All of my WIPs cause they're not getting finished anytime soon
Persona 5 Royal and Strikers spoilers btw, (kinda?)
In order:
-Monster High
-Persona 5
-League of Legends (Cassiopeia skin concepts)
-Project Sekai (Nightcord sketches)
-PreCure (Cure Prism)
-Genshin Impact
Skulltimate Secrets 1 Clawdeen poster concept
Gothic architecture inspired illustration of Draculaura from Sweet Screams, Neon Frights, Faboolous Pets, and Vampire Heart
Illustrations based on my OOAK concepts of Twyla (G1), Ghoulia (G3), Rochelle (Fang Vote redesign), and Meowlody & Purrsephone (Haunt Couture: Midnight Runway)
Meowlody and Purrsephone will have a similar illustration to my Persona All Out Attack Frankie
Sketches of Fearidescent Deuce, Neon Frights Lagoona, Neon Frights Abbey, and Creepover Toralei
Colour theory says those colours work but I heavily disagree (and gave up)
Gothic OOAK concepts of G3 Frankie and Toralei, same line as Ghoulia
Sketch of Wydowna Spider
SS1 concept sketches in the style of my Lagoona concept
Illustration concepts of Ghoulia (Scooter), Draculaura (Collector) and Abbey (I Heart Fashion)
Lagoona (Frights, Camera, Action!), Clawdeen (Ghoul's Night Out), Frankie (I Heart Fashion), and Draculaura (Gloom Beach)
Frankie (Lots of Looks), Clawdeen (Dawn of the Dance), Catrine (Dessert Ghouls), Ari (Music Class), and Toralei (Coffin Bean)
Moanica (Dance the Fright Away), Venus (Make a Splash / Beach Beasties), Cleo (Gloom Beach)
Illustration concept of G1 Core dolls
Sketches of Akechi inspired by his personas
Drew the far left one and cried because I had two more sketches of him planned and realized it could only go downhill from there
Sketches of An inspired by her personas (Ignore Hecate she looks like ass)
Sketches inspired by Joker's Royal personas
Sketches of Sophie inspired by Pithos and Pandora
Rough sketches of outfits inspired by Haru's personas
Coven Cassiopeia inspired by NickyBoi's Cass redesign
Never posted this one because it feels off to me in a way I can't really place
Star Guardian (Corrupted) Cassiopeia inspired by NickyBoi's Cass redesign
If her familiar was a worm on the string (There was also a concept of Briar but it's just a sketch of her head so I didn't include it)
Designed to be from the same "Season" as my Star Guardian Kayn design
Sketches of Mizuki, Mafuyu, and Ena
Mafuyu and Ena are their own unique costumes, Mizuki was a warm up sketch of their casual outfit from the Jackpot Sad Girl cards
Gothic architecture / stained glass inspired Cure Prism
Ganyu (?): Amo's bow, Eula (Song of Broken Pines), and Lumine (Cake for Traveler)
Illustration inspired by Lyney's web event wallpaper
Grin Malkin with a tiny Lyney and Lynette leaving a birdcage
Lyney and Lynette sketches
Body and face sketches for my Midlander Billet / Gothic designs of Albedo, Shikanoin Heizou, Mona, Columbina, and Yae Miko
Done in the same style as Wanderer
Yae really needs to be redone, her clothes are poorly drawn imo
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Gaslight, Chapter 13/48
Rated X | Read it here on AO3
He knocks again, then stands back to wait. What the hell are they doing in there? he wonders, shifting the six pack of beer he brought to the other arm. Poker night is every Thursday—it’s not like they aren’t expecting him.
The night is cool and crisp, the clear indigo sky speckled with pinpricks of starlight. Trillions of miles traveled across the universe over thousands of years, just to be overpowered by skyscrapers and streetlights and the haze of the industrial revolution. He tips his face up and locates the Big Dipper, the North Star, Cassiopeia. It makes him at once feel insignificant—a speck on a rock in a pile in a quarry—and extraordinary. How many events throughout the history of time had to happen in precisely the way they did in order to bring him to this moment? It feels like destiny, which is both a comfort and a burden.
Finally, the door pops open and he’s greeted by a tall blond man with thick glasses.
“The party has arrived!” the man says jovially, standing aside to allow him entry. “Jeff’s here!” he hollers, and voices of the other two call out greetings from a nearby room.
“I’ve been standing out there for ten minutes,” Jeff chides gently. “I thought you’d kicked me out of the coven.”
They enter a small dining room with a circular table surrounded by four chairs, two of them occupied.
“We were out back smoking a cigar,” the blond man explains as he takes his seat. “Cuban, the real deal.”
“And you didn’t wait for me?” Jeff asks, exaggerating his level of offense as he sits in the remaining chair.
“Come on, man, we know Diana would have your balls if she smelled cigar smoke on you,” one of the other men says. He’s older than the other two, with wiry salt and pepper hair.
“You’re not wrong,” Jeff agrees, cracking open a bottle of beer. “Let’s get this show on the road; who’s dealing?”
The third man, mahogany-skinned and handsome, shuffles the cards artfully, making a show of bridges and cascades as he smirks to himself.
“Mike thinks he’s hot shit with his little card tricks,” the blond man says bitingly. “Just deal the things already, Mike. Jeff has a curfew.”
“Fuck off, Simon,” Mike shoots back. “I’m perfecting my craft.”
“Women are attracted to money, not junior high magic tricks,” Simon says, nudging the third man with his elbow.
“I like magic tricks,” the third man comments self-consciously, and the other three laugh.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Mike says, shaking his head. “You always gotta be the weird one, don’t you, Frank?”
“Yeah, well, you won’t be laughing when I clean house,” Frank grumbles, and Mike finally deals out the deck.
Frank does, in fact, clean house. They don’t play with real money, just chips, but that doesn’t hamper each man’s desire to win, nor his disappointment when Frank scoops up the lion’s share of the pile and begins stacking them enthusiastically.
Simon checks his watch, then sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I gotta head out in a half hour or so,” he says. “Marcy didn’t want me to stay too late.”
“Well, I guess Jeff isn’t the only one with a curfew,” Mike teases, and Simon shakes his head with a smile.
“It’s not that, it’s just hard for her to get up with the baby at night right now, so I’ve been taking all that on.”
“Is she okay?” Jeff asks, his mind immediately going to the kinds of things that can cost you a sister.
“Yeah, she’s fine, just tired. She’s, uh—she’s pregnant again, actually,” Simon offers, and all the eyebrows at the table shoot up to their hairlines.
“No shit,” Frank says carefully. “Is that good news or bad news?”
“Surprising news,” Simon says. “But ultimately good. We didn’t really plan to have two this close together, but I guess fate had other ideas.”
“Congratulations,” Jeff offers, extending his hand. “That’s great.”
“Can’t say I miss those days,” Frank remarks, still stacking his chips. “Up at 3:00 am trying to get a baby back to sleep when you have to be up for work at 6:00? No thank you. I’m glad mine are all grown.”
“Thanks, Frank, that’s really kind of you to say,” Simon says, rolling his eyes.
“I always miss my kids when they’re at Jenny’s,” Mike says sadly. “Being a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Hey now, I love my kids,” Frank defends. “I’m just saying, waking up in the middle of the night fucking sucks.”
Jeff watches the exchange, unable to take part. He can relate to overbearing spouses and the perils of the working world, but he has nothing to offer on the subject of fatherhood.
“I actually need to head out too,” he says as he stands and retrieves what remains of his beer. “Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to my balls.”
“Send our best to the warden,” Frank quips, earning him a warning look.
He leaves them, a peel of laughter fading as he pulls the door closed behind himself and makes his way to his car.
It does bother him a little, the way they talk about Diana. At the same time, what they say about her isn’t untrue. She is a little bit controlling, but not without due cause. He’s made mistakes in the past, ones he can never fully set right, and ones that justify Diana’s desire to know where he is and with whom. He promised her that he would do whatever it takes to make it up to her, and that has included checking in regularly and being home by midnight. Of course, his friends don’t know that, because he’s never told them. He’s too ashamed. So he accepts their cheap shots at his wife, and then drives home to her so he can prove again and again that she is the only one he wants to come home to.
He slinks into the house quietly, shushing Frenchie’s barks as he enters through the laundry room. He walks towards the back of the house to let her outside, and is startled by Diana’s voice as he passes through the kitchen.
“You’re late.”
He jumps a little, bringing his hand to his chest as he pulls the sliding glass door open and Frenchie slips out.
“Jesus, you scared me,” he admits, though that was fairly obvious by his reaction.
Diana is perched at the kitchen island wearing a silk nightgown, a glass of water on the counter before her. He looks at the time on the microwave display and then back to her pinched expression.
“By four minutes, Diana,” he defends, indignant.
She pulls in a deep breath, straightening her posture.
“Where were you?” she asks.
“At Frank’s, for poker night. Same as every Thursday. There was an accident on the turnpike,” he tells her, and his gut twists at the disbelieving look on her face. He steps closer, laying his hand over the top of hers on the countertop. “Diana—”
She pulls her hand out from under his and stands, walking to the sliding glass door to let Frenchie back in.
“I believe you, Jeff. But call next time, okay?” she says tersely, and he nods.
He lies awake in bed, and by Diana’s breathing, he can tell she is awake too. He feels guilty, but also angry that he feels guilty when he didn’t do anything wrong. He knows that he deserves this, knows he’s lying in a bed of his own making, but he still hates knowing that it will never go away. Six years later and she’s still watching him like a hawk. He thought it would get better over time, but it hasn’t.
And then there’s Simon and his new baby. He was surprised by the pang of jealousy that lit up in his chest upon hearing the news, a sensation he’s never experienced before. He’s always considered he and Diana to be childfree by choice, but looking back, he doesn’t really recall weighing in on that decision. Diana never wanted to be a mother, and he wanted to be with Diana, and so it was simply part of the deal. Now, at nearly 39 years old, he suddenly wonders if being a father would suit him.
“Did you always know that you didn’t want children?” he asks out loud, and Diana’s breathing pauses briefly.
“Where did that come from?” she questions.
“Marcy is pregnant again, and I was just thinking—”
A blustering sigh.
“Jeff, are we really going to do this right now?” she asks, annoyed.
“Do what?” he counters, equally irritated by her dismissiveness.
Diana rolls to her side to face him, propping her head up on a fist.
“Can you really see yourself giving up poker night, and sleeping in, and playing basketball on the weekend?” she asks, her tone shifting to something lighter.
“I mean…I don’t think I’d have to give up all those things. Not forever, anyway,” he says.
“Imagine walking into the office to find your rare book collection in tatters on the floor, covered in drool,” she teases, and he smiles.
“That would be less than ideal,” he agrees.
“Imagine having to stay quiet when we make love,” she continues, sliding her hand across his belly.
“I’m not even sure that’s possible,” he says, now grinning.
She hitches her leg up over his hip, straddling him, then peels the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, revealing her breasts.
“These are, and always will be, exclusively for you,” she says in a syrupy voice, then leans forward and brushes her lips over his. “Help me fall asleep, Jeff,” she whispers.
Her nightgown finds its way to the floor, as do his boxers. She sits astride him, grinding with her eyes locked on his. She’s possessive, maybe a little desperate, though he’s not sure why.
“That’s it,” she encourages him, her hands planted on his chest. Her eyes slide closed, her mouth falling open. “Yes, Fox,” she murmurs.
When she collapses against his chest he rubs wide circles over her back, and his mind instantly returns to its wandering state.
“What did you say about a fox?” he asks, and she stiffens.
“What?” she asks breathlessly, her face tucked against his neck.
“You said something about a fox, during—”
“I’m relatively certain I said ‘fuck.’ Sorry to offend your delicate senses,” she says somewhat defensively, rolling off of him.
He turns toward her, laying a reassuring hand on her bare hip.
“I’m not offended, Diana, I was just wondering—”
“Goodnight, Jeff. I have work in the morning, I need to get to sleep, if you don’t mind,” she says in a clipped tone.
“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Goodnight.”
He waits for her to turn her face towards his so he can kiss her goodnight, but she keeps her back to him. He presses his lips to the curve of her shoulder, lingering there as a confusing mix of emotions swirl around in his chest.
The life he has. The life he sometimes thinks he might want. The discrepancy between the two. He wonders why now, all of a sudden, he’s peeking over the fence at possibly greener grasses. Why the life he’s been content with for years suddenly doesn’t feel like enough.
The rush of the waves fills his ears, calming him. A gull calls out, its shriek carried away on the wind as his toes sink into the sun-warm sand. He spies a child further down the shore, a boy with dirty blond hair building something with a shovel and a bucket. There is a feeling of recognition, a sense of knowing, though he cannot recall the child’s name, nor their relationship to one another.
A strong wave pushes up beyond the waterline, sweeping across the child’s half-finished project and washing it into an indecipherable mound. The child’s shoulders slump, defeated, so he approaches and calls out to him.
“Oh, hey, buddy. That’s okay, you can build it again.”
He kneels down beside the boy and touches the child’s cheek, brushing an errant grain of sand from his downy skin. There’s something in the child’s eyes, something familiar that makes him feel a swell of affection and protectiveness.
“Just start again,” he tells the child, reassuringly.
He jolts awake, his heart racing. Frenchie stands from her bed on the floor, alerted by his sudden movement, and watches him for an indication of what’s next.
“It’s okay, Frenchie,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands over his face.
The night is still in full swing, only inky darkness peeking in around the blinds. He looks over at Diana’s sleeping form, her back still turned to him and her breathing even. It feels like only minutes have passed since he fell asleep.
Wired from adrenaline, he stares at the ceiling and waits for the potential of sleep to return to him. His dream has mostly faded, and he grasps at snippets. The beach, he remembers the beach.
Just start again.
Tagging @today-in-fic
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also haS IT REALLY BEEN THAT LONG, wowzers, also this is me begging for a Crumb of augustine+mercymorn even though I know you said a lot of it got jossed
one direction fandom is ride or die i guess!!!!!
okay augustine + mercymorn, it was a fanfic i wrote chunks of a couple months after harrow came out and it was meant to cover 10,000 years and explore why/how the plot to kill God came about and go all the way to the end of harrow, sticking to canon and doing some world building. heavily influenced by the idea of the broken covenant in christianity and how blood is the answer, how john twists it, etc. i respect the john/mercy/augustine ship and fics in this fandom but i am mostly interested in these two best worsties scheming, and Nona did NOT help.
here's the first 500 words
edit: find the next 1k here
Later, Augustine would say he did not remember how Alfred died. He didn’t; he lived as if that moment had been erased. Now, he found Alfred’s empty corpse, staring with those cinereous grey eyes--the same ones now gazing coolly out of his own face. He ate Alfred’s soul with the same guzzling heat as a candle flame eating wax. Alfred’s soul rose in him like smoke. The dramatic irony of two who were one in the womb becoming one again was not lost on him.
What he focused on instead were the moments of before. They were dazzling in his memory, as hot and sharp and colorful as the world must have been pre-Resurrection. Before the bombs went off or the cascading blasts had hit and irradiated the world. Truthfully he did not spend much time thinking about bombs. No. He thought, instead, of the brief eternity between the initial explosion and when people had known to be afraid. When they had gazed upon death and only understood it to be a flower of fire in the sky.
He understood that moment intimately.
But when he tried to remember the moment of impact, the knife thrust into the breast, Alfred’s blood on his tongue, he saw nothing. There was less than nothing; there was a void.
When John saw him, he named Augustine the furnace he had become; he named Augustine Lyctor. This Alfred-less world he had to inhabit now held every promise of the uncanny. Nothing could be trusted, not even his own--Alfred’s?--eyes when they report that John’s face was unreadable. Augustine blinked, or perhaps time skipped, and then he saw John was weeping with his great, chthonic eyes, their dark liquid sheen reflecting Augustine back to himself. He was imprisoned terribly by the searing white ring around them.
“I’m so sorry,” John said gently. He was very gentle; Augustine had always thought so. Perhaps he could afford to be gentle because he could not die. John rested a hand on Augustine’s arm and Augustine was surprised to not register the touch. He did register the flick of his own fingers and the new, strange ache to hold a rapier.
“Undo it,” he heard himself demand. Was this Alfred, speaking from his lips? “Please. Please undo it, Lord.” They were all disciples here, but he would make himself a penitent anew. “I cannot live like this.”
John’s eyes flicked to the corkboard behind Augustine, littered with maps and reports on the numbers and movements of the insurgents who raged without purpose.
“You must,” John said, still gentle, and the gentleness burned. “I cannot bring Alfred back. You have ingested his soul into your body.”
“I will spit it out.” His mind leapt to the theorems etched out in chalk in his study. He still had the notes Cassiopeia and Mercymorn had lent him. He would light candles and draw wards and offer up his heart’s blood, if only he could draw Alfred out of himself one painful inch at a time.
John shook his bare head. He was humble among them, and did not wear a crown.
“There must be a way to reverse the eightfold path--”
“Augustine. You cannot. Your soul has consumed Alfred. What made him Alfred no longer exists.”
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