#and give him a little more of a distinctive silhouette

[heartfullofleeches]

Oh god PLEASE do a short with creep reader giving horrible torture ideas to Host while the contestants look on in horror.

(sorta forgot the short in your ask, but I hope you enjoy)

You are in an office.

The wall directly to your south is missing, but you can't see that far behind you - and so it is still there. A man sits cross from you at the other end of the table. You sense the presence of others in chairs beside you, but trying to make out distinct features from their grainy silhouettes only worsened the dull throbbing in the back of your skull. The amount of attention should bother you, but the significance of that man and yourself overshadowed them like the phantoms they were. Besides you, he's the most important in the room. He's your boss afterall.

Bathed in grey from his suit to his slicked back hair to even his skin, the man nurses an equally monochrome mug branded with the cheeky title of "A Show Host." The only bout of color on him was his tie which was curiously the exact shade and hue as your favorite color, and the book he held in his free hand. A quaint little journal with its lock popped and the key still in your pocket. Your brain screams to steal it back, but same as you can't look anywhere except ahead your body has lost all control of the rest of its motor functions.

The man barks a chuckle at the twisted thoughts you've put to paper. He removes his tie and tucks it smoothly between the pages of your journal, folding his hands neatly on the table as he closes it shut. His excessively wide grin peaks further as your eyes meet where his should be.

"Before we begin our meeting I must say what an honor it is to have such a clever mind in our little studio. Been a big fan of your work for quite some time and I think it's time to put some of your works to action."

The man tilts his sightless gaze towards the table. There are three folders where blank space once preoccupied. You gain control of your limbs as your fingers wiggle in the direction of the one closest to you.

"Those folders contain everything you need to know about the lovely contestants joining us today. Hopes, fears, ambitions, regrets- All you need and more to cook up some delicious punishment for our losers. Anything and I do mean anything is on the table. Give us your deepest, darkest fantasies and we will be more than glad to make them reality. The ball's in your court, and the pen is in your hand."

You open the first folder - gripping the pen in your sweaty palm as you read. As told, the folder is chalk full of notes on some guy just a couple years your senior. Someone's entire life held within rubber bands and pages. You sit in silence for a while. Circling some pieces, crossing out others. The Host watches intently from his end of the table feeling the swell of pride and admiration towards your dedication in whatever part of him resembled a human heart. You set down your tool and gather your notes as you begin your speech.

"Contestant A has severe claustrophobia resulting from locked in a closet by siblings as a child and forgotten for several hours. They also have fears of the dark and needles which are mostly unrelated on the surface. A potential punishment is to lock them in a room with just enough space to move. The walls are covered in spikes, slowly closing on them as time passes. The walls move at different paces so they believe it's safer elsewhere when in reality there's nowhere for them to go."

Silence. The silhouettes turn face each other, muttering amongst themselves with words you can't quite make out before facing Host sitting patiently this whole time. One by one, the silhouettes rise - striking their palms together in a chorus of applause which reaches its peak as one final member joins the frey. Host wipes a fake tear of his cheek. It almost feels...pleasant to receive positive attention for once.

"Beautiful, just beautiful. Childhood trauma, the hopeless hope or escape. I knew there was nothing short of genius in you. Keep going."

Host returns to his chair, resting his chin on the ball of his palm as you reach for another folder. Your hand naturally falls on the next one in order, but upon picking it up the letter on its cover is C. Host picks up his cup and holds to his lips as you look up at him. Skimming through the pages a strange feeling settles in your stomach. The same that plagued when writing nearly every entry in your book. You set the folder down and pick up the third. Then the first. It all clicks.

"Contestant C.... Contestant C is someone who tried to make my life a living hell in the past. In spite of this, with your permission I'd like to make them an offer. The other contestants are close friends of theirs. Life long even. Contestant C is now both an star athlete and plays guitar on weekend. They are also selfish and care for no one but themselves. I would like to give them the opportunity to free themselves and their friends in exchange for their dominant arm. If they refuse they are free to leave, following immediate punishment, torture and killing of their allies they must sit through."

Host stares at you - least you assume so given his lack of eyes, for quite some time. So long whatever he was drinking had to be cold by now. His cup turns out to be empty as it rolls across the floor. Thand resting on his chin covers his entire face as he folds, head bouncing off the wooden as his body twitches and jerks with every giggle he stifles. His attempts are in vain as his laughter echoes through the shadows around you, and the unseen crowd behind you. They convulse in ways unnatural foe the human forms they mimic. The sound reverberates from every corner, drowning your thoughts. You pick up the mug at your feet, reading its message for a second of clarity.

"Reality's Greatest Co-Host."

Host gradually regains his composure. He cards a hand through his hair and fixes his collar as he lifts himself off the table. He shutters returning to focus to you having never known more love or appreciation for the human mind than what consumes him now.

"I... could honestly kiss you right now. Forgive me for my brashness, but you have proven yourself a second time as the perfect member of our team. I'd kill to have a look at your brain, but I much prefer it in that pretty head of yours. I simply can't wait to see what you have in store for future guests, but for now let's focus on the ones we have now. We've kept them waiting long enough..

Blinking once, Host stands over you, holding out his hand as bright light blinds your vision. You're no longer facing the table and now in view of the stage hidden behind that wall that never existed. Three people stand behind podiums, each expressing terror, dread, anger or a perfect mixture of the three. Your lips pull into a smile as you take Host's hand and step out onto the stage. The crowd's cheers pitch higher seeing their favorite hosts hand in hand. A whisper soft as a lover's embrace meets your ear as his lips meet your temple.

"In the impossible chance they agree, you don't plan on letting any of them go - do you?"

He knows you so well.

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere headcanons #yandere oc #yandere insert #male yandere #Host my oc #yandere drabble #yandere god #tw yandere

[moumouton4]

Body Swap || Sasuke Uchiha x fem!reader

A/n : This is an idea of mine that slept a loooong while in my drafts 😂

Masterlist ⚜

Warning : None just fluff 😌🌺

Summary : As you return from your mission in a new body, you hope only one thing: not to disappoint your boyfriend Sasuke Uchiha, if he were unfortunate enough to learn of it.

I don’t give permission to repost my work, if you want to share it just reblogue it

Word count : 2068

You should have known something like that could happen. You knew exactly who you would be fighting against during your mission. Yet you still got hit. At least it wasn't something too bad, you had seen worse. Even though you couldn't help that chill of embarrassment from crawling up your spin at the thought of him knowing about it. You couldn't help but imagine his beautiful onyx eyes looking at you in utter disappointment and maybe with a hint of disgust.

Continuing running back to the village you shook your head, trying to dismiss the negative thoughts from your brain. The mission had been long and draining and having those thoughts wasn't going to help you come to terms with the fact that you couldn't retire to your boyfriend’s place right after coming back, such as you forecasted. You would have to wait for the effects of your late opponent’s jutsu to fade.

Brushing your now blond hair away from your face, you sighed in relief upon seeing that no one was guarding the village gate at this time of the night. With wolf-like steps, you crept along without making a sound, praying a little more with each step that you wouldn't run into anyone. You knew full well that if anyone saw you in that state, you'd never hear the end of it. 

So you hurried through the familiar streets until you arrived at your safe place, your home. As you passed your mirror, you almost screamed when you saw the unusual silhouette you now sported. It wasn't that you hadn't seen this physique before, it just didn't belong in the place of your own body, or in your clothes. But even though you were embarrassed you couldn't deny the appeal your bed had right now, and so in utter exhaustion you decided to go to sleep. And who knows maybe tomorrow things will be back to normal, without knowing about what had happened during your mission.

But that wasn't counting the perspicacity of the man you called your partner. In fact, on the evening of your return, which was in the middle of the night, Sasuke suffering from insomnia, had decided to take a walk around Konohagakure. That's when he thought he recognized your chakra trailing at full speed, probably 50 meters away from him. Of course he would recognize your distinctive chakra signature. Although his instinct was to follow you home to make sure you were all right, he decided against his protective instincts to return to his home if that's where you were heading. However, to his surprise, you didn't, so he concluded that you were tired and that he'd come to say hello the next day, if you didn’t go to his place first.

And the next afternoon, after not hearing from you the whole morning, the Uchiha decided to check on you himself, in the hope of easing the weight he had had on his chest since you'd left on your mission. He just wanted to make sure you were okay. So after taking a shower, put on some cologne, and tried to flatten the spikes of his hair. He headed out to your place.

Once in front of the door he breathed in, reminding himself to keep his composure and not to act as if he was very worried sick over you, which he was. And then he steadily raised his hand, and knocked firmly against your wooden door, the sound echoing through your apartment. He took a step back, his eyes still fixed on the door and he waited.

But no one came, and so he knocked again. He knew you were there, he could feel it through the chakra radiating from behind the door. Actually you were right behind it.

“Y-yeah ?” you dared to speak, fortunately your voice stayed the same in spite of everything.

“Y/n ? Can you open the door for me ?” he said, his tone calm and assured.

Freezing in your movement you tried to think as fast as you could about a way out to extricate you from this situation. But you knew he wouldn’t let it go until you let him in. He surely was worried you thought smiling to yourself. But your smile quickly faded away when you registered his words “open the door”. And there was no way you could let him in while being in this state. Though without letting you any more time to think you heard the door unlock.

“Can I come in ?” he asked. And knowing you wouldn't win against his worry you surrendered.

“Fine, you can come in” you muttered, already dreading his reaction.

Sasuke didn’t waste any more time and he pulled the door open. Though his countenance faltered and his once stoic expression turned into one of pure bewilderment, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

“What are you doing here Naruto ?” there was a sharp edge in his tone, one that wasn't usually designated to you, one that displayed a hint of defiance. You were so ashamed.

Taking a step inside he continued “I asked you what you were doing at her place ? Where is she ? And why… are you radiating her energy ?” he asked suspiciously, a hint of jealousy lacing his words.

You knew you had to defuse the situation quickly before it got worse and you caused him too much worry "S-Sasuke, i-it's me... it's Y/n" you raised your hands in surrender, taking a cautious step backwards just in case things escalated.

He looked you up and down, unsure whether this was a trap or a mere joke. And yet, even though his eyes reflected Naruto's image, deep down inside he sensed that the emanation of your chakra was coming from this figure standing before him. But for the moment he remained on his guard.

"What happened ?" he asked coldly, still standing his ground.

Tu shook his head with embarrassment "I wasn't paying attention during my mission and this rogue ninja got the best of me with his jutsu.... I didn't know... I-I don't know how long this will last..."

Sensing no signs of danger he began to relax "And why didn't you come straight to me and tell me about it ?" however his questions were very sanctimonious.

You swallowed the lump in your throat "Because I was far too ashamed for you to see me like that" you had tears in your eyes as you spoke, and even for sasuke it felt strange to see naruto about to cry.

He shook his head "You're really a stubborn one, aren't you ? Come on let's get you inside, we'll see what we can do" he proposed.

Once inside, you couldn't help but take a step towards him. It had been so long since you'd seen him, and you had missed him terribly, you just needed to feel his warmth as he wrapped his arms around you. But to your surprise, he raised one of his hands and took a big step backwards. His gaze once again inspired defiance. That's all it took for the tears to flow freely down your cheeks.

Without missing a beat, Sasuke's heart broke into a thousand pieces. Of course he missed you and wanted to hold you, but... you looked like Naruto. It was hard enough for him to find his usual way of talking to you when you looked like his friend, but a hug... it seemed so far beyond his reach. Yet when you stood up to leave the room, he couldn't help but stand up too, and grabbed your forearm. He couldn't help thinking that it was odd that your gaze was on the same line as his and that he didn't have to look down to tell you,

"Hey wait, stay here. We have been through much worse than this" he tried to comfort you, but clearly that wasn't his forte.

Yet you listened to him and returned to sit on the couch with him. This time he took your hand in his, to give you support through the contact, but he suspected it wouldn't be enough. And that if this state lasted any longer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from wanting to kiss his girlfriend at some point, even if for the moment it looked as if he had remained unmoved.

But to his relief, as soon as he took your hand in his, a smile spread across your face. Well on Naruto's face... it really was a funny sight to behold for Sasuke. Even the feel of your hand in his, which now seemed bigger than before. He was nevertheless trying to rub his thumb on the back of your hand in the hope of giving you more comfort.

You appreciated the effort, but it didn't seem to satisfy your desire for closeness. And so, gently, you detached your hand from his. His grip on your hand tightened subtly, as if to prevent you from moving away, but with a look you let him know that you were fine and would only be away for a short while. So he let you leave the room, his gaze following your retreating figure with a slight worry.

You'd been thinking for a while about an idea that would allow you to hold Sasuke in your arms with all your love and the lack you had felt during this long mission.

That's how you found yourself in front of your wardrobe. You reached out and grab your perfume, the one you use most often, the one he'd recognize between a thousand and one. You apply it lightly to your neck and behind your ears, then to your torso and a final spritz to your newly spiky blond hair.

A little more confident now, you returned to the living room and sat down next to Sasuke, whose eyes were already on you the moment you stepped through the door. Making yourself comfortable beside him, you cleared your throat.

"Will you close your eyes and take me in your arms now please, Sasuke ?" you asked in a small voice. 

You could feel his reluctance as he replied "If that's what you really want"

He slightly spread his arms for you to nestle in, and that's exactly what you did. You sighed heavily as you finally felt his arms close around you. Sasuke tried to remain as stoic as possible, but he couldn't help feeling out of place there, with a much bigger and more muscular body in his arms than your smaller, gently curved one.

Yet his heart clenched with a pleasant warmth when he felt you nuzzle against his chest. Instinctively he brought his hand to your cheek and took it in the apple of his hand. He halted his movement for a fraction of a second when he felt the recognizable whiskers on Naruto's face, but he recovered very quickly and continued his gesture of affection.

"Thank you" you murmured against him as fatigue took hold of you.

"No need to thank me" he replied without pause, his arms tightening around you. Truth be told, he felt even more stupid than you for refusing that hug earlier.

His head resting on top of yours, he breathed in gently, letting your sweet perfume waft through his nostrils. It's moments like this that he can't help whispering "Clever girl" against your hair. His hand slid down your back and he soothed you as he thought it would help.

"I'm not going to force you to go out, but later I will go and see Tsunade and ask her to help you sort this out. We are in this together"

You nodded against his muscular chest "I don't mind accompanying you. But can we stay like this a little longer before leaving ?"

"Of course, for as long as you like" he whispered back, as if not to break the serene atmosphere in which you were now bathing. Closing your eyes once more, it took you no more than 20 seconds to feel his lips place a tender kiss on your forehead, bringing a wide and delighted smile to your lips.

"Next time I deny you a hug, I allow you to hit me until I get my head straight again"

You chuckled at his clumsy way of trying to apologize "Don't worry I'll have other ways of making you bend"

"That I don't doubt, my clever girl"

#naruto #naruto imagine #naruto shippuden #naruto shippuden imagine #sasuke uchiha #sasuke uchiha x reader #sasuke uchiha imagine #sasuke uchiha fluff #sasuke uchiha x reader fluff #sasuke x reader #sasuke fluff #fluff #miri-writes

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Greta Garbo (Camille, Anna Karenina, Queen Christina)—Enigmatic and alluring and made me bisexual. The perfect example of the eroticism in silent films that literally transcends text. Could literally not change anything about her expression but you knew by looking at her eyes what she was thinking. She’s so gorgeous.

Kay Francis (Jewel Robbery, I Loved A Woman, British Agent)— kay francis was an icon of glamor in her time and a top star of the 30s - she was the highest-paid actress at warner bros from 1930 to 1936. she tended to play characters who were charming, sophisticated, and elegantly dressed, and starred in at least one legitimate masterpiece, the sublime 1932 comedy trouble in paradise. her first big role was in the marx brothers movie the cocoanuts in 1929, and she and william powell made seven movies together between 1930 and 1932. even in her sillier movies she always elevates the material with her charm and presence - she never phones it in and there’s a sort of warm, knowing wittiness about her. a really good short promo from a retrospective of her movies that i think really gets her Vibe across

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Kay Francis:

Jewel Robbery clip

"From 1932 through 1936, Francis was the queen of the Warner Bros. lot, and, increasingly, her films were developed as star vehicles. By 1935, Francis was one of the highest-paid actors, earning a yearly salary of $115,000, dwarfing the $18,000 Bette Davis – who would one day occupy Francis's dressing room – made. From 1930 to 1937, Francis appeared on the covers of 38 film magazines, second only to child sensation Shirley Temple's 138." Source: Wikipedia. Kay Francis is like the MOST FAMOUS Actress from the 1930s you've never heard of--and it was her and Norma Shearer who wore and made classic the 1930s tall, slim, bias cut silhouette. She ALSO has a WHOLE PODCAST episode devoted to her life and career in Hollywood--it's fascinating! She is both tough and a total wet cat.

One of the TALLEST Warner Brother stars at 5’9” and known as a “clothes horse” for her glamorous roles wearing the height of 1930s fashion. She fell out of popularity in the 40s, but her 30s work sizzles. The scene with her and Herbert Marshall in Trouble in Paradise where she says she doesn’t care about his reputation (because she’d rather sleep with him?) HAWOOGA

melted my gay heart with her butch look in stolen holiday

"My life? Well, I get up at a quarter to six in the morning if I'm going to wear an evening dress on camera. That sentence sounds a little ga-ga, doesn't it? But never mind, that's my life ... As long as they pay me my salary, they can give me a broom and I'll sweep the stage. I don't give a damn. I want the money ... When I die, I want to be cremated so that no sign of my existence is left on this earth. I can't wait to be forgotten." —From Kay Francis's private diaries, c. 1938

Garbo:

A cold-ass Swedish WLW Sphinx. Had plans to murder Hitler that she never got around to. "She will remain always a child of vikings, moved about by a snowy dream."

First of all, she's on the money; that's how much of a treasure she is. She's beautiful in such a distinct way you need very few lines to draw her. (Drawing by Einar Nerman) She managed to be mesmerizing in both silent and sound films. She kissed a woman in Queen Christina (and probably several more in real life). She was super dry and really funny in Ninotchka. She got the hell out of Hollywood and stayed out, living for almost 50 years after her retirement.

Garbo is one of the many reasons why I'm gay. If you haven't seen Queen Christina please do, She is so gender in that film. Also her accent makes it sound like she's always talking in cursive and it's so hypnotic (or at least I think so).

She's a gay introvert, like all of us here on Tumblr.

Mysterious and aloof, charismatic and enigmatic, with beautiful androgynous characteristics, Garbo is undoubtedly the most eccentric and unique Hollywood vintage star. Her aversion to fame and stardom makes her even more desirable to the audience, and her insane chemistry with the camera, an actress one of a kind! Her particularity and her oddity is what discerns her strongly from her hollywood co workers at the time, noone was like her and would never be like her. I think, to the utmost extent, that she deserves the title of the hottest vintage star, even though that would be an understatement of what she is!

SO gorgeous, her thick Swedish accent makes will turn your brain into pudding

Probabaly a lesbian, absolutely a mood when she retired

#kay francis #greta garbo #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3 #Youtube

[itsmaferart]

SPY x FAMILY x CHAIR Vol. 7~8~9

SxF Vol 7 · Damian Desmond - Willow Chair

The Willow Chair was designed by Scottish architect Charles Rennie Mackintosh in the early 20th century. The chair was originally designed for use in The Willow Tea Rooms Company, a cafe and tea room that Mackintosh also designed in Glasgow, Scotland. The chair was part of a larger collection of furniture pieces designed for this company.

The concept of tea rooms was popular in Victorian and Edwardian times, and was considered a meeting place for the upper middle class.

The design shows a progressive approach to design, suggesting that the chair is at the forefront of creative thinking and is sleek, modern and curious. It stands out for its simplicity in geometric patterns. The chair features straight, minimalist lines in its structure, with curved wooden elements at the top to provide head and neck support.

A distinctive feature is its triangular backrest, which extends upward from the arms at an acute angle to create a sleek and elegant silhouette. The seat also features an elaborate lattice pattern, made from hand-woven wicker, which adds texture and dimension to the chair.

I’m Damian, scion of the Desmond family! I’ll be a politician one day and protect this country!

I love the way the dimension of the chair in disproportionate to Damian's body, who is clearly a kid with a very big precedent behind him, a very big ego and pride in possessing the last name Desmond, and it projects very well the way it makes Damian look more imposing for his age while giving you a look that continually judges you, adorably.

Damian is someone who projects himself from greatness, and his constant yearnings to be a recognized figure such as his family, even so, his childlike soul continues to exist.

However deep down, behind all the Desmond pride (Reflected in the chair) are his yearnings to really have fun and enjoy his childhood wanting to play with his balls, read manga, play with dinosaurs. He is definitely a little boy with a lot behind his shoulders.

SxF Vol 8 · Franky Franklyn - Eames Lounge chair & Ottoman

The Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman were designed by Charles and Ray Eames in 1956, an American designer couple.

It was created from the idea of a "comfortable as a glove" chair, with an ergonomically molded seat and back shell combined with a plywood base. It was originally designed for the Herman Miller furniture company.

It was designed to provide comfort and relaxation, elegant and attractive that will complement any living space. The chair features clean, simple lines and a minimalist structure that emphasizes its elegance and ergonomics. The base is made of plywood, bent in several layers and smoothly polished to give it a smooth, refined finish.

Can we talk about how relaxed and cool Ostania's best informant looks? I love how the combination of this chair reflects Franky's relaxed but refined personality, a genius at his job even if often not properly appreciated. However, we can see his details, a bit messy, his taste for money, some good cigars, some confidential envelopes.

It's interesting when you remember that Franky seems to hate the handsome, moneyed show-offs who seem to be very lucky, even though he wishes he was one. He is simple and laid back, with a classy side and a profitable bottom line.

SxF Vol 9 · Becky Blackbell  - Coconut Chair

The Coconut chair was designed by architect and designer George Nelson in 1955 who was the design director for Herman Miller.

The chair was inspired by the designer's tropical landscape during his visit to the Fiji Islands. Nelson observed a group of children playing with one half of a coconut shell and realized that the shape and curve of the coconut shell could be harnessed to design a comfortable, modern chair. It was created as a highly engineered piece of furniture that offered a high level of comfort.

Although originally designed as a lounge chair, the Coconut chair is suitable for any space, from offices to homes. The stainless steel tripod base is an attractive design element, its fine details such as the apparent stitching on the upholstered

"You and I should be best friends"

I like how both the Coconut chair and Becky could be described as elegant, sophisticated, avant-garde and with a lot of personality. Despite her young age, we know that Becky has a very definite personality, sometimes with a very volatile and fanciful imagination.

Unlike many Spy x Family characters and their respective chairs, the elements are usually placed at the back or bottom with respect to the chair, always covered by some slight shadow, reflecting those elements that characterize the respective personality.

However, all of Becky's things are clearly displayed and stacked with bright colors. We know that it refers to all the riches and luxuries Becky has, as well as her passion for fashion and shopping.

But also, it's a way of expressing how authentic Becky is and how she's not afraid to show her true personality without having to hide it.

You can read the previous review here!

You can read the next part here

#spy x familyxchair #spy x family #spy x family manga 71 #twiyor #loid forger #yor forger #loid x yor #yor briar #twilight #anya forger #spyxfamily twilight #sxf #becky blackbell #franky franklin #damian desmond

[novthewolf]

Two’s company, three’s a family - Part six

Summary : As a cupid, an angel of love, your mission was to make sure everyone was paired up with the right person. Yet you couldn’t get your two most ancient clients to finally end up together. And despite the 6,000 years spent on the case, you couldn’t bring yourself to give them up, oblivious to the reason…

Pairing : Aziraphale x Crowley / GN!Reader x Crowley / GN!Reader x Aziraphale (polyamorous relationship).

Parts : First - Previous - Next

Masterlist : Here

Warnings : foul language, car accident, broken bones, hurt Bentley, anxiety, nauseous reader, violent scene start at the ◇ (physical aggression, choking, non-con touching, death threat, withdrawal depiction) angst, slow burn, english isn’t my first language.

Words : +5,2k

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 

The night slowly fell on the tired English countryside. The sweet and warm temperature gently subsided to a more chilly atmosphere. Curled up against the right door, you slowly exhaled hot air against the window and drew a little heart among the mist. You smiled at your corniness.

"Hey ! You better not leave fingertips all over the window !" Crowley snarled in the front seat. The connection he seems to have with his car is almost frightening.

"Just focus on the road, and let me worry about entertaining your poor little bored car." You stuck out your tongue at him.

"Bored ? Alive, you mean ! If I left you and the Bentley alone, Hell knows how I would find the both of you."

"Aww, me as well ?" You cajoled in a fake-sweet tone.

"Sure, I couldn't do anything to you if you were already broken down to smithereens." He joked darkly, glancing your way and baring his teeth.

You gasped loudly and put your hand on your chest.

"You wouldn't dare..."

Aziraphale chuckled lightly and shook his head. He kept looking around outside, as if waiting for the anti-Christ to pop out of nowhere.

"I could and I would, sweetheart." The demon boasted with his raspy voice, now focusing on the road.

You laughed breathlessly in disbelief, already coming up with a comeback. However, a sudden wave of unexpected smell appeared to your little nose.

"Woah..." You inhaled loudly, enjoying the smell. Gosebumps pigmented the exposed skin of your left arm. It wasn't the first one, but it has never been so strong. You straightened up and scooted over to Aziraphale.

"Did you feel that ?" Not only do other angels not smell emotions, but love has a very specific flavour for everyone. Well, maybe it was generic for every cupid, but you never dared to ask.

"Yes, there's a very peculiar feeling to this whole area."

"Really ? I didn't notice anything in particular." Crowley shrugged.

"I'm astonished you can't feel it."

"I don't feel anything out of the ordinary." He insisted, dismissing your whole debate.

Aziraphale obviously didn't understand the feeling right away, so you just have to play dumb until then. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a silhouette in the forest. Probably a deer or another big animal.

"Mmh..-"

"Love !" Aziraphale exclaimed joyfully. Your ears peaked at the familiarity of the word, while pink coloured the thin skin. Your nostrils flared, and you caught the distinct smell of macarons and rosé. Crowley was as flustered as you were apparently.

"Flashes of love" He turned your way for confirmation, nodding quickly. You mimicked his movements before gazing back into the dark. The deer you remember shouldn’t technically be capable of producing any light...

"Guys-" You started urgently, clueing yourself to the window, trying to see if what you saw was human.

"You're being ridiculous." Crowley claimed through gritted teeth. You moved back to the middle when you couldn't see the light anymore.

"The last thing we need right now is..."

Crowley's reflection was cut short as the Bentley got hit by someone. The force of the shock made the whole structure tremble. You desperately hung yourself on Aziraphale's seat and the angel himself. Crowley's hand smacked to the left dashboard in front of the two of you in a reflex. Nobody moved for a few seconds.

"You hit someone." The angel observed, fixed.

"No, I didn't. Someone hit me." Crowley defended himself, looking over your way. You grabbed Aziraphale's shoulder and pulled yourself up.

"Let's see." You said your face was sombre.

The night was fully settled now; it was really hard to see anything. The leaves crunched under your feet as you felt Aziraphale join you. The angel then snapped his finger to identify the groaning form.

"Let there be light."

Your eyes squinted at the sudden light. Mmph. The animal you thought you saw was actually a young woman and a poor, injured bicycle. She was alive, proven by the complaints she made, so that was a relief. Alive and conscious, mind you.

"How the hell did you do that ?" She groaned, though she couldn't move. You looked over at Crowley with a clenched jaw. He looked at you in a lighthearted way before snapping the light away. The Bentley shone with a single headlight and looked quite banged up.

"I think I hit my head..." The weak voice called you back, and you hurried yourself towards the poor thing. You squatted down and looked over for any injuries. And apparently, everyone around the world seems to have very fragile wrists. You saw Aziraphale follow your lead and check if her legs got hurt too. Gently, you caressed the broken bones away.

"There are no broken bones." You whispered to hide the cracking bones. You shared a look with Aziraphale, who simply smiled, assuring you that's everything you needed to heal. As for Crowley, he carefully rotated around his car, fixing the broken headlight and popping the metal back into place. Slowly, she got up, resting against you for support.

"My bike," she croaked. Aziraphale went to get the bike and winced at its state. He miraculed it bettter and rolled it to her.

"Amazingly resilient, these old machines." You wondered if he was actually able to charm humans too. Or at least he tried, because the girl was nothing but wary as she put her glasses back on her nose.

"Where do you need to go ?" He asked nicely. You offered her a smile, which did nothing to comfort her either.

"No, no, we're not giving her a lift." Crowley interjected rudely. He wasn't very keen on letting strangers into his precious Bentley. You glared at him to encourage him to be more pleasant.

"Out of the question." He didn't back down but preferred to turn his attention towards Aziraphale. "There's nowhere to put the bike."

"Except for the bike rack." He stated it matter-of-factly. At the same time, you heard metal forming at the back of a car. You flashed the demon a satisfied smile.

"Ah, silly you..."

Crowley just mockingly smiled at you before rolling his eyes.

"Do get in, my dear." Aziraphale smiled sweetly at her, ignoring Crowley. Who held the door open for her, surprisingly. He silently insisted that she should settle on the left side, behind Aziraphale. That is why, now, you could smell how tense he was since you were right behind his seat. He probably didn't want someone he didn't know behind him. But you sure hope it doesn't rub off on you.

The young woman was like a frightened little animal, looking around the car, which behaved for once (until it started to blast Bicycle Race on the way), and she recently started to shoot cautionary glances towards you. You could understand, you were the closest after all. And since she started, you have seen Aziraphale look regularly in the rear mirror in your direction. You sighed, trying to focus on the music playing and observing the woman in the corner of your eye.

Her dress made you curious; not a lot of people dress this way nowadays. Her hairstyle amused you too; you had to restrain yourself from buzzing her hair bun. You smirked at the thought.

"Listen, my bike didn't have gears." She suddenly spoke up, her accent thick. It didn't bother you that much; you were just more used to fancy British accents. You violently crunched your nose at the smell of star anise. A small giggle tried to escape your lips at the angel's embarrassment.

"I know my back didn't have gears." She insisted. You decided to tease Aziraphale just a little bit.

"Oh, really ? How odd..." You fakely wondered. The silence was so loud when the angel slightly turned his head, not pleased at all by your amazing sense of humor.

"Oh Lord, heal this bike.." Crowley joined silently. You looked at him in the mirror, and you shared an amused look. Aziraphale tsked quietly before whispering.

"I got carried away."

"Oh, you can drop me off here." She pressed, scooting away from you. Crowley huffed while pulling over and rolled his eyes. Once the motor stopped, she almost bolted out of the car. You still got out too, just to make sure she was alright. Aziraphale was already outside, taking the bike down.

"And look, no gears." He smiled, dropping the bicycle against the gate. The young woman looked so confused, and you inhaled the sugary custard smell. "Just a perfectly normal velocipede."

"Bicycle." Crowley corrected; he was growing impatient by the second. Aziraphale was still tensed, and you were still guilty. But she seemed okay...

"Can we get on, angel ?" Aziraphale nodded in agreement and left the woman with a small good-bye. You still stood there, worried for her, scratching your arm.

"C'mon, get in, sweetheart." His voice had softened, and it comforted you. You stroked your arm to soothe the itching skin. The young American didn't smell so scared anymore. You bowed your head goodnight and joined them in your backseat.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 

"I swear, Americans are so confusing." Crowley mumbled.

"You liked America." Aziraphale tried to cajole.

"No, I liked their messed-up crossroads." He smirked. Crowley truly had a weird thing for car-related matters. You were now sitting against the right door, watching through the opposite window. Yes, your feet were on the leather, and yes, your shoes were clean. However, it never seemed to bother the demon, even when you lied down.

Aziraphale looked back at you for support against his cynicism. You laughed lightheartedly, and the angel did the same. You really loved his smile, how his cheekbones would take on a redish colour, and how squizable they looked.

Wholesome moments like those made you forget that Love was disappearing from the world. However, humans always had a way to remind you of these kinds of things.

"Rah, come on... How bad can you drive ?" Crowley exclaimed.

"Oh dear..."

It was a car crash; it didn't look deadly and didn't seem to have any casualties. But... the air suddenly felt heavy, and the taste of blood seeped through your taste buds. You knew what followed next, and you were not quick enough to protect yourself from the smell—the smell of corpses and mold. It clawed at your throat, pulling at the darkest part of your soul.

Hate.

You gagged on nothing. Yet you couldn’t pull away from the sight. Not out of morbid curiosity, but because your eyes and your heart caught a glimpse of the thing you feared the most.

You thought they weren't supposed to rise yet...

Your breath hitched in your lungs, your heart sinking, down, down your chest. No, fuck, no. Your hands latched onto the fabric of your pants. Among the car debris and shattered glass stood the root of your broken heart. His hair is still grey, and his eyes are still as piercing as a hawk. And he stared right at you with those very eyes. And she smiled with that wicked look. And... moved your way.

"Please, please, let's get out of here." You didn't even recognise your own choking voice.

"Y/N ?" Aziraphale was worried and tried to see what horrified you so much. You couldn't focus on his voice.

Suddenly, your heart compressed violently, and your legs tensed up, ready to sprint back to heaven. With cold sweat and tremors rocking your entire body, you felt utterly empty. Your blood boiled right underneath the surface, ready to explode from the inside. And yet you felt... nothing. And that scared you more than seeing him could ever do. You needed love. You had to go back to heaven. You couldn't wait any longer.

"Y/N ? What's happening?" Aziraphale asked louder.

"I-I guess... it's just stress. Plus, I'm, uh... I'm hungry !"

"Oh, Satan, don't scare me like that." Crowley sighed, rubbing a hand on his face.

You laughed nervously. You couldn't stop looking back at the scene. But he wasn't there anymore. The skin on your chest stretched, seeking something you would never find anywhere again. A bound you will never have. You rested your head on the cold window.

"Let's stop somewhere." The angel suggested watching over you with sad eyes. You felt a protective force envelop you—a guardian angel's power.

"That'd be great; thank you." You were so grateful to have him. Well, both of them.

Luckily, a small dinner was open at such late hours, allowing you to replace the emptiness with food. More precisely, a sandwich, while Aziraphale preferred something sweeter. You felt a little better, but you still had to take some deep breaths from time to time. The atmosphere wasn't very light, as you could smell the snowy nights on both of them, clearly worried about their lack of trail. So eventually the topic was brought back again.

"Mmh... You know, we might get another human to find him." Aziraphale started first, still munching on his little cake.

Crowley, still focused on both of your foods, didn't register immediately. You always wondered why he didn't buy any dishes too if he was so transcended on how much food you two ate.

"What ?" he asked, deadpan.

"Humans are good at finding other humans. They've been doing it for thousands of years." Aziraphale stated.

"True, plus, the child is partly human. They might be able to sense him." You agreed, biting a chuck of your bread and ham.

"He's the Antichrist. He's got an automatic defence thingy." Azirphale hummed at that. "Suspicion slies off him like... whatever it is water slides off." He waved off.

"Rocks ?" You offered.

"No, not rocks..."

"Got any better ideas ? Or one single, better idea?" The sarcasm was strong in this one. You shook your head with a laugh. You couldn't see Crowley's eyes, but you knew he was nearing exasperation. Aziraphale simply wiped his lips with a napkin once he was finished. You swallowed the last bite, feeling a little bit better.

"Maybe we should head back..." You stretched your right shoulder and got up.

"You sure ?" Crowley asked. You simply hummed and had already made your way to the car. The reflection of the glass door shows you the shared look on Aziraphale and Crowley's faces. Your heart still ached, and your arm still burned. Your need for love—well, your addiction—was growing more and more hurtful by the minute.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 

Mind clouded by a heavy fog, you lied on the backseat, not sure how long the drive was. You had dazed off the conversation, only hearing a ringing sound. It was frustrating, but you held on to it. You held on to any emotions now, to any remaining Love. You didn't know you would react so strongly; maybe it was due to your trip to that Tadfield village, but it was like the withdrawal was ten times stronger than expected.

You groaned as nausea overtook you once more. Turning over to face the road, you felt your right arm fall down, not touching the floor. Eyes closed, to minimise the gagging, you felt something touch your hand. In your state, you couldn't help but flinch away from the touch. But when you opened your eyes, you simply saw your hand first. As your vision lost its blur, you recognised the pale skin of Aziraphale's own hand. It stopped moving the moment you flinched but remained reached out. You felt your heartbeat heat up, your lips twitching in a shy smile. You took his offered hand in your own, caressing his soft fingers.

You hummed softly, enjoying the new-found heat. Things got even better when you saw Crowley's movements through your half-opened eyes. His hand settled down on your upper-arm and gently pat it up and down with care. Your scarred arm... But you weren't scared. And taht actually surprised you. A demon was once again touching your arm, and yet you knew he wouldn't hurt you. Neither of them would. And being certain of this made you feel so good. So secure. Even... Heh. No. Not loved. Maybe appreciated at best. Still, you basked in their affection, taking in every sensation the moment had to offer.

They continued to talk, and you continued to not listen to a single thing they said. Suddenly, you thought of something and couldn't help but giggle in a sleepy tone. Darting your eyes up, you saw Aziraphale's arched brow and curious smile.

"Ducks..."

"What about ducks ?" Aziraphale asked, ever so confused.

"They're what water slides off..." You giggled once more.

"Oh, that's right !" Crowley exclaimed as he put his hands back on the wheel.

"Just drive the car, please." The angel laughed, even if he tried to hide it.

Finally, you three entered the city. You let go of Aziraphale's hand and slowly sat up. Yeah, you still wanted to barf, though. Thankfully, you saw Crowley outside, ready to help you out of the Bentley. The door opened, but you felt something hit your foot on the car floor.

"You know, if you lined up everyone in the whole world and asked them to describe the Velvet Underground, nobody at all would say 'bepop'" You heard the demon nagging at the angel. The thing was a book, apparently about prophecies. Maybe Aziraphale would know what it was about.

"Say," you started while accepting Crowley's help. "Does it belong to any of you?"

"Nah, I don't read books." The red hair dismissed. He had crossed his arms on the roof and passed the book to Aziraphale as you handed it to him.

"It has to belong to the young lady you hit with the car." He scolded. He inspected the book, and the title immediately reminded him of something.

"I'm in enough trouble as it is. I'm not going to start returning lost property. That's what your lot do." Crowley huffed. You had to agree with him; you had your fair share of trouble too.

"We can always send it back to the Tadfield post office addressed to a witchy American woman." You jested through the dizziness. However, Aziraphale's reaction seemed quite disproportionate. Don't get me wrong; you would have loved to smell such jubilation if you were in a good mood. But now, the mix of lime and ladyfingers was kind of sickening.

"Oh ! Mh.. yes, jolly good ! Rather.."

"What is it ?" You asked in a more rude tone than you intended, but your temples were killing you, and no amount of massage could make it better.

"Just... mh..."

"Should we both contact our respective human operatives, then ?" Crowley was as disoriented as you, visibly worried and intrigued.

"All right." The angel was already walking away, crossing the slippery road to the other side, almost falling down.

"Are you alright ?"

"Perfectly yes. Uh, tip top !" Crowley and you comically followed the angel's movement. You would have laughed if it didn't mean feeling like you're dying from drowning.

"Absolutely tickety-boo !" He exclaimed finally, closing the door in a loud noise.

"Tickety-boo ?"

Crowley's question was directed to you, but you couldn't answer. That's it; you were going to pass out in any minute now.

"Y/N ?"

Sorry, Crowley, but if I open my mouth right now, you will strongly regret it.

"Do you want a lift?" His nonchalant tone sounded like a sham, but his hand on yours felt so genuine. You nodded, looking probably more grey than usual.

"Okay..."

Thankfully, you were able to settle down on your own easily. Maybe too easily, the Bentley propably pulled the seat out a little bit more than usual. Crowley drove as slowly as he could bear to your house in Brentford and helped you out to your doorstep.

"What's going on, Y/N ?"

Your pleading eyes met his own, yellow and troubled, darkened by his sunglasses. The last thing you wanted was to worry them, especially if it kept them apart. You sighed and looked away. Crowley would have probably followed Aziraphale into the bookshop to plan what they would do next. And now there he was, helping your addict ass, while Aziraphale had to do everything on his own. Oh, you were just a burden, weren't you ? But, oh, when he pleaded with such eyes, how could you want to keep secrets ?

"It's nothing, Crowley, just stress. But... It's true that... Heaven has been calling me back for the war." The demon tensed up, but let you continue. "And just... the simple thought of fighting you... i-it's hard." You teared up through your embarrassment. Emotions were spilled out on their own.

"We won't have to fight the war." He stated.

"Mmph, sure."

"No, we don't have to." Crowley articulated, grabbing your shoulders tightly. "If we can't prevent Armaggedon, there's no way in hell I'm going to stand there and watch the earth blow up." He growled.

"I... I can't just run away like you. I couldn't..." You choked on your own breath.

"But why, Y/N ?" His hands fell back beside his legs.

"I'm going to rest; I'll see you tomorrow, I promise." You hurried to slip into your house, desperately trying to flee the conversation. It took some minutes before you heard the red-haired man sigh and make his way back to his car. Hear still pressed against the wood of the door; you didn't notice Eden walking up to you. You gasped loudly, your hand flying to your bomb-like heart.

"Oh, hi baby..." You patted her head before freezing for an instant. Will she become aggressive now that love is evaporating from Earth? However, all she did was lick your hand and moo when you didn't pet her. You were surprised, but so relieved. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and you fell on your knees, hugging her. You rubbed your face on her soft fur; the texture relaxed your nerves.

Once you calmed down, you led your mini-cow back to her half of the house, which was basically a huge valley—a generous gift from Crowley. You fed her a big bucket of alfalfa, and she mooed in pure happiness.

...

Armaggedon means Eden's wouldn't be there anymore... It means nothing will remain. You had to hide her somewhere safe, where she would continue to be happy and eat grass all day. But what would happen if you did have to fight in the war ? What would become of Aziraphale, you, and Crowley ?

Would you lose them too ?

Not ready to face the harsh truth of your world, you kissed your baby's forehead and left her to her blissful ignorance.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

◇

The house was quiet, disturbed by the endless roaming and faint sounds of the wind. You couldn't sleep; you couldn’t get your head out of your thoughts. Where is that damn anti-Christ ? Where would Eden be the safest ? What was he doing here ? The last thing you wanted was to think of him; you always felt like you were about to faint. Or die on the spot. The white light of the moon shone through your living room, where he finally sat. You held your head in your hands, trying to hang your worries out of your brain.

You were just tired, and even if you knew sleep would certainly stand you up, you still wanted to try. The corridor was cold. Well, it could be cold, but it shouldn't be that cold. You felt the hair on your body bristle, and you realised something. Staring into the dark ahead of you, you knew there was someone there. And they stinked. A mix of anger, fear, jealousy, and hate. Imagine smelling naga viper, ice, moisture, burned meat, wine, corpses, and mold all together in one single wave. Someone was sending it to you. Stealthy, you tried to escape.

It wouldn't be him... It couldn't be him...

It was, sadly, a vain attempt. The thing jumped at you and pinned you down by the throat. It was choking you, stealing every breath you tried to take. Love was being sucked right out of your heart. You fought the creature, beating, biting, and clawing any skin you could reach. The green flesh was slimy, like hot bread dough trickling against your palms. You were growing weaker, and nothing you did helped. The creature suddenly showed you who he was.

Him...

"Y-Ystran..." You gagged.

Your chest swelled up, stirring your heart out to grab him. There he was. The one you were meant to be with Your bounded. Ystran, a hate demon. Your scarred arm burned and spasmed in recognition of its attacker. His lanky form overshadowed yours as he lowered towards your neck, his sharp teeth ready to bite off your throat. You whimpered and cowardly walked away from his touch.

"Hello there, Y/N... it's been so long..." he muttered. His voice was similar to the cold wind of an autumnal fog, where you could get lost in a matter of seconds. You didn't want him to touch you or be anywhere near you. Thankfully, he let go of your throat and instead slammed his decaying hand right into your stuttered heart. You screamed at the pain. It weighed too much, like dropping a thousand rocks on your chest; the pressure was killing you.

"Aw, it hurts, doesn't it ? You never thought someone you trusted so much would destroy you this way." Ystran mocked you, sniffing your neck to enjoy the sweet terror he brought you. His dry and long grey hair tickled your sore throat, and you considered pulling on it as hard as you could. Then, his hands started to slowly creep up on your chest, groping your flesh to get to your heart. You growled.

"Get your fucking hands off me !"

"But why..? You're mine, did you forget that ?" He licked your neck with his filthy, raspy, feline-like tongue, grazing his teeth on your fragile skin. The corners of his mouth stuck together, so that when they parted, the skin of his lips would strech too, with the most disgusting sound.

Alright stomach, if you wanted to barf, it's the moment.

You kicked him hysterically, wailing and yelling. "Let go of me ! Don't fucking touch me, you damn psychopath !" You charged a heart-shock wave and attacked your body.

Despite how much he tried, he couldn't hold on to you, even if your attack was weak. You dashed towards Eden's room to lock yourself in, but Ystran was quicker. He jumped at your legs and started punching your stomach.

"No, no, you're not cutting me out this time." Your heart tattled while he climbed on top of you, his flabby legs locking on your own. His hands grabbed your wrists and held them above your head. You coughed and spit at his face, but all he did was gently caress your damaged arm.

"Oh, I'm so glad you still carry such a tender memory of me..." His twisted smile repulsed you, and you tried to free yourself, to no avail. "I'm always with you, in a way."

You were dizzy. Ystran had kept draining your love and life force with a sadistic lust. Tremors racked up your body, and black silhouettes wobbled in the corner of your eye. And you craved and yearned for love. You tried to moisten your dried lips, tasting the air for a fragment of your desperately needed drug. Heaven called you, the bound was untied, and love remained solely in Paradise or in the minds of mad men.

"Oh geez... How could I have overestimated how much love you stocked ? Obviously, I should have known better !" Ystran hooted. "Silly me..." His claws came out of his hands, and your eyes focused on them.

Suddenly, you saw the demon's arm coming down on you, ready to slash your throat. And yet, all you could think about was that you would never see Aziraphale and Crowley again. And you, poor little Eden...

You didn't want to go...

You still wanted to see Aziraphale smile, thanks to your dessert. You wanted to hear Crowley's smile in his voice when he taught you about stars. You still wanted to spend unnecessary time with them, drinking, pampering Eden, discovering music together... And you never accepted to go dine with them, no matter how many times they asked; you just didn't understand why they even asked. Nor why you couldn't let them go. Well, I guess you won't even have time to find out.

And when you felt his hand's weight approach your face, the faint sound of your friends' names threatened to escape the barrier of your aching heart. But his claws never ripped your skin. Instead, the strident sound of the impact thundered in your ear, where it landed.

"Now, you listen to me, Y/N. You're going to go back to heaven, eat up all the love you can get your fucking hands on, and you're going to go fight in that damn war !" He roared and shook your frozen body. "But you better stay alive... Oh, no, you don't get killed unless it's me ! You're mine ! Mine to kill, mine to own !" Ystran slapped you across the face. The pounding in your head became unbearable, but all you could see was madness.

What were you going to do ?

You sobbed and closed your eyes once again, escaping into the darkness and just wishing that the nightmare was a dream. He left your body, getting up and staring at you with bare emptiness. You didn't want to see him; you wanted him to just leave you alone.

But Ystran had never been a merciful being. He kicked your pathetic weeping form in the side. You screeched yet, and you couldn't fight back. Maybe you just deserved it... Curling up into a miserable ball, weak and tired, you just waited for it to end. Ystran squatted down one last time to give you the smallest kiss on your cheek.

"See you soon, love."

He left. You knew he did. But you couldn't convince yourself that things would be better. Everything in your life will always remind you of what you've done. You cannot be forgiven, now can you ? Not after throwing away the only person who would ever love you. And for what ? Stay in Heaven ? Sure, look what he gave you: humour, isolements, and mockeries. You hugged yourself, unable to get up.

You kept looking. Searching in your memories where love could be Had it ever existed ? Had it always been a charade all these years ? Maybe you were just an empty, apathetic shell after all. A stupid cupid who couldn't even heal their own bound. You had it coming all those years. Fooling yourself with fake emotions and sensations. Everything you ever felt was just a fucking lie that you kept telling yourself to feel better. To keep going.

Not everything... A small voice whispered in the back of your head, despite your ragged breath.

When ? When did you truly ever feel anything ? Have you ever really felt Love ? Tears continued to roll down your cheeks, and your whole body trembled with fear, sadness, and desperation. But your heart seeked in your mind, searching for a memory, a crumb of love.

Anything.

And slowly, flashes of the past started flocking in front of your eyes while you stared at the dull ceiling.

Love ? Have you ever really felt Love ?

◇

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

I think I'm going to start a new hashtag : "Save Y/N|Balael", it seems about right x)

Hello everyone ! It's been a while, hasn't it ? I'm sorry about that ^^" I really didn't mean to leave that long, but life is like that sometimes.

This chapter was bit darker than I intented it to be at first, but I hope it turned out ok.

I hope you still enjoyed it though ! Don't hesitate to comment or ask anything; it always makes me so happy to read you all ^^

Be ready for the next chapter : we will be deep-diving into the trio's common past ;)

Bye bye!

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Masterlist : Here

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#aziraphale x reader x crowley #crowley x reader x aziraphale #twoscompanythreesafamily #good omens #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #david tennant #micheal sheen #neil gaiman

[jacevelaryonswife]

ㅤCatch me if you can, working on my tan, Salvatore.

The summer's wild and I've been waiting for you, all this time, I adore you, can't you see you’re meant for me?

∴pairing: Sugar Daddy!Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

∴warnings and notes: age gap, reader is 20+ but her age isn’t mencioned, smut. Inspired by Salvatore from Lana Del Rey.

The first time you saw him was at an exhibition at the Targaryen foundation, which depicted life in Old Valyria. He was magnetic, intense and almost too attractive. Truly inaccessible, you thought, however, life wanted to positively surprise you with the opposite of that. You weren't used to going to sophisticated places, although you were a girl with expensive and demanding tastes, so when your friend invited you to the event your heart almost jumped out of your mouth. It was so exciting to be among such a select few of New York's elite, you could almost relax for a moment. Almost.

Underneath the subtle makeup and cheap clothes — perfectly chosen for the occasion —you were scared. Not out of fear of discovering your humble nature, after all that never embarrassed you, but fear of rejection, of the superb and elitist look in your direction, fear of humiliation by unhappy and mean people. At the start of the exhibition your figure stood alongside your friend and her friend, Aegon Targaryen, a fully representative specimen of the rich fuckboy stereotype — at least he was funny. However, as the evening progressed and people became more relaxed, you assumed you could move around and mingle with less tension around people. You've talked to some of the Targaryen/Velaryon youths closer to your age. Two of them, Jacaerys and Daeron were genuinely adorable and even a little flirtatious, which made you slyly recoil upon realizing their interest.

In this way, finding yourself in a corridor away from the small crowd, you began to contemplate some paintings placed on the wall that didn’t belong to the exhibition. One of them caught your attention and captured you for a long time, it was a night city in a cyberpunk aesthetic in the shape of the upper part of a male silhouette. You've never seen anything like that.

"Do you like it?" A male voice asked very close to you, on your side actually.

And then he appeared. Tall, thin, short hair, with a discreet smile.

“Uh, I'm not a big art connoisseur, but I appreciate a beautiful painting,” you said.

“And what do you think of this one?”

You returned to contemplate the painting again, before replying: “I like the futuristic aesthetic. It's aggressive, rowdy and intimidating, it reminds me of works like Altered Carbon, it's chaotic and dark and I can't stop admiring it. I don't really know if it's futuristic at all, but it resembles me. I think it was my favorite so far.”

He didn't hide his satisfied expression upon hearing your opinion, looking away from his handsome face to the screen in question.

“The reference was a troubled phase of my youth, I spent nights awake in galleries in downtown New York, Chicago and Paris. It was more underground than it is today and I certainly have some scars, but nothing that time can put us back on track.”

His eyes sparkled in self-realization. That was not only the author of the painting, but he was also a Targaryen. How did you not notice before? The short gray hair and violet eyes were distinctive enough to give away a Valyrian for miles. Maybe it was some mechanism in your brain to avoid associating him with a descendant of the dragon and making you nervous again, but it didn't matter now, not when he was already beside you in that beige linen shirt with the long sleeves and collar and sophisticated posture.

“Daemon Targaryen,” he said, holding out his hand.

You introduced yourself with a shy smile, greeting him back. “Are these all yours? They are very good."

He didn't need to look at the other pictures in the hall to nod. “Only a few, most are in my gallery.”

“Oh,” was all you said. “How long have you been painting?”

“I like to say I was born with brushes for fingers,” he chuckled with a hint of smugness. “And as for you, what were you born to do?”

"I don't know. I never really knew. I like my field, although I haven't graduated yet, but I never had a big dream or talent for arts in general.”

The look he gave you was understanding, almost affectionate, nodding. You stayed the rest of the night together, and even though you hadn't lived a third of what he had told you, the oldest Targaryen didn't make light of your experiences and aspirations for the future, quite the contrary, he asked a lot about your tastes, your dreams, your preferences and desires. Even if you were apprehensive about being around the most charming man you'd ever seen, Daemon was good enough to break through your preoccupation and wrap you up in a spiral of seduction veiled in sophisticated words and good conversation. By the gods, how you longed for that night not to end and you had to return to your simple and unglamorous life, to your heavy routine of studies and tiredness with uninteresting boys unlike the handsome man at your side.

“You have a beautiful face, you know, I would love to have you in one of my paintings,” he said as he rested his glass of white wine on the shelf beside him, “and I can already imagine how.”

"How?" You smiled in ecstasy, especially when he moved a piece of your hair to your ear and caressed your face. Your heart froze a beat and your mouth parted, a part of the smile still visible. It seemed too unreal to be true, but you would never object to what was about to happen.

“I'd love to show you,” he said before cupping your face and pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that made you float. You grabbed the back of his neck to pull him closer and rose on tiptoe to reach him properly, only to find yourself deliciously pressed against the wall as he stole the breath from your lungs in the sexiest, most demanding way possible. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that your reality seemed fully magnified as he pulled back and stared into your face, still so close you could only get intoxicated on his expensive woody cologne. “Come to my apartment, I need you babygirl.”

Oh dear, an indecent sound nearly escaped your mouth at the nickname, your breathing turning into wheezes immediately. You've never been in a relationship with an older man, not for lack of interest, but there weren't any such attractive options close until tonight. It felt like a sensual dream, especially when he traced circular patterns on her neck with his thumb.

“Yes."

Daemon glared fiercely before pulling you gently around the waist and out of the room, opening the door for you to say goodbye to your friend and Aegon, hating the knowingly slutty look he directed at your figure. Your heart pounded with each traffic light the luxurious red convertible crossed, impressed by the ruby, blue and green lights that illuminated that part of town and even more by the large hand that was on your bare thigh. How you wished it would rise a little higher...

Luckily his dazzlingly modern apartment wasn't far away, with beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sea of buildings and skyscrapers of the world's greatest metropolis. It was breathtaking. You couldn't help but walk to the center of the room, gently tapping the glass as a smile left your lips. "It's so beautiful."

“No more than you, I promise,” he whispered into your hair, next to your ear, sending shivers through the body. He curled one hand in front of your body, caging you between the glass as he brushed your hair away from your neck to sensually kiss your erogenous spot, making your eyes close and your hands rest on the glass. His vague hand ran over your waist and breasts, squeezing your flesh deliciously. “Have you been with a man before, babygirl? A real man, not these fuckers who don't know how to satisfy a girl properly.”

“No, I never have been,” you replied breathlessly, looking at him through the reflection.

“I will make sure you never forget this night.”

Daemon turned you around to kiss you, demanding to taste, lick, suck, and bite each of your mouths. He'd like to taste your sweet pussy right there, fucking your beautiful body against the glass, but he wanted more, so much more, he wanted to lay you on the bed while the blue light outside illuminated your body just like the painting he'd imagined. And so he did. He stripped you of your clothes before laying you on the white sheets, drinking in the masterful image before you. He leaned down to kiss and suck on your neck as he slid his hand down the length of your body to the wet spot between your legs, spreading your wetness with his fingers before massaging your clit incisively with the palm of his hand, making a long, breathy moan out of your throat as you held him from behind, desperate for more friction. He removed his hand from your legs to grab your breasts and bring them to his mouth, but was quick to repeatedly grind his clothed manhood against your needy, wet pussy. He smeared saliva on your breasts and continued to tread south, kissing and stroking your stomach with his big hands.

“Fuck,” he growled at the sight of your shimmering femininity, so eager for his attention. “So fucking pretty,” he said before kissing the inside of your right thigh, holding your hips in place to dip like a bee on your flower, eating you like no other has. You moaned loudly and squeezed your eyes shut, holding onto his hair as your legs unconsciously tightened around his head. He never wavered, devouring your pearl like a starving man only to feel your body relax beneath him, your orgasm coming so hot and wet it had you moaning pathetically as he licked for another moment. A proud smile appeared on his features, which was met by a shy and satisfied smile before your hands struggled to remove the last physical obstacle that separated them.

“Ready for me, love?”

You nodded during the long look at his beautiful member. How he would love to thrust into you with no hindrance, but that would be asking too much for a first night, he knew that. So when he returned to the bed with the condom on and settled himself between your legs, his hand on your knees, there was nothing to look forward to but losing himself in your wet heat, so deliciously hot and tight. He let out a guttural growl as you let out a sly moan, sagging in glee as your pussy was filled in a steady rhythm.

“Daemon,” you cried breathlessly, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. He became deeper and faster in his movements. “Oh! Don’t stop!" Your whisper had him moaning in your ear and biting down on your bottom lip, fucking your sensual body hungrily.

“Fuckin' hells,” he growled as you squeezed him and milked him wet all over his cock, kissing the sensitive spot on your neck. He didn't last long after that, allowing himself to fully enjoy your heat to come hard over your body, rolling over to discard the condom and lying next to you, pulling you into his chest.

“That was amazing,” you said, smiling wide and tired, feeling your warm intimacy relax completely.

He just smiled and nodded silently, draping an arm over your shoulder. You didn't bother too much to stay awake, however, Daemon's low voice caught your attention.

“You said you never had great aspirations, but you also told me of dreams to be fulfilled, desires, everything you would like to have, see and live. Let me do it, babygirl, let me help you.”

Your eyes widened, looking up to meet his calm features. "Are you serious?" We don't even know each other well, this is a big step for both of us,” you said.

“We have enough time for that, I just need to know if you want it.”

This is definitely the best night of your life. Of course I do, holy shit I want it so bad. “Yes! I want it! I want it so much!” You kissed him sleepily, smiling against his lips. And that's how the dynamic between you began.

tag: my bestie @valeskafics cause she planted the idea of sugar daddy daemon in my head with this work here, check out her work! She's the queen of hotd content.

#daemon #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #modern daemon #sugar daddy!daemon #sugar daddy daemon #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon targaryen x you #modern hotd #au #smut #daemon targaryen smut #matt smith

[anglingforlevels]

An Owner's Dedication (Yandere Demon x Reader)

In which, you wonder why your demonic captor even took an interest in you to begin with.

CW: Yandere, monsterfuckery, human pet, pet/owner dynamic, not proofread, captivity, dead dove

Minors DNI

Amon took on many shapes and forms, each with their own quirks and anatomical impossibilities, each varying from terrifying to confusing to uncannily realistic to whatever he intended to masquerade as. But you could always tell it was Amon. Something distinctively him about the look, something always just a little bit off, enough so that you’d never mistake him for whatever he was parading as.

Presently, he had his legs folded beneath him as he donned the physicality of a horse with a face just a tad too long, and muscles a tad too sharp, to be any real horse, not that the unusual folding of his legs that bended all the wrong ways, would have you believe it was a real horse to begin with.

Why he changed forms at seemingly every glance, you weren’t sure of. But as alarming as the shifting creature before you was, it felt far more like a warning to see him remain consistent in his form. It meant either he had a guest whom he took on a shape for or he wanted to provide a bit of consistency for you, or put in other words, he’d be insufferably attentive for a while.

The worst of his forms were the ones he donned most frequently, or as you considered them, his default forms. Most of them were humanoid but left no doubt of his demonic nature, and the ones not humanoid were incomprehensible, with no end or beginning in sight. It was when he presented himself like this, that you could no longer let your imagination fly, to pretend he was something more palatable.

“You’ve been quiet as of late, my pet.” He spoke through a beak that should not know how to, his form now a strange owlish silhouette of goo. He seemed to, quite literally, change each time you blinked now, instead of the leisurely yet frequent changes of before, it meant he wasn’t yet fully invested in the conversation or his own questions but still wanted you to be on your toes, at least, you figured it was something like that. Not that you ever could let your guard down around him.

Pet. That was what you were. That was why you were sitting here with him now, struggling to uphold composure. Of course, you knew you should be happy with this role, or at least, have some form of gratitude for your situation. You had been by his side long enough to see what he did to the “toys” dragged along by visitors as gifts, what humans who seemed to draw much less endearment from him received of attention.

Compared to those humans, you really were lucky. The clawed fangs you had witnessed tear into jugulars and peek out through irises, would gently pat your head, the vicious tongue there had torn others very core to ribbons or sentenced people to their doom, would simply grow condescendingly sweet and coo at you.

You weren’t unlucky, at least not fatally so, you recognized that.

You lowered your eyes, your hands feeling clammy. You hadn’t responded yet and the air felt suffocating. You were ashamed of the notion of giving in to the sweet treatment of an adored pet, precisely because you had seen the fates of your fellow man, but what other options did you have, when a single look from him had you paralyzed in terror?

Even more, you feared being tossed aside, what of you then? Amon tapped a clawed finger against the marbled floor. From beneath your lashes, you could see he had taken on his most favored form, the vaguely humanoid void of claws, sharp teeth, feathers and burning flares. It seemed he would not be relenting on the question. You had been keeping quiet for too long, as was.

“Why,” you forced the words out, despite your throat feeling tight and closed-up, and your words were barely floating above a whisper. “Why me?”

“Why you?” Amon shifted, looming over you. You shrank into yourself, feeling so terribly small. It wasn’t just the towering size difference but the crushing presence that had you scurry to take up as little space as possible. A long, clawed finger with greying skin lifted your chin, “Why does a human take a dog or rabbit?”

You were now forced to stare into obelisk eyes that seemed surrounded by flickering flames. “Because they’re cute?” It almost felt like a trained response, having been subject to Amon’s comments about you for a while now. Amon released your chin with a satisfied hum but remained a looming figure above you, his shadow engulfing you completely.

“Right. And how endearing you are, my pet.” There’s a dismissive lilt to his tone, as if to say he’s still a little dissatisfied with you words. “And now, what would have such a darling pet distressed?”

Ah. Right. He never felt he owed you an explanation for your questions, not a real one with any depth, but you couldn’t get away with vague responses. His original question remained unanswered. That was how it always was. As far as Amon was concerned, he needed to know everything, but you only needed to know that you were an endearing, cute thing for him to pamper and burn away idle hours with.

But would you remain endearing to him? Would you one day annoy him, or would your cuteness evaporate as you aged? You struggled to imagine your aged figure, more wrinkles and loose skin than anything else, being afforded the same attention by someone who could discard and take as he pleased, especially when you couldn’t even comprehend his current attention.

“What if…” Your tone was careful as you asked, “One day, you don’t want me around? Like, when I start changing, humans aren’t as… long-lived. What would you do then?”

“Hm? If I tire of you, I’d toss you aside.” He said, matter-of-factly. “But meager concepts like age are nothing to me, such lowly things… For humans to concern themselves with it, you’d put us demons out of jobs, had there not been so many ways to cause misery.”

Amon, with a firm hand on your back, led you to sit on his lap. There was smoldering warmth and a feathery terseness whenever you moved around, prompting you to remain still in whatever position he arranged you in, so that the feathers would at least provide some level of softness.

“My attention is nothing as fickle as that.” Amon spoke again, you felt the rumble for each word he spoke. “Why, are human owners in the habit of taking on kittens only to abandon them as they grow weary and slow?”

No. Not anyone of worth, at least. Amon’s clawed hand came resting at your head, running across your head in a smooth motion. “It seems worthless troubles like these has kept you miserable, but my pet has no use for thoughts. Would it not be easier to simple stop thinking and enjoy my care?”

It would. Part of you, the tired and exhausted part, wanted to lean into his touch. It was better than the alternative, it felt easier. But it felt like the part of you that resisted would die alongside something important within you, should you do it.

“Why me?” You asked again. Because you were endearing to him? You didn’t understand why you were here. If Amon felt annoyed at the repeat question, he didn’t express it. His voice felt closer to you, as did his embrace that no longer felt loose but restrictive.

“Because I wanted you here.”

And, in the end, that was all the reason Amon would ever need. Amon never needed any justifications or excuses for his actions, he didn’t need to delude himself into believing you’d thrive or even accept it, in the end, it hardly mattered to him – he wanted you here, so here you were.

After all, a pet’s place is by their master.

#yandere monster #yandere x reader #yandere #bad writing #dead dove do not eat #not proofread

[quitealotofsodapop]

When Yuebei wad born, Wukong most CERTAINLY went into a medical coma as well. Like, no joke... in Century Egg au, Wukong had gone into labor with potentially he best case scenario and still almost died... wit Yuebai in Slowboiled we've got a Wukong who's been several centuries overdue, had his magic literally running on empty during time, the moment he gets even somewhat decent he then gets strapped to a web and used as a battery, only to then have a madrush that took at minimum the better part of a month and was most likely more to find a weapon, then his powers were fucking short circuited in a magic barrier and then drained even more. Another madrush this time being pushed by his own deceased mate who he is fairly certain hates him and wants him dead, burned by Samhadi Fire, fought an ice with, and then possessed by said ice witch and forced to be used as a weapon against his own troupe, his own adopted cub and mate included. And only AFTER all that he ended up going into labor in some random campsight xD

Thats a good point to bring up.

Another major distinction is that Yuebei (SlowBoiled) was present for many of Wukong's experiences along the Journey, and literally ate the entire soul of ancient being just before she was born. Wukong likely only survives birthing Yuebei because she fully consumed another being's dao (LBD) instead of his own.

And even with Macaque at his side at last, Wukong is still running on empty once the Egg is born. Yuebei is probably still hangs out in her shell for a while before hatching from all the physical/mental stress her parent just went through.

In the meantime, Wukong has disconnected from the chat and has to do a major recharge before he can start waking up again. It really scares the gang at first, but Guanyin manages to soothe their worries that Wukong's physical reaction is super normal given the circumstances.

He just eepy, give him a few minutes days.

MK: "What about the egg itself? Does it take super long to hatch?" Guanyin (honestly doesn't know): "I'll... get back to you on that." Macaque, ears fluttering happily: "Don't worry. Cub's ok for now, she's just being lazy." MK: "How can you tell?" Macaque: *points at his ears and then to the Egg, smiling wide* "She snores like Wukong does." Yuebei, safetly in Egg: *tiny snoring sounds*

It's also part of the reason Macaque is super cuddly of Wukong before and after the Egg arrives. Stone Monkey instincts tell him to provide as much warmth and emotional support as possible to his mate and his immediate troop members.

Macaque would even sacrifice his own life energy/dao to ensure Wukong survives Yuebei's arrival.

If Guanyin didn't point out something super off about his own body.

Guanyin, doing a check-up on Wukong: "Liu'er Mihou - when where you buried?" Macaque, confused: "Buried? The heck you talking about? When I died I'm pretty sure my whole body got dragged into the Underworld." Guanyin, eyes widening: "Oh-no." Macaque: "What oh-no?" Guanyin: *performs a small spell on Macaque's stomach. Two distinct egg-shaped silhouettes appear* Macaque: *struck silent* Guanyin: "It appears that the Lady Bone Demon physically taking you into her Realm, and likely beneath the earth, caused your body to respond in the same manner as Wukong's when he was buried by the Buddha's hand." Macaque: *pokes stomach* "...why is there two?" Wukong, groggily after days of medical coma: "Two what??" Macaque & Guanyin: *shrieks of joy!*

Yuebei hatches shortly thereafter, causing greater celebration amongst the little troop. Macaque decides to tackle his problem later.

#slow boiled stone egg au #sun wukong #pregnancy tw #stone egg talk #lmk aus #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #shadowpeach #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk guanyin

[rotworld]

The Oldest Dance

you knew a werewolf when you were younger. your lives went in different directions, but you find yourself suddenly reunited under the worst possible circumstances.

->explicit. contains kidnapping, drugging, power imbalance, mentions of noncon and conditioning, biting, feral behavior, mild gore.

.

.

.

You’ve never seen so many stars before.

The thought strikes you only after the sharp burn of adrenaline dies to a simmer. Fear curdles into exhaustion. Time gets fuzzy. Between the hairpin turns of the road and the lush sea of furs and bedding all around you, there’s no way to get your footing or your bearings. You test the rope around your wrists again and there’s no give, no weakness, just an unpleasant, stinging friction where they’ve been chafing your skin. You hear the rumble of the engine, the scrape of tires over dirt, branches dragging like nails across the windows. You can barely see a thing, and it’s not just your blurry, swimming vision, the exhaustion clinging stubbornly to your eyes. It’s dark here and dark outside, the whole world just a mass of merging shadows. 

And the stars…you must not be in town anymore. Not even close to it.

There’s nowhere to go but you still fight to sit up, to get to your knees at least. It’s not a dip in the road or a sudden turn that throws you off balance this time. Someone grabs the back of your neck and shoves you down again. That large, callused hand could almost wrap all the way around your throat if it wanted, but it settles on your nape, squeezing with the gentle but firm chiding of an animal scruffing its young. 

“First one’s awake,” you hear.

There’s a sharp, amused exhale from the front seats, driver’s side. “The one who barely touched their drink, I’m guessing. You got a grip on them?” 

“Yeah. It’s fine, they’re still groggy.” 

You run your hands through the blankets, hoping you look confused instead of searching, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Wool. Flannel. A zipper? Someone curled up on their side, breathing softly. Your elbow bumps into a warm body beside you, a bony shoulder exposed by a sagging, oversized sweater. They mutter in their sleep. The hand on the back of your neck eases when you settle and don’t try to get up again, but it stays, thumb gently stroking. It takes everything you have to keep your breathing calm and even.

Three of you back here, you count. Captives. The other two still out cold. And four of them. Two in the front and two in the back, keeping watch.

“Should only be a half hour or so for the rest, as long as you didn’t give them too much.” You recognize the voice from the passenger seat. He was at the club. Smaller guy, not huge like the one kneeling next to you. Dark hair. Dazzling smile. And touchy, always trying to get in your space, talking a little too close for comfort. It all starts coming back in a slow trickle. Right. The club. And that guy, Corbin, you’ve seen him a few times before, thought he was a little weird but he always seemed to know when to back off. So how…why…?

“Wish we could’ve taken the fourth one, too,” the guy holding you down says wistfully. His hand rubs up and down your back in a soothing, absentminded motion. “Such pretty eyes, and a sweet scent.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from the other guy in the back, a hulking figure sitting against the wall further from you. “Bigger hunts are always more fun,” he murmurs.

“Aww, I know,” Corbin coos. “But trust me, they weren’t a good match. These three, on the other hand? They’re perfect.” There’s a glimmer of light in the front seat—the glare of a cell phone illuminating part of Corbin’s jaw. It’s nearly blinding after your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it suddenly occurs to you why you can’t see anything. Not the men, not much more than lumpy silhouettes, not any trees distinct from the moving shadows beyond the windows; nothing but stars. 

They’re not using headlights. These are wolves.

You surge up in a panic, scrabbling blindly for the doors. It’s probably not a good idea—even if they’re miraculously unlocked, you won’t accomplish much more than tumbling out in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe skin yourself on the road in the process—but your terror is louder than your rational thinking. You fight the hands that grab you, screaming, clawing, biting like an animal, thrashing with all your strength. It takes both of them to pin you back down and you savor that even through the humiliating briefness of your rebellion, wrestled onto your stomach with a hand shoving your head down into the blankets.

You don’t expect him to bite you and that drags a shrill but short noise out of you. You’re not ready for what it feels like, the weight of him across your back and the crunch of his teeth sinking in, a hot gush of blood dribbling past his snarling lips. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t stop. Every time you squirm, every panicked jerk and attempted wriggling movement, makes him growl against your skin. He holds your hands down with his much larger, much stronger ones, fingers pinning yours on either side of your head, and that’s when you finally give in. You aren’t punished for the last nervous shiver that travels down your spine, or the whimper that slips out when he loosens his jaw and pulls away, strings of saliva and sticky blood slicking your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good human. Stay down.” The gentleness of his fingers stroking your scalp makes a sob build in your throat. 

“You got it?” the driver asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I got it. Tried to keep the bite light, but they wouldn’t submit. Might leave a mark.” He traces his thumb over the throbbing wound he left behind, ragged and still bleeding. 

Corbin chuckles. “It’s fine, I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.” You can’t see him clearly but you can tell he’s turned around, leaning slightly around his seat to peer into the back. You can feel his gaze burning into you. “I won’t tell you not to fight. I hope you do,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Talking to you rather than about you, you realize. “I chose you because I knew you would. It’s a good thing. Good for the pack. Eventually, you’ll learn how to pick your battles.” 

“Fuck you,” you say, embarrassed by how shaky and hoarse you sound. 

You can’t see what kind of expression he has, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll thank me someday.” 

It doesn’t take long for the other two to wake after all the commotion. One just stares in silent shock and disbelief. The other starts to cry. The other wolf in the back pulls them into his lap and nuzzles his face against their cheek and neck, as though they want anything to do with him. He grunts unhappily when they cry harder and shove him away. You can just make out a chorus of howls over the sound of the engine. The wolf who bit you starts stroking your back again, a melodic hum rumbling in his chest. 

“The heartland joining us tonight?” the driver asks.

Corbin hums softly. “They’re abstaining. A few might come to watch.” 

“Ah, that’s a shame. I hoped one of these might be a good fit.” 

“Linden needs an absolutely perfect match. It’s my next project.” 

You don’t catch what else they say because those quiet, miserable sobs turn to heartwrenching wailing. The other person in the back starts to plead for their life. The wolf closest to them strokes their cheek. “You’re not going to die,” he murmurs. “Hush. It’ll all make sense soon.” 

The van slows, relief and terror warring in your heart. You can run—and go where? You don’t know where you are, don’t know the way back to town. Outrunning a werewolf is a tall order under the best circumstances. You’re on their turf, in the dark; you don’t stand a chance. Doesn’t matter. You have to try. The road gets rougher, the foliage thicker like grasping hands. The van rolls to a slow, grinding stop and the engine dies. You’re surprised nobody tries to restrain you before the locks disengage and the back doors are thrown open, but it doesn’t take long to see why.

You’re deep in the woods. The full moon drapes a thin, silver gleam over the silhouettes of shifting figures, animal eyes shining in the dark. There must be dozens of them—thirty, maybe forty wolves, all sniffing the air, growling and pacing impatiently. More are still coming, slipping through the trees in the shape of both humans and beasts. You’re completely surrounded. They form a wide circle around the van, all eyes trained on you and the other two petrified people huddled at your back. You can hear them talking to each other, their voices half-feral with barks and growls.

“Three? Just three?” 

“Three’s a lot for the off-season.”

“All awake, too. Afraid and alert. Gonna be a good hunt.” 

“And look at that one in front, bristling like that. Think they’ll bite back?” 

Laughter. Your stomach churns. One of the wolves gets out of the van while the other leans in close at your side, the two of them gradually easing you out and onto your feet. A door slams. The wolf who was driving gets out, stretches his legs. You see him kick off his shoes and shed his shirt, tossing his clothes into the driver’s seat before he suddenly falls down on all fours and shifts into a wolf. The change is nearly instant, a chorus of unpleasant, bone-cracking sounds, his skin engulfed in dark fur. Corbin wanders into view, glancing at the three of you with an expression of infuriating tranquility. 

Golden light flickers in the corner of your vision. The crowd parts and the man who steps forward makes the wolves you’ve seen so far seem small and delicate in comparison. Massive and towering over all the rest, his chest bare and broad, muscled shoulders adorned with tattoos, he comes forward with a lantern in his hand and a sharp grin on his face. The others all have that intimidating air about them but this one truly looks like a werewolf, overwhelming and wild. His sharp gaze flicks to each of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as, one by one, he looks you in the eyes and speaks your names. 

“Welcome, chosen,” he says. “My name is Vanagandr, and this is Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is eager to meet you. Are you well?”

It takes you a moment to understand this is a serious, genuine question. He waits patiently for an answer, studying each of you in turn. “Are we well?” you repeat in disbelief. “Are you for real?” 

To your dismay, he finds your anger harmless and amusing, a soft chuff of laughter escaping his lips. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel sick or hungover? Any injuries, particularly to the legs or feet? Be honest. We have a medic.” 

The two cowering behind you don’t say a word, too afraid to even lift their gazes. One of them is shaking, clinging to your shoulder. Still, Vanagandr waits, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on. Eventually, one of them shakes their head. The other mutters a quiet, “I’m fine.” The wolves around you stare and point openly, muttering to one another about which one of you smells the best, which one looks the softest, the most defiant, the most fun to train. 

“I was bitten,” you mutter.

He doesn’t wait for you to show him, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you in place. His hand is large, his nails sharp like claws. He traces the teeth marks in your neck and growls softly. The wolf who bit you stiffens and turns his head. Baring his throat, you realize.

It’s then that you see Corbin slink closer, pressing himself against the enormous wolf’s side. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says in a soft, demure tone, his head bowed so he looks up at Vanagandr through his thick lashes. “He couldn’t let up because they wouldn’t submit. It took a little while.”

“I figured as much,” Vaganadr chuckles. He rubs his face against Corbin’s neck and jaw, a gesture that strikes you as odd, affectionate, and a touch possessive. “Go on. Your alpha’s looking for you.” At that, Corbin’s eyes light up and he slips away with one last lingering touch to Vanagandr’s shoulder, but he doesn’t rush to leave. He meanders through the crowd of wolves and the others greet him with the same eager affection, grabbing him, passing him amongst themselves like a toy to sniff and touch and grope shamelessly. The display unsettles you and in your haste to find somewhere else to look, you see something that makes your heart skip a beat.

A small group has just arrived. These wolves are younger, noticeably nervous and fidgeting. They’re led by a wolf who looks like he got stuck in the middle of shifting, limbs long and furred, hands and feet tipped with claws, a bushy tail swishing behind him. He’s talking to them in a low, gravelly voice, something about herding and not rushing, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters except for one wolf who stands out from the rest. Not because he does anything unusual. Not because he’s particularly big or intimidating looking—he always was bigger than you but here, he’s average. Right at home. 

You know that wolf. You recognize the scars slashed from his hairline to his jaw, long, jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. You remember that nervous little twitch of the nose whenever he ran into something new, some situation that made him nervous. He’s grown his hair out longer, let it spill over his shoulders and down his back in thick, black waves, but you know it’s him. The fearful expression on his face transforms into full-blown panic when your eyes meet.

“Flint?” All you can manage is a strangled whisper but you know he hears you. An unhappy, dog-like whine rises in his throat. “Flint? What—why are you here?” You aren’t thinking when you push your way towards him. No one is stopping you but you barely notice, don’t even hesitate to wonder why. You shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the uneasy glances, Vanagandr gone completely still and silent behind you.

Flint lowers his gaze, staring at the grass by your feet. You’re further from the lantern and the shadows are thick, his face half-hidden in flickering, lurching darkness, but you can hear him panting the way he always would when he felt overwhelmed. Your name comes out in a needy whine, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No…no, no, no, not yet…” He has trouble getting the words out, and even more trouble trying to look you in the eye. His voice is exactly the way you remember, low and rough and painfully quiet, like he’s afraid to speak any louder than a rumbling whisper. “I’m not—I’m not ready, I can’t…”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they kidnap you, too?” you ask, your voice raising with anger the more you speak. You know next to nothing about wild wolves, but you know Flint is meek and easy to boss around, the kind of person who got picked on by other wolves when you were younger. The tall werewolf, the one who looks caught between human and animal, steps closer as though he means to separate you. “Don’t touch him!” you snap. He looks down at you, an expression of muted surprise smoothing into understanding. 

“Corbin,” he says quietly. The smaller man rushes over, now carrying the lantern Vanagandr held earlier. “You two. Follow.” He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you. He just starts walking. You’re startled that Flint obeys without question, keeping his head down. Corbin grabs your forearm and drags you along, frowning at your attempts to squirm free and pry his fingers off. 

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Remember what I said before about picking your battles?” he asks. You’re suddenly aware of just how quiet the clearing has become, all eyes on you. Vanagandr watches you very carefully, his gaze hardened and threatening. You glance ahead where the tall werewolf has stopped moving, looking back over his shoulder. 

Flint is hunched next to him, head down, whimpering. The wolf has a hand on his forearm, gripping hard enough to leave marks. You take a deep breath. Fine. You can play along for now. You’ll do anything for Flint’s sake. 

*

Wolves have their own gods. 

Flint knew that when he was little, of course, but it was a vague sort of awareness. Hearsay, rather than knowledge. Wolves, he was surely told at some point, have many faiths and traditions depending on where they live or where they come from. But these things are distant for city wolves, even shameful at times. Why stick out any more than you already, unavoidably do? His family had distanced themselves from any sort of archaic, wild customs long before even his parents were born. When he followed the family tree as far back as it went, tracing those ancient scribbles on the old, yellowed parchment kept hidden in his father’s lockbox, he found strange symbols and names he wasn’t sure how to pronounce. The word ulfhednar was written in thick, black ink.

When he repeated the word to his parents, they looked at him like he’d dragged a human corpse through the front door and dropped it at their feet. “It’s an old, awful thing that you shouldn’t tell anyone,” his mother warned. And that was that. For years, he went on thinking there was something wrong with him, some secret shame he’d unknowingly inherited. It isn’t until much later—until Hoarfrost Falls—that he finds out the truth. Ulfhednar is not a dirty word, but it is something city wolves don’t talk about.

That, and gods. They don’t talk about those either. Not the old ones like the Poised Fang, god of the perfect strike. Some have forgotten and some no longer understand. Sawyer taught him all about that. Sawyer, who leads the three of them now—him and the hrefn and you, he can hardly believe it, you where he least expects to see you, exactly the wrong place and exactly the wrong time. He hadn’t even planned on being there. He was still too new to take part in the claiming chase, still too uncomfortable with the realities of acquiring pack humans to even watch.

Sawyer had insisted. He was kind about it. He had waited until the evening lessons were over to pull Flint aside, dusk simmering like dying embers along the horizon. Flint’s peers had all come from loose, disorganized city packs. Like him, they had dulled senses and smothered instincts. Their shifts were slow and uncomfortable because they’d all learned to do it quietly, stifling the popping of their joints and the rearranging of their bones in a way that left them winded when it was over. 

There was comfort and camaraderie in being new and terrible at everything together, but Flint knew he was falling behind. The others were just as clueless but twice as eager, embracing each new facet of wild pack life while Flint was still reeling. He didn’t think they were judging him for it—he desperately hoped not—but he wasn’t sure. He was used to being an outcast. His whole life, he’d been the obvious werewolf in a room full of humans. He was tall, strongly built, his limbs thick with muscle, his nails constantly needing to be filed down as they grew quicker and sharper than he could keep up with. He’d tried joining packs before. Things always started well and soured quickly. City wolves would look at him and assume he was something wild, and as soon as they realized he wasn’t, he’d start getting pushed around and singled out. He didn’t like making a fuss so he just did what he was told and kept his head down.

But you—you would fight for him. You always did. You’d find out, no matter how hard he tried to keep these things quiet, and you’d tell him you were going to his next pack meeting. You’d be the smallest one in the room between all those werewolves, and you’d still march right up to whatever loudmouth was calling themselves alpha and tear them a new one. You’d demand all of his stuff back if anything had been taken and placed in communal storage—family heirlooms, usually, fur-lined coats and old quilts. Sometimes you’d manage to get a few of his membership fees reimbursed by citing breaches of contract, listing all the ways his pack had failed to behave like his pack.

You’d gotten hurt doing that, just once. It was the last pack he’d tried joining, the last desperate attempt to find belonging. The alpha had claimed his car as a pack asset and taken his keys, and you’d marched in there and refused to leave until they were put in your hand. Yelling had turned to shoving and someone had bitten you. Flint is ashamed to admit that he can’t fully remember everything that happened, only that he woke up in wolfskin, lying on the tile floor of his shower. You were kneeling next to him beneath the spray of warm water and running your fingers through his fur, wet, partially shredded clothes hanging off your body. Blood swirled down the drain.

“Not mine,” you assured him. “Not all yours, either, but don’t move around too much.” 

He thinks about that all the time. He dreams about it. Curled up with his head in your lap and your hands running up and down his body, your touch soothing and affectionate. That’s what he was thinking of earlier tonight when Sawyer stopped him as the others ran off to gossip excitedly with their elders about the new pack humans coming up the mountain. Sawyer led him down a trail that wandered away from the commune’s structures, deeper into the woods.

Flint smelled it before he saw it; perspiration. Excitement. Arousal. A human and a werewolf. The end of a chase. They were up ahead, tucked away in a grove of crooked, towering oak trees. The human was making soft, scared sounds as she was forced down to her knees and made to present herself in proper submission, but she smelled eager and Flint saw a smile before her head was shoved down into the leaves. The wolf growled playfully when he mounted her, nuzzling against the nape of her neck. He whispered something in Old Wolven Norse; a term of endearment, Flint guessed, from the tone.

It felt wrong to stand there and watch. They’d come here to be alone, hadn’t they? But Sawyer looked at him sharply when Flint glanced back the way they’d come. They were going to talk here? In earshot of another wolf and his human as they joined in bliss, rutting on the forest floor? Sawyer did nothing without a reason. There was something Flint was meant to see here, something he was supposed to learn. 

“You don’t want to watch tonight’s claiming,” Sawyer said quietly. “I think you should.” 

Flint said nothing. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was too focused on the human’s alluring scent, their needy whimpers and squirming as the wolf took them. Would…would you look like that, under him? Would you be so open, so sweet? So much had gone unsaid between the two of you before. You weren’t together. You’d never broached the subject, even though he could smell your interest in him. He hadn’t wanted to push, terrified of scaring you away. 

“Flint.” Sawyer was studying his face in the subtle way wolves did, a sidelong glance whenever he let his guard down. “Something’s on your mind.” 

Flint swallowed. He could feel himself reacting to the couple in front of him, the tender flesh at the base of his cock where his knot swells up pulsing gently, and he was ashamed. “I’m thinking about studying a different trade,” he admitted. 

Sawyer said nothing. Flint found himself looking desperately at his face, searching for signs of anger or disappointment, and found him completely unreadable. Sawyer was stone-faced and taciturn most of the time. Flint had to take a deep breath, relax himself, and remember to look elsewhere for answers. Sawyer’s scent was…calm. His tail was still, slightly raised in curiosity but there was no evidence of aggression or displeasure in his posture. He tilted his head slightly and avoided direct eye contact, looking in Flint’s general direction rather than right at him, trying not to make him feel threatened. 

Emboldened, Flint continued. “It’s not your fault, it’s all me. You’ve done so much for me since I got here. You’re always patient with me no matter what I screw up. I know I can tell you things and you’ll listen. It’s just…I don’t think I can do this. I wouldn’t be a good shepherd.”

Sawyer grunted. It was more of a wolf sound than a human one, a chiding growl and a resigned huff all in one. “You’re the only one who decides your path. But if you want my opinion, I disagree. You’d make an exceptional shepherd.”

Flint shook his head. “I could never hurt them. I can’t wrap my head around it. The whole claiming thing, the biting, the…”

“Fucking?” Sawyer said it so easily. 

“We’re forcing them, aren’t we? They don’t want it.”

“They do. They just don’t know it yet.” Sawyer had barely taken his eyes off the wolf and the human since they’d arrived, something nostalgic and bittersweet in his gaze. He nodded to the two of them, the human writhing in mindless pleasure and the wolf pounding her breathless, groaning into the flesh of her shoulder. “They’re no different from us. Strip the wild out of them and they become caged, miserable animals. Here, they learn to heed their instincts again.”

Flint knew that. He’d been taught all of this before. Alpha Druian told him that most humans lived in societies of suffering, and Flint knew he was right because he’d seen it himself, had lived in it for most of his life. Taking pack humans, teaching them everything they’d forgotten after centuries of isolating themselves from wolves—it was all natural and beautiful. It was the steps in between that he had trouble rationalizing; the claiming and the training. The fear and the pain, how new humans shivered at the sight of him and whimpered when he came too close. He was told that this, too, was perfectly normal, a necessary and expected part of the process. 

He heard a quiet chuckle. A smile tugged at the corner of Sawyer’s lips. “This is why you’d be so good at it,” he said. “I stopped shepherding a long time ago, but those instincts never go away. I know what to look for. All that thinking and worrying, that’s what we’re best at. The pack’s most tenderhearted are the ones who should be closest to our humans. Confidence is important. Being able to make difficult choices and administer discipline, that’s also important. But you have to care, more than anything. You have to want what’s best for them.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he hadn’t said anything. Sawyer had simply stood beside him as the shadows grew and the sky darkened, night draping across the mountain. They watched the wolf bring the human to climax once, twice, a third time shuddering and wailing as her toes curled, the wolf’s hands roaming her sensitive body. When he finally spilled inside her, he sank his teeth into her neck. The spot was already marked and the precise way he angled his head, tonguing at the indentations before biting down, told Flint that was his mark. His human. A bond, renewed and made even stronger. He thought of you again and realized he was fully hard.

And now—here you are. He’s not ready. He can’t meet your worried gaze. Sawyer leads the way to the guest house, a large cabin where friends and allies stay while visiting the territory. Neutral, scentless ground. You’re wary, probably because you can’t see very well. Corbin sets the lantern down on a table but the light is dim, unable to crawl into all the cozy nooks and crannies in the spacious common area. Flint is happy that you go to him, sticking close to his side, but he doesn’t like how stiff and standoffish you are. He risks inching closer, pressing himself against you—and he smells another wolf on you. Saliva. Blood. A bite? Without thinking, he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, nostrils flaring at the sight of the wound.

“I’m sorry, Flint. I had no idea,” Corbin says softly. “The bite happened on the way here. It was intended to force submission.” He reaches out, trying to offer comfort. You slap his hand away. Flint’s hand twitches at his side, instincts warring within him. He wants to soothe you. Wants to scold you. Wants to protect you. Wants to protect Corbin. Paralyzed by indecision, he does nothing. Corbin’s attention shifts from Flint to you, his expression thoughtful. Part of Flint lurches in fear at the thought of Corbin getting his hands on you. Training you, the way he helps Druian train all the new arrivals. He sees that eager look in Corbin’s eyes, the way his gaze roams. He’s sizing you up. Finding weaknesses. Memorizing all of your movements, conscious and unconscious, how you carry yourself, how long you can look him in the eye.

Another part of him, deeply buried, considers it with alarming calmness. Before Hoarfrost Falls, he’d blame those thoughts on his “inner wolf,” but Sawyer has cautioned him against that kind of mental partitioning. “Don’t cut yourself into pieces,” he’d say. He is a wolf and a man and the melding of those things, all together, all at once. He is the clear-headed human understanding that you have every right and reason to be terrified right now, and he is also the feverish need to wrap around you in wolfskin as though his closeness can take all of your worries away.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Corbin says. An absurd statement, intended to be disarming. You make a sound that’s not quite a laugh, sharp and guarded, not taking the bait. Flint is proud—excited—for reasons he is afraid to identify. “I’m serious. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I know how it looks from your perspective, but—” 

“You slipped something in my drink,” you say, accusing. “You kidnapped me, and two other people.” 

“‘Kidnapped’ is a really loaded word.” 

“Sit.” Sawyer’s voice comes from the far end of the room, by the windows. He’s got the long, draping curtains pulled shut to hide your view of the woods, just in case the chase comes this way. Corbin drops where he’s standing, immediately settling onto the soft rug. Flint seats himself on the couch, dismayed when you don’t follow his lead. You’re still standing, looking Sawyer in the eye and glaring hatefully. Flint understands suddenly what’s happening here, why you’re not just uneasy but furious. 

“It’s not like that,” he tries to tell you, tugging at your hand. “This pack, they’re not like the others.”

“That’s what you always say. And then they boss you around and take advantage of you,” you mutter. And that’s true. He would always say that everything’s fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his problems, and he didn’t want you getting hurt trying to defend him. It was all backwards. He was supposed to protect you. The ulfhednar didn’t just have pack humans, they had human allies, human trade partners, human settlements within their territory they defended from harm. 

And yet, here you are with another wolf’s bite on your neck. Here he is, failing you again.

“Sit down, human,” Sawyer repeats. “You want an explanation. I’ll give it to you.”

“Are you the alpha?” you ask.

“Beta. Sit, please.” 

Flint lets out a shaky, relieved breath when you finally obey, sinking onto the cushion beside him. Sawyer makes his approach slow and indirect, pacing, pretending to fuss over the decor. He straightens out a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and returns a book left on the table to its proper shelf. It works. You don’t relax completely but you follow his movements with your eyes, curiosity rounding the edges of your annoyance. You try to hide it when Sawyer finishes his minor adjustments and comes to stand in front of you, towering over Corbin beside him, but your sweetening scent gives you away.

Flint knows he should let the pack beta speak, but the guilt is eating him alive. “This is my fault,” he blurts out. You look at him the same, soft way you always have. 

“That’s not true,” Corbin insists. “It’s mine. I should’ve been more thorough—”

Sawyer growls quietly. “It’s nobody’s fault.” He mutters in Old Wolven Norse, “It’s fate. Keep your fangs poised.” 

Flint’s heart skips a beat. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s not ready. He feels a whine building in his throat and bites it back, embarrassed by how readily his feelings show. He’s always been bad at keeping growls and barks out of his speech, especially when he’s particularly nervous or excited, overwhelmed by emotion. Sawyer glances at him, holds eye contact for a meaningful moment, before he returns his attention to you.

“This is Hoarfrost Falls. We’re what you would call a ‘wild pack,’ although we welcome wolves of other backgrounds if they’re willing to make the lifestyle adjustment. My name is Sawyer. You’ve met Corbin, our hrefn—”

“Your what?” you say.

Sawyer visibly bristles at the interruption but doesn’t comment on it. He runs his hand through Corbin’s hair and Corbin melts under the attention, nuzzling his face into the dark, thick fur on Sawyer’s thigh. “It’s his rank,” Sawyer says, pausing to consider his word choice. “He’s a pack human with authority over our other pack humans.”

“Pack humans? That’s a real thing?” You sound horrified. You’re looking at Corbin like he’s something wounded on the side of the road. 

“It’s real. It’s why you were brought here. Normally, you’d be enjoying your initiation right now, but I pulled you out for the pack’s safety.”

“The pack’s safety?” you echo, disbelieving. “How are you the ones in danger?”

Sawyer says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at Flint, and Flint looks anywhere else, and you know. You remember. He’s territorial. Obsessed, people used to say, as if they’d never yearned for a human before. City wolves like to pretend they don’t have instincts. He tried to pretend, too. But any little thing could happen—you could scrape your knee on the pavement, or someone could raise their voice a little too loud while talking to you—and he’d feel himself growling, bristling, ready to fight and die for you. 

When he saw you earlier tonight, knowing what would happen, imagining you stumbling afraid through the woods with some other wolf lunging and pinning you and leaving marks, he felt that reckless urge rise up like an inferno beneath his skin. He’d nearly thrown himself at Alpha Vanagandr—would’ve, if Sawyer and the others hadn’t talked him down. 

“It’s clear to me that you’re Flint’s. His…friend,” Sawyer amends, seeing your expression pinch in confusion. “I don’t know much about you. He doesn’t like talking about his old life and I don’t like to dredge it up more than necessary.”

Flint bows his head, feeling guilty again. “I left someone behind.” That’s all he could bring himself to say when the subject came up. It wasn’t entirely true; you’d both gone your separate ways. But he’d left first—decided to try his luck with distant family in another city, relatives his parents rarely spoke to. You’d tried to keep in touch but things had fizzled out. You were both busy with your own lives and your talks became less frequent. You left messages for each other on occasion; pictures from you, embarrassingly long and heartfelt texts that felt more like letters from him. He wanted you to know he was okay. He was strong and capable, and you didn’t have to worry.

“So can we go?” you ask.

The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitches, the movement very quick and very slight but unmistakably a suppressed snarl. “We?” he repeats stiffly.

“I’m not leaving without Flint.”

Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin, terrified by your open defiance and how you won’t drop your gaze, even more afraid that he’ll lose control himself at any moment. He trusts his mentor but Sawyer has a reputation. He forgets to go easy on pack humans sometimes. He can be harsh, less forgiving of trespasses, dangerously aggressive in the heat of the moment. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sawyer comes any closer. Flint knows there’s an old, awful story behind all his scars carving through the thick wolf fur he can’t fully retract. It’s not always easy to tell what’ll set him off.

It’s just as hard to predict what he’ll laugh off and deem unthreatening. Flint sags in relief when Sawyer lets out an amused huff, his posture loosening somewhat. Whatever he was looking for, whatever it is that reminds him of his scars, he doesn’t find it in you. If anything, he looks a little fond of you. “You’d better stay put,” Sawyer says. “The claiming hunt isn’t over. Won’t be for a little while. No one would purposefully antagonize Flint, but nobody is thinking clearly during a chase, either. Do you want something to eat or drink?” You glare at him. “Suit yourself. I have to speak with the alpha about this. Corbin, you’re dismissed. Let’s give them some space.” 

Corbin never takes his eyes off you as he gets to his feet, returning your scowl with a sweet smile. “It was so nice to meet you,” he purrs. 

Your frown deepens. “Feeling’s not mutual.” 

“Mm. Give it time.” He winks before Sawyer herds him out the door with a playful growl.

Sawyer pauses on the porch, looking back at you with a sharp gaze. “Stay,” he rumbles. He smirks. You think he’s making fun of you, but his gaze shifts to Flint just briefly. Flint’s heart skips a beat. 

Because Sawyer does nothing without a reason. All of that, every little thing, had a purpose. Getting you accustomed to hearing commands. Keeping his distance to put you at ease. Bringing Corbin along showed you that the pack keeps humans, that they’re fed, cared for, permitted some mischief from time to time. Giving you an order he knows you won’t follow wasn’t for you, though. That was for Flint. Because Flint is a shepherd, and when you disobey, it’s his responsibility to do something about it.

Your shoulders sag, a long sigh slipping out when the guest house door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. It’s just the two of you now. You and Flint. His hands shake. He tries to take deep breaths to calm himself but every inhale is full of your scent, the sharpness of your sweat and worry. He’s not ready. He’s petrified. What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to say? He wants to tell you so many things but the words won’t come. They never do. You’ve always understood what he tries to say, even when he can’t say it, but you don’t understand the situation you’re in now.

“Come on,” you say. “He’s probably bringing the alpha back with him. We have to hurry.” You rub your face on a few blankets and pillows—decoys. He recognizes this trick. You’ll take those with you when you run, toss them around to hide your trail. Then you rush to the kitchen and he follows nervously, reminded of a dozen other messes you’ve gotten him out of before. You turn on the sink and lather up the strongest-smelling soap you can find in the cupboards, scrubbing your face, your neck, your wrists, any exposed skin. Your natural scent isn’t gone but it’s smothered in earthy musk because all of the pack’s homemade soaps smell like the woods. Clever. Worryingly so.

“They didn’t…kidnap me,” he admits. “I chose to come here.”

You pause to look at him, your stony focus softening with sympathy. “Yeah? I bet it wasn’t what you thought it’d be,” you say. 

You’re right. Just not the way you think you are. “This isn’t like before. They’re different. The alpha is good. I know it seems strange. They’re not like the packs we’re used to. But—” 

“Flint.” You look up at him and his voice catches in his throat. “Come here. Your turn.” 

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t encourage this any further. He has to be honest with you, has to make you understand. “It’s not safe out there,” he says weakly. “Sawyer wasn’t lying about the chase. It gets…intense. If anybody catches your scent—”

“They won’t,” you insist. You take one of his hands in his and his resolve crumbles bit by bit, eroded by the tender smoothing motions of your fingers over his palm and knuckles and joints. He’s thinking about that shower you took together years ago. The warmth. The safety. The certainty that he was home at last, pack or no pack, that he had everything he wanted. Hoarfrost Falls is where he belongs, but something has been missing all this time, something important. He can’t help it. When you tug on his arm, he kneels, letting you smooth your hands over his face and neck, shutting his eyes and savoring your touch. 

He’s not ready. But Sawyer told him he doesn’t have to be. Now and then, when the other lessons are done, they sit under the moon and talk about gods. “The Poised Fang is old. Very, very old,” Sawyer told him. “In his time, wolves had no names. Humans were prey. Smart, vicious prey, worthy of respect. The hunt is the oldest dance, and he is the best dancer. There are others who came after—gods of hearth-keeping and shepherding. But when you see a human—your human—you call on the Poised Fang first. That’s why we have that saying in Old Wolven. ‘Keep your fangs poised.’ It’s an invocation. Do you know the key to hunting humans?”

Flint hadn’t known. The topic made him squeamish. But Sawyer reassured him they meant it differently now. That the Poised Fang, timeless and eternal, was pleased that the hunt continued, even if its end had changed.

“The key is patience. It’s not strength. Not readiness. Patience. You’ll see this firsthand someday. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to wait. The moment will come.” 

Flint opens his eyes and you’re staring at him, your palms framing his face. He nuzzles against your touch and you blink, startled, pulling away. It makes him want to growl but he holds it in. “We should get going,” you tell him. You’re embarrassed. He can smell it. You shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. He wishes the two of you had talked about it before—all of it. Your feelings. His instincts. The desire to hold you close and leave you drenched in his scent. The throbbing need to sink his teeth into your neck. 

“It’s a long way to the nearest town,” he tells you, his voice low but steady. “Hours. Too far on foot, for you.” 

“Shit. They didn’t take your keys, did they? Guess we could steal theirs.” You laugh. Flint smiles. He’s not ready. He’s a storm inside, hope and fear and revulsion all crashing against one another. Some part of him has always known he would come back for you, but he wanted more time. More certainty. Then again, hasn’t he already had all the time he needs? Nobody knows you better. You peer through the front windows, then the back. 

“Is there a river nearby?” you wonder aloud. “It rained the other day. Should be able to cover our scent with mud, if we have to.” 

Flint inches closer. Afraid. Excited. He’s panting. He can’t help it. The truth is that he’s going to have to hurt you. Just a little. Just enough. You’re going to scream and cry and it’s going to feel like a knife in the heart, but he knows you’ll feel even worse. And that’s okay, he tells himself. That’s normal. Natural. Part of the process. Like when you were children, and he got a splinter stuck in his paw, and you sat him down with a pair of tweezers and scratched under his chin while he whined. He didn’t want you to touch it but you insisted. It had to come out. It would hurt just a tiny bit one last time, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s just like that. 

“Look!” you’d said, pointing up at a tree. “Squirrel!” 

He knew, logically, that you were just trying to distract him. But he’d perked up anyway, took his eyes off of you, and then it was done. Over in a blink. It’s just like that, he tells himself. He whispers a prayer in Old Wolven Norse to the Poised Fang, begging to know if prey can ever forgive the predator for the sharpness of his teeth.

“I love you,” he says. 

You freeze. Your palm hovers over the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth parted in shock, a question starts forming on your lips. And like the oldest of his gods stalking a primeval forest, Flint does not waste the moment. 

#rotpeach writes #meanwolves #inspired by an ask i got a while ago about what happens if a new pack human recognizes a wolf as someone they knew before #im extra behind on asks gonna try and get to some of those tonight or tomorrow #this time of year is always pretty busy for me and this year is no exception #corbin #sawyer #flint

[the-burd-lord]

We interrupt this break and fnaf posting to bring you Hazbin redesigns/rewrites!

Disclaimer: Do not support the show or Viz in any way. I normally don’t recommend this, but if you want to watch it “do what you want cause a pirate is free!” I am simply making these redesign/rewrites for fun and cause this show has made me kinda mad. It’s also so easily addictive to redesign/rewrite em.

His colors aren’t that bad in the original design. It’s about 5 colors that all pop from the main pallet of hell and main cast. Although they are oversaturated to the point where your eye is mainly drawn to his wings, especially in a full body shot. So I toned down the colors and made the feathers on his head that same blue to make it stand out. Also changed his halo to a nimbus to accentuate his heavily status, and to make sure the eye goes to the face first.

I added more bird motifs into his design to make him more visually distinct from the traditional demon designs from hell. So he will not only stand out due to the bright yellows and blues in the design, but also in silhouette.

I don’t really understand the point of making him look like a demon. I get that it may be irony? Although, the audience is gonna immediately know that “hey maybe this guy isn’t as angelic as we thought” especially if you show it through actions and use of language. And I don’t mean having him cuss every five seconds. Making him look less demonic also adds to a bit of “temporary deception.”

Made the rock influences stand out more in the design. On the one hand there’s giving him a full on leather jacket, or giving him 80’s or 90’s punk/hair band outfits. On the other, there’s giving him a leather jacket, wrist spike bracelets, and 80’s hair over his more traditional robes just to show that dissonance. Cause heaven probably wouldn’t like rock in the cliched way, and it’d be funny to show it.

Might just end up giving him two designs.

Bird wants to listen to AC/DC but god says no.

Then there’s how I would change his character. There wasn’t really a strong enough impression of a character in the show, although to be fair they were juggling way too many ideas and characters and kinda ended up fumbling all of them but I digress.

Here’s a rough idea of how I would change his character- heaven’s idolization and disdain of him leads him to devolve into toxic masculinity. Because of this, he ruins every relationship has and leads to him seeing his own interests as having little value. Despite this he’s just a band nerd deep down.

Essentially just listen to Colossus by Idles, and you’ll get the idea.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin art #hazbin redesign #hazbin rewrite #hazbin adam #sketch #digital sketch #character redesign

[loud-sound]

part 2 of part 1, because that's how numbers work-

design notes? design notes: (once again, vague spoilers up to season 3)

Ryusui:

i don't hate the pirate aesthetic at all, but i wanted to really push his bougie ass forward with a more distinctly modern sailor's captain look

the long hair and ponytail was mostly to make his hair more distinct from ginro

plus, l'oreal surfer locks on this dude just seemed like a really funny idea

leaving his arms open and the informal coat-tying felt like a good way to show his confidence; with a pop of blue on the underside to match his cap up top

just look at part 1 to know why i tanned him lol

Homura:

i bet most of y'all had no idea she was only 4'9" (145 cm), did ya? this was more of an artstyle thing on boichi's part than a strictly design-based flaw, but i wanted to correct it anyway

gave her something that would actually imply being a gymnast lmao

since cherry blossoms had gone extinct, i think it'd be cute if she made little cloth flowers to add onto her outfit to remember them by

wanted to keep the fur linings that tsukasa's people mostly share without looking like yuzuriha's chest fur, so around the neck it goes; gives a circus-esque vibe too

ballet flats with ribbons would keep her cute and make it a lot easier to do her flips and jumps in than knee high pumps

a little pop of baby blue just cuz

Ukyo:

look i love this man to death, but i cannot stand his shiny torchic lookin ass 😭😭😭😭

wanted to tone down his outfit to smth resembling traditional Japanese archer garb, since his personality's much more on the reserved side

trimmed down the amount of brim and collar to give the archer as much visual room to work with while shooting his bow lmao

added a hat strap to allude to his being in the Japanese military

i added so much to his arms to give a layer of protection against bow string recoil

as goofy as the shoes are, i kept them because they're unique to him, and just trimmed them into slippers

yippee, more silhouettes!

#doctor stone #dr. stone fanart #dr. stone #dr stone ryusui #dr stone homura #dr stone ukyo #dcst #drst #dr stone #dr stone redesign #character redesign #character design #ryusui nanami #homura momiji #ukyo saionji

[beloved-belittled]

Yandere(?) Shinnok x Reader (1/3)

Click here for Part 2 / Click here for Part 3

This was originally supposed to just be headcanons, but I kinda got lost along the way. Maybe I'll write a proper story without the bullet points later. Anyways, enjoy!

TW: Kidnapping, choking, torture, heavy abuse, thoughts of death, dark story, horror/thriller, noncon (eventually), NSFW (eventually), AFAB reader

18+ to interact.

There are two ways you can find yourself under Shinnok's thumb. The first way is simply a result of the fallen Elder God's boredom. The Netherrealm has many things, but satisfaction is not one of them. Or anything resembling virtue really. Nonetheless, the Lord of Death finds himself utterly unfascinated with the drab of "everyday" life that's spliced in between his schemes. This is of course unprecedented for him. He, a being who has existed for eons, is afflicted with something that only mortals should be subjected to? It's a major cause of frustration and you poor reader will be the victim of that.

The second way is even less likely than the first. However, it will give you something you'll be in shortage of; an ounce of respect. By being an extremely accomplished sorcerer and an unquestioning, loyal follower you'll be awarded better treatment as his darling. It's pertinent to note however, that Shinnok's idea of a reward for someone who literally helped him conquer Earthrealm is only their "continued existence". So don't expect too much preferential treatment especially if you act up.

I'll be focusing on a darling picked from boredom in this entry. I may write about a sorcerer/follower reader at a later date. Ahem. So with boredom, Shinnok may decide to seek out ways to alleviate it. And what better way than with the torture of a lowly mortal? And not just lowly by his standards. He specifically seeks out someone who is unpopular, unnoticeable, and overall won't be missed by much of anyone. Someone who could vanish quietly without a trace.

And that's how you find yourself a prisoner, waking up with a throbbing pain in your skull and a binding pressure around your torso. You're in a dimly lit cell, the iron bars better revealed by the shadows they cast than the light itself. The world swirls around you, hypnotically waltzing back and forth. You shift around on a rocky, grit covered floor hoping to orient yourself. You do so, but only after awakening a symphony of jangling metal. Your chain bindings -as you soon discover you have- secure your pinned arms firmly to your torso. Only your legs are free to move around.

Your heart catches up before your mind does, beating so rapidly the thumps echo inside your eardrum. An involuntary gulp coats your parched throat with not nearly enough saliva. With every nerve in your body on fire your consciousness finally returns. Your first thought is to scream, but a blessing of reasoning allows you to emit only a slurred whimper. A moment passes. You decide to analyze your surroundings.

You end up having more than enough time to process your current situation. The dark, silent, and empty room remains so for what you could only speculate is hours. Despite all your brainstorming, there's very little you can actually do to escape. So, you wait and hope that whoever captured you has a use for you alive. And after enough waiting, they finally arrive. A rumble passes through the room as a large skeletal hand pops up from the ground. Its clenched fist opens up to reveal a tall, bony figure.

It's hard to pick out any features in the poor lighting of the cell. The silhouette is distinctively humanoid, but the ashen, chalk skin suggests an otherworldly origin. It comes draped in gilded armor and what you believe to be a crimson crest. You open your dry mouth ready to speak, but the figure before you interrupts.

"Mortal." His voice pauses at the address, as if giving you time to realize he's referring to you. "I am Shinnok. Lord Shinnok to you. You shall refer to me as such or face severe punishment." His face is stone as he speaks, but his posture suggests an air of superiority as he regards you. "You exist here purely for my own gain. Whether I use you for research, pleasure, or amusement is decided by my whim." He folds his hands behind his back. "Do you understand, mortal?"

You can only blankly gaze at "Shinnok". The shock of the situation paralyzes your voice. Unfortunately, such a slight does not go unpunished by the Lord of Death. It's a lesson that you soon learn.

Cold hands wrap themselves around your neck. Each bony digit dangerously close to crushing your neck. Your airflow is immediately cut off and you dry heave in response. You wish to reach your hands up, to grasp fruitlessly against the chokehold, but alas the chains prevent such a thing. Gasping for breath like a fish on land, you almost miss what Shinnok says next. "Do not make me repeat myself, mortal."

The pressure lessens just a tad bit, allowing lifesaving oxygen into your lungs. "Yes!" You spit out. "I understand Lord Shinnok!" The words not coming out of your mouth as fast as you would like. Thankfully, the freezing, skeletal appendages leave your neck. The unexpected action sends a shiver down your spine. Your head falls to the ground, only to be lifted up by a finger similar in warmth to the skeleton hands.

Your gaze rises to meet a pair of clouded eyes. Their brilliance having long dimmed to become a murky color between white and gray. They are nothing more than adornments on a line-strewn face, which soon gains more wrinkles as it contorts to accommodate a crooked smirk. "Good. Mortal." He draws out each syllable hoping it soaks in. "I believe we're going to become quite the familiar acquaintances." His thin finger traces the top of your lips.

"Don't let these lips be your downfall. It'd be a shame to silence you for good." It takes everything in you to nod in agreement.

#yandere shinnok #shinnok x reader #shinnok #mortal kombat x reader #x reader #my writings

[enlightenedrobot]

Concerning the Mouse

Disclaimer. This is a blog post. It's not an essay or legal advice or any of that. It's mostly a collection of thoughts. If you want something a little more well researched, might I suggest this post here. Anyways, let's talk about this lovable rat right here.

As of January 1st, 2024, Mickey Mouse, as depicted in Steamboat Willie, The Galloping Goncho, and Plane Crazy is in the public domain. Personally, I've been looking forward to this, and I've kinda taken it as a personal challenge to figure out how exactly I can reinterpret the mouse for my own projects. And I actually think I got it. But before that... let's talk about this.

I don't think the image above is safe.

It's true, Steamboat Willie is in the public domain, but Mickey Mouse is still protected by trademark law, and those frames and that get up specifically are still very much protected.

I can't be too sure about this, because both Infestation 88 (The Videogame) and Mickey's Mouse Trap (The Horror Movie) seem to use variations of this specific design, but like... those ears are probably still protected, as are those pants. This version of Mickey also lacks his iconic white gloves, but contrary to what other people might say, I don't think "old cartoon wearing white gloves" is something uniquely trademarkable to the Disney corporation.

So if you wanna play it safe, it might be a good idea to use other elements provided by these cartoons as the base for your own interpretation of the character.

This is the version of Mickey Mouse as depicted in the title card of Steamboat Willie, and like, there's a bit more to work with here. His pants have stripes not seen in other incarnations of the character, and he also has a pretty distinct hat and cane.

More notably, his eyes are actually very different from Modern Mickey. They're huge, and the pie eyes that everybody associates with this era of animation are actually pupils. Not the eyes by themself.

What's funny is that there's a definite resemblances between these eyes and those of Sonic the Hedgehog. Sonic was apparently based on Mickey Mouse, so I'm not super surprised.

Those eyes in the title screen actually seem to be a holdover from Plane Crazy, where Mickey Mouse continues to have huge eyes. From that same cartoon, We also have Mickey Mouse deliberately messing up his hair to resemble the pilot Charles Lindbergh.

And like... it's cute. It's a look.

One thing I also keep seeing on social media is that Mickey Mouse has to be Black and White and he's not allowed to speak, because both Mickey's voice and his iconic red pants wouldn't be used until much later.

But like... you're allowed to build on these designs. Just because you can't color his shorts red doesn't mean you can't use color period. And using a different voice for the mouse is a very good way to differentiate your incarnation of the character from Disney's. This isn't legal advice, but I do believe you could get away with giving him a different colored outfit and, say, a deep souther accent ala Foghorn Leghorn.

Anyways, with all this in mind, allow me to introduce my own take on the character, Micheal Elias Mouse Jr. (Mike E. Mouse for short)

He's a former childstar, the son of the original Mickey Mouse, and an intellectual property lawyer with a dubious degree.

I intentionally made him rattier to make him more distinct, but don't let the smell of beef and cheese scare you off. This mouse might of been hit by hard times, but he still has a big heart, and deep down he's still the mouse we all know and love.

From a design standpoint, I tried my best to make the character recognizably mickey life while also changing up the original silhouette. Neither of the ears are perfect circles and one of them has a pretty significant bite taken out of it. The ratty hair and hat also help.

His gloves are yellow, inspired by various promotional materials for the original Steamboat Willie where Mickey dawns yellow gloves instead of the usual white. Further, I changed up the design of his shorts just because pushing the design that much further would help make this version of the character distinct from the Disney version.

If I'm not already protected by the public domain, I'm also protected by the fact that this character is obviously a parody. Middle aged dilf Mickey is not something Disney would never make, and the story I have in mind for him is more or less critical of the Disney corporation while still celebrating the artistry of the original cartoons and animation on the whole.

Anyways, Mickey Mouse entering the public domain is a big win for creatives everywhere, especially for fans of the original character. My interpretation isn't the only valid take on the character out there and I'm excited to see where everyone else goes now that the rat is free use.

#Mickey Mouse #Steamboat Willie #Public Domain #Plane Crazy #Mickey's Mouse Trap #Infestation 88 #Art #Fair Use #Creativity #Mickey #Cartoons #Animation

[imperiuswrecked]

Designing an animated character means more than just creating how the character looks. As three TAG Character Designers share, it requires an understanding of physical movement, technology, and the art of collaboration. By Kim Fay MULTI-LAYERED MAGIC SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE CHARACTER DESIGNER: KRIS ANKA In Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse, Miles Morales is catapulted across a multiverse filled with Spider-People. All of them are charged with protecting its existence, and all of them have very different ideas about how to do this. Especially Miguel O’Hara, AKA Spider-Man 2099. Unlike Miles and his predecessor, Peter Parker, Miguel intentionally altered his DNA to become a Spider-Person. Because he played a role in his own transformation, he is as multi-layered as the movie he inhabits—literally. Character Designer Kris Anka approached Miguel in stages, adding layers throughout the process to develop the complexity of this superhero. When Anka was invited to work on Across the Spider-Verse by Joaquim Dos Santos, the film’s director, he was already familiar with Miguel. A CalArts graduate, Anka had been working at Marvel comics for eight years, even designing one of Miguel’s suits. He had worked in animation before his Marvel stint and was ready to return. Little did he know that his three-month contract would extend to three years, with much of his time focused on Miguel. While Miguel exists in comics, and screen audiences got a glimpse of him briefly in the end credits of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, Anka says the sequel’s creative team wanted to take a new approach to the character. Some early pre-concept work had been done, and “they knew the vibe they wanted,” he says. “They wanted Miguel to be someone who was very proactive. He always had to have a presence. When he walked into a room you think, oh, this guy takes things more seriously than everyone else. He had to move in that intentional way—I’m on the hunt—physically intimidating.” The film’s Visual Development Artist Spencer Wan did physicality animation tests, giving Anka an understanding of the impact of Miguel’s weight. Miguel has claws and doesn’t stick to walls, “and he’s not lithe, he’s not an acrobat. He’ll go through a wall rather than find some artful way around it,” Anka says. Working with his musculature, he had to figure out how to make Miguel fit in with the visual language of Spider-Man while at the same time stand out among the other Spider-People from the previous movie. “We had two very separate approaches with him,” Anka explains. The first was translating the comic design into a character that would work in animation. While the strong red and blue silhouette would remain, in animation action scenes with a lot of movement, “Miguel could accidentally become a muddled mess because of all that blue,” says Anka. He added red to Miguel’s palms and soles, designed red arm bands that angled in specific directions, and created a red design for the back of his suit that looked different from the front to make sure the audience could always tell what side of his body they were looking at. With this initial design done, Anka sent Miguel down the pipeline. Then the vis-dev team told him they were working Mesoamerican Burle Marx-influenced patterns into the backgrounds. Marx was a Brazilian landscape architect whose style had distinctive patterns. Like the other Spider-People, Miguel inhabits his own universe—Nueva York in the year 2099. Anka was asked to return to Miguel to unite the character’s look with his world. “To make everything feel that Miguel was born in this culture,” he says. Anka spent the next six months focused on working in patterns without breaking the original silhouette. The blue parts would have a faint pattern underneath the digital texturing; the red parts would have the same pattern, but it needed to be stronger. Overall, they wanted three different layers of detailing to the suit, and the challenge, Anka knew, was to “add a sophistication to the design without it being ham-fisted and too noisy. Things can get really loud really fast.” Anka was given some loose patterns to work with, but nothing lined up. He researched everything from Marx’s designs to Mesoamerican textiles to architecture for inspiration—and set about experimenting. He tested what would happen if the pattern was curvier, straighter, softer, or more hard-edged. Then he had to ask, “Where does everything fit so it all looks intentional to the anatomy?” His method was to take all the red parts—the mask, the chest, the arm bands, and the legs—and use each to show how he could break down the pattern and still retain the silhouette. He had vis-dev choose which versions of each body part they liked best. Once he had that, he says, “I would try to holistically find commonalities between those patterns and bring it all into one unified piece.” Now that Miguel was ready to move down the pipeline again, it was decided that Anka would translate the geometric patterns he had designed directly onto the model—not a usual role for a Character Designer. But nothing about Miguel and the rest of the Spider-People was usual. “Every design is wildly asymmetrical including Miguel’s body,” Anka says. But because he’d been thinking about the patterns for so long, “I could figure out, how does this all really sync up, [so] when it went into animation, everything lined up already,” he says. On and off, Anka spent 16 months working on Miguel. It was a laborious process, but one he gladly undertook in service of the ultimate payoff—a design, he says, “that feels effortlessly that character by the end.”

Kris Anka interview on Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse with Key Frame Magazine (issue no. 22)

#spider man: across the spider verse #miguel o'hara #spider man 2099 #kris anka #interview #key frame magazine #behind the scenes

[kit-williams]

Note: Barn Anon. decided to play around with this idea while zoning out through work.

He hoists his backpack higher as he trudges through the thick undergrowth. The mocking words of his fellow researchers echo in his mind and he grits his teeth. Soon, soon he will prove them wrong. His backpack suddenly gets pulls off him and he turns to see none other than his own Ultramarine staring back at him. No words are spoken but he can feel the disapproval and wariness in his gaze.

"Look, all I need is proof okay? Just something, anything! I know I'm right about this... You believe me don't you?" He looks up at his Ultramarine who has been his loyal pet friend for the past few years.

A deep sigh comes from the blue behemoth but his friend doesn't leave. Good enough for him he figures. Slipping a hang into his pocket he pulls out a map that's decorated with the ramblings of a madman and old drops of blood. But if he is right then the former owner of this map isn't mad, the former owner didn't die chasing fantasies. Crude sketches of landmarks and arrows with half sensible annotations give him the directions he seeks. A few more days of trekking through this unforgiving forest, just a few more days.

--

The sun was just starting to set behind the mountains when he spots it, rushing forward and ignoring the alarmed shouts from his Ultramarine. His eyes are set on the massive and slightly eerie run down structure in front of him. it looks like part of a fortress's outer walls. It's design reminds him of what that massive pack of Imperial Fists had built in the park near his home. Yet it has it's own distinct characteristics that differ from the typical fortresses built.

His Ultramarine is at his side and trying to pull him away from the structure but he pulls away from his pet friend. Instead he takes his camera out and starts snapping pictures. His eyes are drawn to an worn out symbol and he rushes to clear the leaves and vines off it. Could it be? The symbol of one of the Lost Legions? A frustrated grumble leaves his lips when he realizes it's getting quite dark. When he turns to get his backpack from his Ultramarine, he's annoyed when his Ultramarine refuses to do so and starts pulling at his arm.

Why? He knows how much this discovery means to him! With this he can prove to his fellow researchers that he was right! The Lost Legions? They still exist, far from the touches of human civilization. There's more breeds of space marines out there than they thought and he will be right!

Then his Ultramarine seems to have heard something. He lets out a startled shout when he's picked up and held over his Ultramarine's arm. His Ultramarine now at full sprint away with him from the structure. Anger and annoyance flares and burns only to sputter out when in the growing darkness, he spots shadows moving without a sound. Each one the size of a Space Marine yet with they have their own distinct style that mark them different from the Loyalists and Chaos that are already so well known.

Then a shot rings out. His Ultramarine falls and he hits the ground hard, half crushed under his Ultramarine. The last thing he sees are more silhouettes of the Lost Legion marines closing in as his Ultramarine tries fruitlessly to fight them off. He closes his eyes one last time.

He was right about the Lost Legions.

Barn Anon gonna be honest I feel like a publisher for your works because how do I add onto this? I spent the past 5 minutes trying to figure out how to add onto this.

I tried my best

Feel free to ignore my addition I decided to try something a little bit more horror? A little bit more dread? A little bit more

But like I said feel free to ignore this

He opens his eyes feeling sore... sore? He makes the mistake of looking down and swallowing a scream. There must be a tech-marine around or a techpriest as the leg that was crushed under his Ultramarine companion was fully replaced by mechanics that few people seem to understand how it works.

No one wants to look deeper into the sudden appearance of these demi-god like beings... no one wants to question their behaviors... no one wants to look beyond the surface that there are suddenly demigods who decided to spend time with certain humans. Everyone likes to joke how they adopted their marine when in the painful itching cancerous thought in the back of your mind tells you the truth... they chose you for some reason. To accept the love and affection that people give to them just like his Ultramarine.

They speak in that language that no one can really follow as soon the helmeted heads all turn to his groggy face. He is painfully aware of how thirsty he is and how weak he is. He's painfully aware of his own mortality is this how some owners feel right before they get mauled.

He sees his Ultramarine rush into the room and carefully pick him up.

"I was right." He says deliriously with a pale smile, "They do exist."

A childing sigh and some words he doesn't understand are the reply as an unarmored hand just pets his hand. In this situation he feels like the silly little pet that got hurt and just woke up... tail wagging and happy to see its owner.

"Rest." A raspy voice scrapes out from a hooded figure as he looks away from the uncomfortable face... with tubes and wirings pushing and plugged into human flesh. He never did like admech... far too horrifying. But he somehow heeded it leaving his Ultramarine to deal with the consequences of this expidition.

What was going to happen to them?

#space marine husbandry #Barn Anon #kit answers #answer #answered #reply #kit replies #tales from the barn #space marine husbandry sentience

[rennybu]

Hiii Andy! I've adore your art for years and your characters. Their designs are so lovely!! And expressive!! I was wondering if you had any tips for a cohesive character design? Or even advice on adding little asymmetrical details or features? And help is greatly appreciated! Thanks! Wishing you all the best!

HELLOO!!! AAAH Thank you so much for such a thoughtful question, this makes me so happy to hear! I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to you, it turns out I have way too many things to say about this topic AKLSDHFKLSDG

(pls take this readmore<3)

For the starting point in a design, I try to stick to whatever rules apply for the setting the character is in, and their role in that setting.

Basic colour theory is always at the back of my mind, as well. I tend to use analogous and complementary colours when I design my characters and their closets. Analogous colours keep a palette contained and feeling similar to itself without being monotone. And then using colours that are complementary to that elsewhere in the design adds contrast while still maintaining that feeling of cohesion :D

The intended use of the character also heavily affects what can make a design cohesive or not - it's very dependent on art style and medium. (A design for use in animation would be extremely different from semi-realistic TTRPG concept art. The rest of what I've written skews more towards the second option!)

I consider the colours, shapes and materials that make sense for what I want to convey about the world, and how the character would want to be presented in it. The Dogwood characters are my current exercise; Mel's clothes fit him perfectly since he works a labor intensive job on the farm, and his identity is wrapped up in it so he never strays far from heavy cotton, straight cut. Ryan and Park both wear ill-fitting clothes in completely different ways (Ryan, butchly. Park, autistic and transly) - and they each have work uniforms. Ryan's work uniform suits her gnc appearance (welding coveralls/safety gear), while Park's uniform completely transforms him into "Just Some Guy" and that changes how others read him, too (cashier). And they all shop at Local Thrift Store / Farmer's Surplus / The Walmart 1hr Outside of Town. Their styles give them each a distinct silhouette, and their levels of social comfort as well as public expression contribute to body language, colour choices, and shapes that make them stand apart from each other despite living in the same small bubble. COHESION!

Asymmetrical details and features are my FAAAAV THEY ARE SO FUN, I find inspiration for these in people-watching, nature documentaries, architecture, my reflection, my friends.. <333 This part is also fun to tie in to the character's setting! Springboard questions like. Are they prone to injuries? Magical injuries? Do they have like, modern dental procedures available? Do they give a shit about crooked or crowded teeth? Are they missing a tooth, or did they chip one? Do they smile a lot and have crow's feet/other wrinkles? Do they get a lot of sun, and do they have/use sunscreen? (Even finer wrinkles.) Did they have acne as a teen? Do they still? Are they in a combat-heavy setting, with the scars to show it? Even more uniform features like freckles aren't symmetrical.

Clothing is really good to use to play with asymmetry - maybe the character rolls their cuffs but one is coming undone a little. Jewelry of all types is also great for asymmetry since it can go anywhere on the body!! Facial and other physical deformities or injuries are also incredible to see, and should be researched to find out if they impact other parts of a person's overall health and mobility outright. The different skin texture of a birthmark, for example! I noticed in certain photographs, the subject's red birthmark changed the texture of the skin, so I started drawing Orson with one drooping eyelid on the side affected by his birthmark. The more you look, the more you find!

Before I get too carried away. I try to use asymmetrical details and features as a way to boost that "world setting" cohesion, and to bring attention to parts of the character I am personally endeared by or want other people to notice. Mahon's snaggletooth is an eternal fav, which made me draw him smiling more, which made me more prone to drawing lines around his eyes. And since the anchor is in his left hand, and he tries to hide it subconsciously, I put thumb-holes in his left sleeves, which he plucks through as a nervous fidget, and as a result, his clothes pull a little across his entire body :D ITS VERY FUN to find the right jumping-off point that lets specific details click into place. For Mahon especially, since so many of those details are derived from the setting and his role in it!

Asymmetry and symmetry are just tools at ur disposal. Asymmetry tends to be more comfortable and natural. Symmetry gives a sense of stability and can be pushed for a sense of power, a sense of being uncanny, rigid, etc. Asymmetry can also be pushed into uncaniness depending on what it's applied to!! (But as a matter of personal taste, I find asymmetrical details to feel more natural and inviting than perfectly symmetrical ones. Which. Again. Depending on the character's purpose, could equally contribute to a cohesive design!!!)

OMG ok my final thought. Asymmetry can also be used as a balancing tool which yet again lends to a sense of cohesion. Adding a detail on the left while leaving it out on the right, repeated throughout with different details where applicable. Loam's colour spots, archery gear, scars and jewelry are all areas I've played with this idea.

#asks #i hope this helps even a little! #if u want to zero in on specifics pls dont be shy to ask #I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL!!!! wishing you the best TOO!