankfully been granted leave, getting enough pitying looks to send you to the comforts of home only to realize that home made it worse. All his things were there, little knickknacks and gag gifts Myc had gathered over the years, polaroids taped to the walls with glimpses of misadventures. One that gutted you the most was a picture of you, Andre, and Myc, the two of you smiling wide while Myc lifted the two of you up for the picture, all flipping off the camera and laughing like hyenas.

- Andre had been a rock of support, the two of you leaning on each other to cope and work through the loss, not knowing how to handle the loss, Andre losing a best friend and you losing a lover. It crushed you, the chasm of grief and depression consuming you whole, entangling your ankles and dragging you down in the depths like being snared in a siren's trap.

- the point where you broke down wholly and entirely, letting out ugly cries with the snot and tear tracks, getting puffy with reddened eyes in the freedom of your home. A formerly shared home is now all yours. The brownstone mocked you, once an inviting and fun space now too bright and whimsical to be fitting for one mourning a lover. A friend. A soulmate.

- in the midst of your breakdown and rattling full-body tremors, you don't hear the back door locks slowly turn one by one, the keys only belonging to one person, long dead. You don't hear something entering your home and locking back up, in the perfectly redundant routine that belonged to an everyday pattern. You don't hear Myc return into your life because you're too busy crying about him leaving it.

- "I leave for five seconds and you've already gone batshit - damn and I thought I had problems" his voice startles you, making you nearly fall off of the couch when you whip your head around to stare at him, eyes wide and mouth agape in disbelief. "You're not real." is the first thing you utter, terrified to move in case the illusion your grief-wracked mind conjured would dissipate and vanish, leaving you alone in your loss and the empty house, pathetic and sad enough to best a wet kitten.

- "You'd think that, but here I am, alive and unwell." Myc responds, sarcasm prominent but still an underlying fond tone only belonging to him comes out. It's rougher, dirtier almost in a backroad gravel kind of way like his vocal cords got tossed through a concrete mixer. "Gonna' say hello or what?" he teases, gesturing with a tendril or two and extending them, wanting a hug from his favorite person. You practically leap over the back of the couch in an effort to reach him, launching yourself into his body and nestling your head on the underside of the mushroom cap, feeling fanning gills brush the top of your head in addition to the bulbous partial veil that glows and humms against your head.

- He still smells like earth and musk, pollen and petals. and weed, and you've never been more relieved to smell the absolutely pungent aroma of weed in your life, laughing while you cry into where his neck would be. "You think I would just ditch you? No way, stuck with me for the rest of your little life, shitheel." Myc mutters, bumping your nose tenderly with a blunt nudge of a tendril, making your nose scrunch and a smile appear on your puffy, crying face.

- "wait, how are you even here?" you ask, leaning your head back enough to look at him in the dim light of your home, shadows cast over his form and hiding the majority of it sans little segments and divots of bioluminescence and ornate patterns. "You died Myc, how in the fuck are you even alive?"

- he doesn't immediately answer, and you step back to pace with a hand running down your face, immediately ranting and getting wrapped up in the concept of Cognito Inc. doing another stupid and silly science project without considering ramifications and wondering just how this will blow up once more when it concerns the love of your life, Myc.

- when he's remained silent, not saying a word in the midst of your rant about Reagan and how she's got to stop playing god, you realize he hasn't said a word and turn to find him standing very still and looking down to his tentacles as if in deep thought. Worrying, consuming, deep thought.

- "I-," he starts, moving to turn in your direction, almost looking past you, or through you, making your anger fade as concern takes over, "I don't know."

- You haven't been this worried in a long, long time. "Honey, what do you mean you don't know?" Your concern multiplies, swarming nervous moths within the cage of a chest you have, fluttering in your ribcage and making your bones itch. "Myc, do you remember getting here?".

- the uncharacteristic silence speaks enough volumes to have filled a home library, making you send a few hurried texts to the gang group chat and ignoring the silly contact names in lieu of finding a solution to this as fast as possible and trying to keep Myc stable. You turn and flick a lamp on, unable to find reason in the darkness, and barely stop the scream that almost fled your throat.

- "I just wanted to see you, I don't know how I got here-" he pauses, unaware of the terror in your eyes and the tears welling along the seams of your lower lids, threatening to overflow with the sight of him, "I just wanted you."

- You wish you were crying for other reasons beyond the sight of him, maybe even some happy tears with how he came to you because he loves you, dragged his undead self all the way to your backdoor to you.

- You cry instead at the state of him, the chunks of flesh and tissue missing, the greenish ghastly hue to his surface, tears and gouges in places where his body's mass would fill. He is dead. undead technically, and in your shared home's living room sounding close to tears himself with how confused he sounds and you're just about to break down at how butchered he looks. He is yours, and he was supposed to be fine always. Why did this happen, and why to your Myc.

- He says your name, and it is so broken it doesn't suit him. Myc's a jovial, mocking asshole that makes you feel loved, even with pet names accompanied by curse words and expletives. You respond to a few more texts and enlist the help of Reagan and ask Andre and him to come immediately. You barely have the energy to continue standing, so you absolutely don't have the strength to deal with this alone.

- You gather him close, sitting the two of you down on the couch and just try and breathe, sit there with each other and pretend things will all be okay and wait in the meantime for Reagan and Andre to appear in order to get some ideas going on what to do or how to go about this entire situation, the others on standby and there for support should you need it. You've never been more thankful for the friends you have.

- "M'not going to leave you." Myc says, determination steady within his now weathered voice, as if it was skinned and tanned like an animal hide in the sun, "I don't wanna' go." Your hands grip him tighter as your fingertips trace over patterns and textures on his surface, humming a note against the light within his partial veil beneath the cap.

- "Nothing could take me from you, and I won't let anything take you from me either." is what you choose to comfort him with, knowing that humor was a strong suit and that comedy wasn't something to include just yet, reality to raw to disinfect with the sting of punchlines.

- Andre and Reagan soon arrive, disbelief covering their features the instant they enter the door and a litany of questions follow with Andre's tears as he and Myc hug, bubbly watery giggles erupting forth from both him and you at the relief. Reagan pokes and prods, then takes notes from what you could tell, and remains as confused as you are.

- after a while and many frustrating moments, the two leave back to their respective lives. Andre promises to come the next day and Reagan plans to run tests bright and early tomorrow. Nevertheless, the night is yours with him and the two of you alone. You try and make the best of it by familiarizing yourself with the way it felt to be enveloped with Myc, to feel those tendrils around your frame holding you close.

- and as with all things with Myc, it turned sexual suddenly and rapidly, making you appreciate his ease in removing you from a current situation with his attention, touch, and care. A gift tethered in mycelial networks and fungi.

- the two of you don't even make it to the bedroom, Myc being so eager to have you in any which way, he fucks you on the floor against the plush living room carpet, letting you know how thankful he is for your precious ass in his life (both literally and figuratively) as he fucks you to delirium.

- next thing you know, you have his voice in your ear while two tendrils splay your bare thighs open, tentacles notched in the crook of your knee and thigh as he pumps the tips of three appendages in and out of you, commenting and praising you for how slick you are and how welcoming your cunt is to him, like a homecoming once your greedy pussy sucks him in like even your spongy inner walls missed him.

- "god you're so fucking wet, all for me right? getting all gushy and messy for me only." his words hit just the right buttons, perched and murmured right beside your ear as he thrums, twisting the tips of his appendages within you and barely showing signs of him being affected. The two little tendrils that have collected droplets of slick tease and prod at your ass, occasionally breaching the tight ring of muscle and allowing Myc the pleasure of hearing that broken, higher pitched cry you moaned out with his name on your tongue, grinding into his ministrations and begging for more.

- "mhmm, all for you Mikey," you moan softly, brokenly, in a way so soft it competes against battered butterfly wings, "all yours, always yours, even m'pussy." He laughs, fucking you harder at that like a reward, groaning happily and letting the waves of pleasure spread rather than him holding back and halting his own enjoyment. Now he can fuck you.

- “damn fucking straight.” He curses, fucking you with earnest while he sits behind you, feeling flush and warm while he feels you tense and clench around him. Then follow suit once he breaches your ass, fucking into you shallowly and slowly there, easing himself in and loving the way your jaw falls slack and your hips seem to have a mind of their own. You prop your feet at an angle and use it to better fuck yourself on the makeshift cock and tendrils of Myc’s appendages, loving how you felt him in both holes and stuffed full, practically gushing around him and soaking the couch cushion beneath the two of you.

- good thing they’re washable.

-“all mine, always gonna’ be mine.” He mutters, movements stuttering as he nears orgasm but tries to hold out, “my baby gonna’ let me stuff them full? Until it leaks, hm?” You nod, voicing a yes against the skin of his closest to you and cry out once his tendrils brush at your cervix as you grind down and thrust back and forth against him.

- “please Myc, wanna’ cum, want your cum, want you to make me feel good.” You drawl in a plead, hands smoothing over him beneath you and sliding up and down his cock, reaching a hand to play with your clit until he smacks it away and replaces it with an appendage and shakily strokes and he gets closer to cumming. He shakes beneath you, Myc shuddering and stuttering once he voices his nearing euphoria.

- he cums, flooding your cunt and having it spill forth, pollock-like flecks of cum splattering your inner thighs and allowing you to slide better and take him in, cumming shortly after with a scream of his name and an orgasm that lasted nearly a solid minute, senses gone and world as white as fresh snowfall.

- there’s silence for a moment, your back resting against his front, tendrils not still inside you caressing and tending to your sweaty, tired body. “Hey, hon?” He draws you out of your reverie to turn to look at him, “pretty good for a dead man.”

- “fuck off, dear god.”

- Myc cackles and leans back into the couch cushions and pillows, and the joy that thrums in your heart soothes the ache of his death, loving him in any state, even when he’s being a little shit.

—Happy Halloween—

Tags: @cognitosclowns @radioactivebowtie @mollicutes @carnalcringe @bluebaronness @flyingspicerack

#inside job #my inside job #personal inside job #halloween #halloween smut #magic myc #myc x reader #magic myc x reader #Reagan ridley #Reagan ridley x reader #Reagan x reader #brett hand #brett x reader #brett hand x reader #andre x reader #andre Lee #andre lee x reader #robotus #alpha beta robotus #Robotus x reader #alpha beta Robotus x reader #my thots #inside job headcanon #inside job imagine

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

Dear Eclipse,

Did u kn ur actually namesake happened today? It was awsome! How do u feel with ppls reaction to a solar eclipse compared to u as the more frightening Eclipse?

"It is rather boggling to see humans view this phenomena as a celebrated spectacle, these days."

"Centuries ago it was something to be feared. Seen as signs of misfortune, something unnatural. A horrible omen."

"Seeing you witless parasites ogling in awe at it now, is also...irritating."

#answered ask #fairy au #dca fairy au #ask the black sun fairy #black sun fairy #fairy eclipse #fnaf eclipse #fairy au lore #2024 total solar eclipse

[suzypfonne]

Favorite Good Omens fictropes I never tire of seeing:

Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley's hair

Crowley worships loves Aziraphale's thighs

Aziraphale loves Crowley's freckles, often trying to memorize the constellations therein: he likes playing connect-the-dots

Crowley likes sinking into Aziraphale's belly

They both make lovely and silly noises while fraternizing

Aziraphale is hella strong and picks Crowley up

Crowley crawls into Aziraphale's lap

Accidental wings, especially if they knock things over

Aziraphale going "Ox Ribs Awakening" on Crowley

Sexy times leading to power surges, outages, and unnatural weather phenomena

Aziraphale is soft, Crowley is sharp angles, and they fit together perfectly

Aziraphale loves and is attracted to Crowley no matter how they present

An Effort is made, accidentally

I reserve the right to add more later...

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #fanfics #go fanfic #fic tropes #ineffable husbands #writing prompts #michael sheen #michael reads fanfics #and probably writes some

[angel-of-the-moons]

So imagine Khonshu professes his love to you right

And before you can say anything, he automatically assumes your doubt.

So to prove it he triggers another eclipse

And to sum it up to the Ennead Marc is probably dying and says "He's just a simp"

And then you sit him down and have a talk about triggering unnatural celestial phenomena later just because you wanted a nap at 2pm

#shitpost #moon knight #khonshu moon knight #khonshu x reader #marc spector

[heartbash]

Starlight, Love, and Other Unexplained Phenomena (8/16)

Chapter 8 You think I don't notice you?

Chapter Summary: After batting practice at the end of The Unnatural, Mulder and Scully continue their night at a bar where they further digest the events of Milagro.

Story Summary: Mulder and Scully navigate the journey from friends to lovers in a story spanning the events of Seasons 6 and 7. Starting with The Beginning and concluding with all things, each chapter will explore the events surrounding an episode – and what happened before, after, or in the blanks in between – and how these pivotal events shaped their relationship. While the narrative is episodic, this is not a series of one-shots, but the story of how these moments led them to slowly embark on a romantic relationship.

@today-in-fic

@ao3feed-msr

#the xfiles #xf #xfiles #msr #mulder and scully #mulder x scully #my fic #x files

[evillittlebirdie]

Salvation (Tav/Kar'niss)

Tumblr Prompt Fill for Tezzy

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine

Kar'niss was the latest addition to the menagerie and stuck out more than anyone. By all rights, Tav's interaction with Kar'niss should extended to combat only. She should have looted his body and moved on. 

Tav could not admit that she had a masterful experience with Drow. But, she knew that the abominations were paying the price of folly and incompetence. They failed a test and as such, were punished. She should have ignored Kar'niss like she ignored the numerous unnatural phenomena. But instead, she allowed a nagging sense of compassion to override good sense. 

Kar'niss lingered on the line between death and life. Most of his legs were broken and twisted. Blood coated his lips. Still, even in apparent agony, Kar'niss tried to reach the Moon Lantern. Astarion had already grabbed the lantern and was enjoying goading the pixie inside. Kar'niss was using his arms, shaking from exhaustion, to pull his body along the ground. As heavy as his abdomen was, Kar'niss only managed to pull himself a few inches. Desperation clouded his eyes before he finally collapsed. The Harpers and Tav's party did a number on his body. 

Tav walked over to the drider and raised her leg. She would give him a proper stomp to the head. Her body weight coupled with metal boots would ensure a cracked skull. Before she delivered the final blow, she heard a sudden whine. Something in her body lurched as Kar'niss' whimpers devolved into cries. Wretched, anguished sobs radiated from the drider. His voice was faint, but she could hear his pleas. He begged for his Majesty's protection, for the Absolute to save him. 

Lolth disfigured him and now the 'Absolute' would abandon him. 

Tav would later tell herself that his fanatical devotion would be useful. She would tell herself that his broken mind could be molded. He would be a loyal pet. 

Tav returned her foot to the ground and pulled a potion from her backpack. She stared at the health poultice in her hand before kneeling. "Shh, shh," She hummed to Kar'niss. 

"Heretic, don't touch me," Kar'niss hissed out, pain dripping from each phoneme. Tear tracks were running down his filthy cheeks. His capillaries had burst, reddening his vision. 

"Just drink," Tav insisted, taking the cork out of the bottle.

Kar'niss began to lose the ability to utilize his words. He merely pulled back from Tav, shutting his mouth tightly. The eyes collected on his forehead blinked unseeingly through strands of unwashed hair. 

"Hells," Tav muttered. "Stubborn little bastard." She did not want to utilize her tadpole, especially on such a delicate creature. But she pushed herself into his mind. 

Voices bounced in Kar'niss' brain, bounding off the walls of his skull. Tav could barely decipher the madness inside the drider's brain. Her pity for him increased, as well as her desire to save him. Tav had to compete with the Absolute as well as the broken man's illness. "Drink..."

Kar'niss suddenly stiffened. His eyes turned to Tav but he kept his mouth closed. "I want you to live," Tav told him through her connection. "Please drink."

Kar'niss kept his eyes on her before finally opening his mouth. Tav sighed in relief before she slid forward. If the scene involved one of her companions, she would have told them to lie on their back. Then, she would support their head as they drank the poultice. But Kar'niss was awkwardly on his chest, his abdomen preventing him from rolling over. Tav quickly problem-solved. She used her free hand to tilt Kar'niss' head up. She could feel the particles of grime, the notes of blood. 

"They are a True Soul. They would touch me..."  The voice sounded astonished, almost bewildered. 

"Yes, I would," Tav told him with a gentle smile, invoking a soft gasp from the drider. "What's your name?"

Suddenly, a foreign vision assaulted Tav's mind. A feminine voice, demanding and harsh, shouted, "Kar'niss!" A vile mixture of guilt, fear, and self-loathing twisted angrily before leaving Tav's cognition. 

"Kar'niss. It is a lovely name. Mine is Tav."  Tav brushed the hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. 

"They walk without a lantern. They are sent from Her Majesty...A Chosen. A Fourth to the Three."

Tav could not deny Kar'niss and risk him rejecting the help again. "Yes," She lied to him, hoping that deception could carry telepathically. 

"I accused you of heresy. I attacked you. Why would you save me?"

Tav could not give him a forthright answer. Instead, she ignored his question.

"Be careful swallowing," Tav advised before bringing the poultice to his lips. She tipped slowly and watched as Kar'niss took in the potion. She kept an eye out, watching as the cartilage in his throat moved. He didn't choke or aspirate. Tav let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He would recover. 

"Breathe," She stated, using her voice instead of the tadpole to communicate with the drider. She pulled the potion from his lips, allowing him to inhale. 

To say the least, the adventuring party was not surprised when they learned of their new companion. "Tav, my dear, you have a penchant for collecting strays," Astarion told her with a playful smirk on his lips.

***

Tav knew of a small cave near the Last Light Inn under Isobel's protection. No one would bother Kar'niss. Once Kar'niss' legs healed enough to support his body, Tav split from the group to take him to the cave. Kar'niss still was not speaking to her. Instead, he kept his gaze on her in an intense fashion. Tav truly hoped that saving the drider wouldn't bite her in the ass later. 

"You can stay here. It's safe. The shadows will not find you here. I promise," Tav told him, bringing him to the mouth of the cave. Kar'niss looked around the cave and a small chitter reverberated in his throat. Hopefully, that was a good sound. 

"I imagine you would prefer raw meat, but there's a lack of that around with the shadow curse," Tav continued, not sure what would happen next in the care and feeding of driders. "But my friend, Gale. You saw him. He was the human wizard that..." Tav paused before she continued awkwardly, "was probably responsible for one or two of your broken legs. Anyway, he is a lovely cook. I'm sure he can whip up a nice haggis." 

Kar'niss turned to look at her. He pursed his lips before inquiring, "They would concern themselves with my subsistence?" After speaking it aloud, Kar'niss visibly mulled over the dynamic. "They are too kind. To heal a wretch, shelter them, and feed them."

Tav's pity for Kar'niss intensified at hearing his words. Knowing how the Drow ostracized and abused driders, she was not surprised at his attitude. "Oh...well," Tav cleared her throat nervously, "I need you to regain your strength. And you need care, rest, and food to do that."

Kar'niss nodded, accepting this proposition, "They are merciful and benevolent."

Tav felt their cheeks flushed with guilt. If only he knew how close he was to having his skull smashed under her boot. She quickly changed the subject.

"Do you need anything for your nest?" Tav inquired. She looked past him to the cave. The ceiling was high and deep enough to deter claustrophobia, but small enough to sustain a web. 

"I will not bother them with non-necessities," Kar'niss stated firmly, as though the idea was out of the realm of possibility. "Not spoiled, not needy," Kar'niss added, his tempo increasing, "I will make them proud, and make them pleased to save this unfortunate being." The words invoked a time long ago. Tav didn't have to be a genius to see the poisoned memory in his eyes. Kar'niss had a story that led him to this point.

***

Tav returned to the cave with dinner for Kar'niss. As she approached the lair, she was surprised to see how prolific he had been. Even halfway healed, Kar'niss had managed to spin a sturdy, intricate web in the space. Tav could see his nimble fingers moving along the strong strands, weaving the material. Kar'niss was so engrossed in his work, that he did not notice Tav's entrance. It was not until he looked up that he saw her. He let out an almost frightened gasp, "Her Majesty's Chosen!" He skittered from his place on the web, traveling to the mouth of the cave. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your work. I just wanted to bring by dinner," Tav offered with a smile. 

Kar'niss stared at Tav, bemused by the offering. His gaze traveled to the bowl she had in her hands. He raised his hands almost hesitantly. His eyes darted back to Tav, and a breath caught in his throat. Confused by Kar'niss' hesitance, Tav cleared her throat, "Haggis, like I said before. But I can get you something else." 

"Her Majesty's Chosen would allow me to take?" Kar'niss questioned. 

"What? Of course. That's why I brought it to you," Tav insisted. 

Kar'niss raised his hands as though to take the bowl before suddenly jerking, taking a few steps back. Tav could see the tension in his jaw traveling down his neck to his shoulders. He whimpered before returning to his position in front of Tav. "They shame me, Her Majesty's Chosen. They offer food with no stipulation. I return their pity with uncouth behavior." 

Tav needed to add Lolth to the list of gods she planned to kill. 

"Hey, it's alright, Kar'niss. You almost died today. You have the right to be a bit skittish. Here, take it," Tav offered once more. She kept a smile on her face, hoping the gesture made him comfortable with her. "Also, 'Her Majesty's Chosen' is a bit of a mouthful. Please call me Tav." 

"Tav," Kar'niss repeated, his lips pursing at the sound. "It is not proper." But Kar'niss did not press the issue. He slowly reached to take the bowl. Tav took in his hands, especially his fingers. They looked normal at first glance before they morphed into talon-like claws. He took the bowl from her before retreating into his cave. 

Tav let out a sigh. She could take minor victories where she could

***

"Her Majesty, I am forever in your debt. Thank you for sending me your Chosen. Thank you for leniency. I will serve them until I am cast away. Speak through them and I will obey." 

Kar'niss climbed into the top cavity of the cave. He could see if anyone would invade his space before they could even notice his web. It was a fine nest.

"They speak sweetly. They offer. No demand. No request."

Tav, as she told him to call her, was beautiful. Even though his lantern lay broken, he could feel a light shone on him through her gaze. Her words foretold of a future where he could serve safely. Her hand was steady and gentle. If she were to punish...

"And yes they would punish. Because I am weak, your Majesty. Foolish, lazy, spoiled boy! But they would punish to correct. Only to correct, like you would. Not like Matron. Too far. Too much. Ilhar, Ilhar, please, I am sorry. Despicable, useless boy!" 

Kar'niss could feel his body tremble as his mind took him to his childhood. He shook his head and ran his clawed fingers along the wall of the cave, hoping the sensation would ground him. 

He would ensure that Tav would not regret wasting her time, her healing supplies, on him. 

"I have no right to ask this of you, Your Majesty. But if you could spare me one more blessing, please do. I wish to recover quickly. I shall protect your Chosen." 

Kar'niss' heart began to race as he thought about Tav. If her smile would shine on him once more if he served her well. Until he was healed, he could not physically protect her on her journey. But perhaps there were other ways to show his appreciation. His throat vibrated at the implication. But reality slapped him.

"Foolish thing. Your Majesty, guide me. Give me humility. They have a harem of males to serve them. To think they would allow me to serve her in that manner. Hideous, twisted, castrated, pathetic."

For once, the voices lowered to whispers. And Kar'niss could give into his exhaustion.

#whumptober 2023 #no.1 #but now this room is spinning while I'm trying to just fill in all the gaps #safety net #swooning #“How many fingers am I holding up?” #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #tav/kar'niss #kar'niss #baldur's gate fanfiction #violence tw

[carica-ficus]

Review: "Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic"

Authors: Nathaniel Hawthorne, Arthur Conan Doyle, Lucy H. Hooper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, H. G. Wells, Edmond Nolcini, M. R. James, Ambrose Bierce, Howard R. Garis, William Hope Hodgson, Edith Nesbit, H. C. McNeile, Abraham Meritt, Emma Vane

Editor: Daisy Butcher

Date: 03/01/2023

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

________________________________________________________

I think I ordered this book some time during summer, after I accidentally stumbled upon it on an online bookstore. I love anthologies and I love plants, so this title definitely intrigued me enough to order it. I finally decided to read it around Christmas and finished it during a recent trip, so it's officially my first finished book of the year.

"Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic" is an interesting anthology of short horror stories by quite a few well-known authors. From the creator of Sherlock Holmes, to the acclaimed writer of "The Yellow Wallpaper", all the way to the legendary H. G. Wells, this collections features some hidden gems of the late 19th and early 20th century. While the stories are certainly old-school, they could still be regarded as timeless classics and masterful creations.

Most stories revolve around the fascination of the exotic - of unknown plants that are in some way dangerous to humans (or other organisms) and which originate from far away places, like South America. There's mentions of exquisite poisonous flowers, murderous liana, mysterious wisteria, and the weirdest of them all - carnivorous plants.

It is interesting just how much the writers and, by default, the general public were fascinated by exotic flora which, in one way or another, transcended the known laws of nature. Plants were considered sedentary, passive, and at the bottom of the food chain, but as new discoveries were being presented and as more people, professionals and amateurs alike, from the western civilization started their expeditions in new places, society was being introduced with oddities that seemingly didn't follow any established rules. So while the horror in this collection is displayed through various flora, the true horror is derived from the simple fact that humans fear what they cannot understand. One of the most frightening things a person, especially a scientist, can experience is realizing that they will never be able to fully predict nature's capability to adapt and to evolve.

Of course, this theme goes hand in hand with the understanding that it is dangerous altering the natural order of things. While this could also be understood as criticism to the human tendency to play god, there isn't much religious commentary throughout the collection. The stories are centered around ecology, evolution, and biology, highlighting how humans shouldn't meddle with something as powerful as nature - which they will never fully understand, let alone be able to control. Even though the writers do create a feeling of dread through the fear of nature, the horror is actually realized through characters that underestimate its abilities and that have the need to disfigure nature in order to measure their own capabilities.

Furthermore, this collection highlights the uncomfortable fascination western civilization had with other cultures. The urge to study new exotic phenomena on their own accord, to test the limits of human science on something they don't fully understand with little to no regard of the laws of nature and the test subject's true needs, is somewhat perverse. These scientists are conducting experiments in uncontrolled environments, and playing with their test-subjects in order to test their own abilities and knowledge. It is a portrayal of poor research. They're acting out of curiosity with little to no regard of the consequences. It is not their subjects that are evil, for they have been brought up and mistreated in an environment completely unnatural to their habitat, but their tormentor, who butchers them through extreme studies. This is usually evident through a secondary character, most often a colleague, who tries to stop the scientist in their mad experiment before it's too late. The horror is, therefore, found in the abuse executed by the brazen oppressor, not in their vicious, abnormal creations.

The fact that the aforementioned themes barely scratch the surface of all the ideas featured in this collection, prove how layered and compelling all the featured stories are. The editor also did a marvelous job with a lovely foreword and an intriguing introduction to each of the authors and their respective work. Of course, as with every short story collection, not all works are equally strong, but "Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic" is still a gorgeous anthology and a noteworthy testament to a relatively overlooked category of horror.

#evil roots #evil roots: killer tales of the botanical gothic #daisy butcher #nathaniel hawthorne #arthur conan doyle #lucy h. hooper #lucy h hooper #charlotte perkins gilman #h g wells #edmond nolcini #m. r. james #h. g. wells #ambrose bierce #howard r. garis #howard r garris #william hope hodgson #edith nesbit #h. c. mcneile #m c mcneile #abraham merritt #emma vane #horror #botany #botanical horror #speculative fiction #review #book review #rc2024 #2024 #reading challenge

[justabrunettewhowrites-stuff]

OC INTRO.

Get to know:Illarya

Full name: Illarya Juliette Penelope Kane. Illarya Kane,shortened.

Age: 20.

Birthday: 21st of December: The winter solstice.

Zodiac sign: Sagittarius

Year: First year,cadet.

Dragon: Female Crimson Morningstar.

Dragon name: Vastranaar-Vastra shortened.

Dragon age: A little over 100.Described as being a little older than Tairneanach.Though black dragons were the rarest of types,a crimson morningstar is even rarer: "Crimson one?Oh,do you mean Vastranaar?No.Keep a distance.She never chooses.And may Malek have mercy on the one that does get picked by her,if someone ever will be,because she certainly will not." - Professor Kaori

Hair color: dark red - "With hair as red as the prettiest and richest freshly bloomed roses or as fresh and thick as the darkest pools of blood.It's a choice on what you view it as really." - Bodhi Durran

Eye color: ice blue,with deeper sapphire flecks in them and the same color of sapphire manifested as a ring around the pupil.

Skin color: pale,milky white - "With skin as pale as marble milk and as flawless as porcelain.And her skin shone luminous and pale,as if it drank light from the moon itself and yet it wasn't sickly pale." - Rhiannon Matthias

Body type: Though described as average height,she has enough curves,some say.Her chest is a bit on the larger size though,but fits her complexion well-enough.On the lower part of the body,she has relatively thick thighs,described by some as able to 'crush a mellon in between them,or a man's head' by some,though she has a slim waist even if not unnaturally slim,but fitting on the hourglass category and is rather toned,but not overly so.

Insecurities & marks: As everyone else,she does have her insecurities.For once,she has a few moles that are small yet noticeable across her body,mainly face and chest,even if not too many,she does not like them. Then she has her scars,which are like thin lines inflicted across and a larger scar goes diagonally across her chest,and she has smaller ones across her arms,from shoulder all the way down to the wrists,and covers the area between neck and shoulders as well. Then,because of her past,upbringing and trauma,she also struggles and masks it with sass and often laughs it off but when asked about her past,she just blanks out.

Height:5"5' tall.Approx. 165 in cm.

Hair: her hair is dark red,but in texture and lenght it is smooth and silky,healthy,although some would be surprised when she said her hair was naturally thay color.It was also much of a surprise to some at its volume.Though it is very wavy,it resembles a waterfall of red silk falling.It reaches around her lower back,hence the term waterfall due to its lenght,being on the longer part,and is voluminous all around,framing her face and features in a way some would describe as perfect.Her hair color is considered odd,and she stands out among the crowd due to it,but also due to her eyes.

She often wears her hair in a low ponytail,though it is not tied too tightly and it's a bit loose,but still enough.That is most times,as in classes,out of training and flight,etc.The other times,she wears it loose when she is out of training and in her free time,and during training or flight classes,she braids it,to secure it.

-

Her aesthetic:

-

Her hobbies:

Her signet(s): First signet,known:Illusion manipulation-includes:(Hallucikinesis, Hallucination Manipulation, Mirage Manipulation, Illusion Casting, Illusive Reality Manipulation.) And the additional,nightmare illusion,which allows her to bring someone's greatest fears/nightmares to life in the form of hallucinations or illusions,effectively allowing her to shatter their minds by them going insane or collapsing due to the sickening sensations.

Second signet,unknown,likely inherited from an acestor but is yet to be found out which one,as her family is unknown.Second signet:weather manipulation (not restricted only to storms.Can conjure all types of natural phenomena,and anything that relates to weather,not being restricted only to a certain element or area,but getting tired rather easily.)

Extra: is extremely skilled in barrier conjuring or generally defense - physical and magical.

Strenghts:

Versatility: With mastery over illusion manipulation, she can manipulate perceptions, create intricate mirages, and induce hallucinations. This versatility allows her to adapt to various situations, whether it's evading detection, influencing adversaries, or disorienting opponents in combat.

Psychological Warfare: Her nightmare illusion ability adds a psychological dimension to her arsenal, tapping into the deepest fears and insecurities of her targets. By manifesting their nightmares as hallucinations, she can instill paralyzing fear and confusion, gaining a significant advantage in confrontations.

Subterfuge: The combination of weather manipulation makes her a formidable opponent. She can create illusions to mask her true intentions while nobody expects what she will conjure up next.

Inherited Potential: The second signet, though yet to be fully understood, suggests a lineage of powerful abilities. This unknown heritage hints at untapped potential and a deeper connection to her family's history, which could unlock even greater powers in the future.

Weaknesses:

Emotional Toll: Constantly delving into the fears and nightmares of others can take a toll on her own psyche. The weight of inflicting psychological torment may lead to moral conflicts and internal turmoil, potentially compromising her judgment and emotional stability.

Dependency on Illusions: While her illusion manipulation is formidable, it relies heavily on maintaining concentration and deceiving the senses of her opponents. If her concentration is broken or her illusions are countered, she becomes vulnerable, especially in direct confrontations where her illusions may be less effective.

Stamina: Despite her prowess in offense and manipulation,she lacks in stamina. While she can create illusions to evade detection or misdirect adversaries, she lacks stamina that lasts her long term.Though she is a master in defense by other means,when using her signets,her stamina can be heavily reduced,especially when both are used at once,or if she is injured already.

Identity Crisis: The mystery surrounding her family and the unknown origins of her second signet may lead to an identity crisis and a search for self-discovery. This internal struggle could distract her from her objectives or leave her vulnerable to manipulation by those who seek to exploit her uncertainties.

Clothing style:

She usually wears loose clothing in her free time,and uniform when needed.In her free time she opts for comfortable clothes,not what necessarily looks good just for the sake of appeareance.She likes comfort over appeareance,but when needed to look a certain way or if an event demands certain attire,she does it.

Dragon aesthetic:

A few quotes:

"She is madness under the facade of purity." - General Sorrengail.

"She is a goddamned mess,but she is a fearless mess.That makes her dangerous.Very dangerous." - Major Varrish.

"From what I can tell you,firstly,she's a beast.Secondly,if you're lucky,she's a lady.And thirdly,if by some miracle you get there,and you reach deep enough for her to trust you,she's an angel." - Violet Sorrengail

"Sweet like sugar,dangerous like hell.A woman of my heart." - Garrick Tavis

"Closed off as she may be,she's a sweetheart once you get to know her." - Liam Mairi

"The.coolest.fucking.friend.ever!" - Ridoc Gamlyn

"Love it when she smiles.It looks cute,yet it is so rare.And no,I did not say this.If you tell her,I will personally rearrange your teeth." - Xaden Riorson

"If you do not want a sarcastic answer,then do not ask her a question." - Professor Carr

#oc #my ocs #my oc character #my oc stuff #bodhi fourth wing #garrick fourth wing #xaden fourth wing #fourth wing by rebecca yarros #fourth wing #xaden riorson #xaden and sgaeyl #sgaeyl #tairneanach #tairn #iron flame #onyx storm #fanfic #my writing #moodboard #garrick tavis #bodhi durran #basgiath war college #lilith sorrengail #mira sorrengail #brennan sorrengail #violet sorrengail #violet and xaden #violet and tairn #violet and andarna #fem oc

[dahairoman]

Still loving how, in a whole-ass Multiverse, with planes dealing with ghost and the undead, and people coming back to life and life forming from thunder and fire, and time-travel and ALL fucking sorts of different kinds of Magic and technology and unnatural phenomena; phyrexia arrived all like "yeah, we have nanobots that Hack your soul, we're unbeatable, Phyresis is irreversible and unavoidable"

And was proven wrong time...

And time ...

And time again...

#magic the gathering #mtg #new phyrexia #outlaws of thunder junction #I specially love the monsters of Ikoria developed inmunity in like a week #because I called it and no one believed me #but thats how that plane works people! #Ikoria

[fleshdyke]

new equo design + more info under the cut

equo’s story takes place in some sort of magic au some time between darkstalker and the main arc, somewhere around 1200 years after darkstalker was defeated. in this au, magic is a vague and widely defined concept separate from animus powers, and it’s a pretty normal thing and considered a gift. witchcraft is possible, but it’s considered very taboo to talk about.

equo’s father was a seawing and her mother a nightwing, and he’s the result of a failed attempt to resuscitate the nightwing population via hybrids. the idea was to raise hybrid nightwings on the mainland so they would grow up healthy and take them back to the volcanic island once they reached adulthood, but not all of the dragonets were found, and equo was one of the ones that was never brought back. the nightwings had meticulous records of every dragonet, though, and kept looking for her and any other missing nightwing hybrids.

they were raised by its father on a tiny islet in the bay of a thousand scales, hidden in a cave or bushes for most of the day. equo has always loved swimming, and while he was limited to a little cove for most of his dragonethood, she’s very good at it. they’ve always suffered from chronic pain, so he usually prefers walking to flying and swimming over all else, but she can fly and isn’t bad at it. equo’s always preferred meat over plants, no matter how much their father tried to get it to eat a much more plant-heavy diet like most seawings have. for the most part, equo grew up on fish, occasionally something else her father brought back like turtle or whale or seabird, but when he was old enough to fly and fend for herself, equo started to regularly hunt passing seabirds as they preferred a “meatier” taste as opposed to fishy like most of the stuff her father brought back. equo had always had an appreciation for the macabre, kept bones from prey as much as possible, and his father always encouraged it. when equo was ten, they set out on their own, at first sticking to the forested fringes of the sky kingdom where she could still regularly visit his father, but slowly migrating further inland and visiting less and less until they were completely self-sufficient.

at fifteen, equo lives in the woods between the sky kingdom and the rainforest, and has built himself a pretty good little home. she’s built her home half out of a cave, with a small coop of chickens and a couple small plots of crops. he’s built it all by hand and prides themselves on how sufficient she is with its talons. they also fashioned themselves leg braces to help with her chronic pain and wears them most of the time. she found a hobby in taxidermy and bone collecting, and spends a good chunk of his time doing just that. their house is decorated with taxidermy animals, wet specimens, disassembled and whole articulated skeletons, rocks and crystals she finds, random bones and pelts and feathers etc etc, tapestries she’s woven by hand, things like that. he’s most proud of his fullbody mounted stag and great horned owl, and has entire shelves of skulls on display. she has a colony of dermestid beetles for cleaning bones, as well as luna moth tents because they’re its favourite insect. she also has two pet crows that were both siblings found on the ground after their nest had been attacked by a predator, and they’re both very much bonded to him.

while equo was hatched on a full moon and granted seer powers, they didn’t manifest in the same way that an average nightwing’s would because of his seawing blood. she also practices witchcraft and necromancy, and is capable of bringing an animal back from the dead as long as the body is in good condition. they use witchcraft to make itself appear different to others, usually in a much more shadowy, fluid-like, monster-y form, but also sometimes can make herself appear invisible. he also likes to make light shows and other unnatural phenomena using his witchcraft, and sometimes even makes potions in a very traditionally witchy way. completely unknown to them, equo’s become known among the rainwings and more southern skywings as a sort of cryptid/monster that lives in the woods. she’s seen as a large, dark, spiny dragon that causes the death of any animals (and presumably dragons) it comes across, with glowing eyes and strange powers that allows him to teleport and be in multiple places at once. ironically, being a witch or necromancer isn’t part of her reputation. they’re completely unaware of the fact that other dragons know of it, much less that they’re scared of her. equo meets tiki after her hawk falls ill and she becomes desperate and seeks out the necromancer in the woods, but their full story is for another post.

#she’s sooo much lighter than he was before #as much as i liked the darker scales it made it much harder to draw them so yk #i do like their new design though. its cool #rambles #art #my art #wof #wings of fire #wof oc #wings of fire oc #nightwing #nightwing wof #seawing #seawing wof #my ocs #equo