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nothomegal · 6 months

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"My beloved monster"

(Pyramid Head x GN Reader)

Summary: There are always limitations for someting, and when these affect your ability to show love, it becomes a huge deal, so big that it's crushing... Devastating actually. But love itself is a weird thing. It may not break down said limitations. But maybe, it can make you accept and find your own ways to love instead?...

Warnings: a bit angsty at the begining (but lots of love at the end!)

Word Count: 2.1k

(Y/N) looks at their monster, concern filling their chest as they take in his uncannily still form. Since the moment they woke up they knew something was wrong, because one; they were laying on a mattress instead of their lover's body. And two, because Pyra seemed troubled, he looked so unnaturally dull and gloomy…

His helmet positioned lower than usual, as if his gaze is constantly down, his shoulders slump, his overall posture hunched as if something heavy is dragging his body down…

Is he… Is he sad?

This possible explanation both concerned and intrigued (Y/N). They are aware that Pyra’s feelings and mind don’t exactly work like human's, in occasions it feels like he’s being guided by instincts rather than thoughts (especially when things get intimate). But right now it seems like he's experiencing something big, big enough to send him into this wretched state.

With a sigh, (Y/N) stands up from the matress and slowly makes their way towards the beast, their steps careful and a tag hesitant since they had no idea what to expect.

—"Pyra?... Are you alright big guy?"— you ask, concern lingering in your tone.

But the monster didn't move or made any noise of acknowledgment, which obviously made (Y/N) frown. They step even closer, and still no reaction.

—"Did I do something wrong?..."— you ask despite knowing well that you didn't, but you still felt the need to apologize. —"If so I'm very sorry. If you need time alone then I'll leave- "—

A deep low growl was all it took to shut them up. (Y/N) stiffed in their place as they wait to see what will happen next. But instead of witnessing something volent, Pyra only tilted his helmet evel lower, appearing even more upset whith whatever is bothering him.

This image of him was enough for (Y/N) to collect the courage to move again, making their way to their lover's sitting form. This time however, they don't speak or ask anything, instead they carefully place their hand on his large shoulder and let it stay there for a while.

When there was still no reaction, they began to slowly caress his skin. Hand slowly traveling from his big arm to his broad back, which seemed to do the job in soothing him judging by the way his muscles began to relax under their touch. That until their hand traveled to his helmet, and the second it made contact with the metallic surface, a noise nearly resempling a roar errupted from it, causing (Y/N) to recoil violently almost as if their hand got burned.

They stay frozen, clutching their hand tightly and close to their chest as they observe Pyra, feeling both sad that they aren't able to help him and afraid that they may pushed their luck too far.

And to make things worse, their fear seemed to upset the beast even further, because soon another even angrier and louder roar errupted from the monster as he grabs the enges of his helmet tightly. This made (Y/N) even more afraid, but no longer for themselves, but for Pyra.

What is going on?! Is he in pain? Does his head hurt? Why is he so angry all of the sudden? Why...

Why does it look like he wants to rip his helmet off?...

Carefully and slowly, (Y/N) makes their way back to their lover. Movements wary and cautious, like they're in front of some wild animal.

When close enough, they notice something with the corner of their eye. It's a book, one they accidentaly stumble upon somewhere and been reading time to time. It wasn't anything special, just an classic old romance whith a lot of text and the only picture being the cover, which portraited the two protagonists being in each other's embrace and pressing their foreheads together in a loving and affectionate manner.

Oh... OH.

(Y/N)'s head snaps towards their lover, a frown placed on their face at the sight of his miserable form that was still holding his helmet and growling angrily, hatefully, at it.

—"Pyra..."— you call out softly as you step closer. —"Hey."—

They place their hands on top of his larger ones, making the beast stop fidgeting in place and stay completely still again.

—"Is that why you're upset?..."— you ask, voice gentle.

At first the beast does nothing. But when (Y/N) squeezed his hands slightly, that's when a metallic noise was made, which was something in between of metal scraping and a whine. It was new noise, noise that expressed nothing but misery.

But who wouldn't be upset after realizing how little one can do with their loved one while looking like this? A monster with no face, created with the sole purpose to spread pain upon others and drag them through eternal punishment. Pyramid Head never was supposed to love, he never was supposed to care for anything or anyone, only hunt and execute. But after (Y/N) came into this place... Just tell me, how couldn't he want more of them? How couldn't he desire to keep them? How couldn't he crave to have them close and feel their soft warm body against his? To feel excitement whenever they speak, the gentle tone of their voice, the sweet things they say about a creature like him... To fall further for them at the sensation of their soft lips on his damaged scarred skin, a gesture they made to tell him just how much he means to them withouth the need to use words...

(Y/N) can do so many things to show the love, affection and respect they have for him. Of course he tries to show them his desire for them too, but he can do so little... And that's just devastating. No matter how much noises he makes, no matter how carefully he tries to nuzzle his helmet against them... It will never resemble anything that another human could do to show love, it will never feel as sencere as what (Y/N) does... And it will never be possible for him to say these three words that make his inhuman heart pause and his chest squeeze in warmth whenever they leave (Y/N)'s lips...

These three words...

I love you.

After these intense seconds of dead silence passed, (Y/N) decided to take the matters in their hands and try again.

Slowly they slide their hands off of his and into his helmet. And this time the beast didn't pull away or made a sound, he just sat there in complete stillness.

—"I understand that we cannot do certain things..."— you say as you step closer. —"But do you think I care?"—

As they speak in a gentle voice, they run their hands along the metallic surface, caressing it carefully.

—"When I say 'I love you', I mean I love you, whole."— you smile as you say that. —"Head and everything included. I love you whole Pyra."—

Their words seemed to slowly break him, as another of these strange whines was emited. His hand slid off his helmet and placed on (Y/N)'s hips. For a second they thought he would push them away, but he doesn't, he simply keeps his hands on them.

Suddenly, (Y/N) stopped their caresses. Wich understandably caused Pyra's grip on them to tighten, as if to prevent they pull away from him. But of course, that's not something a deranged person like (Y/N) would do, instead they lean forward and wrap their arms around his helmet and press themselves closer to it.

—"And I don't say it expecting you'll say it back."— you mutter softly as you resume your caresses. —"But I know when you do try to say it back. It may not be through voice, or a kiss, or any other more intimate and 'human' action. And it doesn't make it any less important, if anything, it makes it more special."—

The two of them remain like this for a while. I probably looked so weird to embrace Pyra's helmet like that, but non of them seemed to mind it.

With a soft hum, (Y/N) pulls back just a bit and presses their forehead against the metallic surface.

—"Look, we can do that too."— you say playfully. —"Just like in the book's cover!"—

It was an immature and a cheap thing to do, (Y/N) knows it. But their efforts were recieved positively anyways judging by the soft rumble that was emited from the monster and the small careful tilt he did with his head to press it further against theirs.

However, this time (Y/N) didn't remain still for too long. Their arms soon unwrapped and began to travel down until their hands slipped underneath the beast's helmet. The second their fingers made contact with the soft and slimy flesh, a small shiver run through the monster's body.

—"Well, I know this is not something I could do with another human... But do I care? Absolutely not!"— you chuckle as you start to gently scratch the fleshy mass. —"And the fact that you even allow me to touch you there already tells me how much trust you have in me. See? No extra words or actions needed for me to understand how big of a deal it is."—

Their voice and scratches were soon recieved with the well known low rumbling, that was so similar to a deep purr. Pyra's hands slowly began to slide off their form as his body relaxed with each second. (Y/N) couldn't help but to childishly grin at his state, he looked so happy, almost like a cat recieving a good scratch.

They were about to tell more things, but the beast decided it was enough reassurance and that it's time for him to take action.

(Y/N) let out a surprised yelp when their body was suddenly dragged down by a great force and slammed against a solid torso. It all happened so fast that it took them a couple of seconds to process what just happened. The embrace was tight, keeping them caged in the beast's arms, so closely that it was almost suffocating...

Any normal person would freak out at that, too concerned about the wellbeing of their spine. But (Y/N)? Nah.

They let a small yet joyful laught as they attempted to wrap their arms around Pyra's waist, though due to their limited mobility and his huge size it was quite a task. Nevertheless, their attempts were appreciated anyways, and the amused rumple was a proof of it.

The monster curls his larger body around his human a bit more, holding them tightly and closely. So closely that he could feel their heartbeat, heartbeat that was slow and perfectly rhythmic, indicating just how calm and content (Y/N) was in his arms, trusting him completely and totally unafraid of his monstrous strength.

It was unclear how long they've been holding each other like that. It could be minutes, it could be hours... But what was clear for both of them, was that they didn't want to let go of each other, not now, not anytime soon.

Until...

—"Hey Pyra, one last thing."— you suddenly say.

Their sentence was responded by a quizical rumble.

—"Can you stick out your tongue for a second?"—

At first there is no reaction, as if Pyra was caught off guard with this seemingly random request. Nevertheless, he lose his grip on them just enough to allow his human to lean back. And as they do so, the pink muscle was already sticking out of the corner of his helmet and curiously wiggling in place.

(Y/N) smiles and gently grabs the tongue with both hands, slowly pulling it closer to them. They silently observe it for a comple of seconds, before bringing it right to their lips and giving a small kiss. Yes, it felt weird, maybe disgusting for some. But not for (Y/N).

After that sweet gesture they glance at their lover, who was completely frozen in place, even his tongue was no longer wiggling.

—"Look, we just kissed!"— you announce with a cheerful laugh. —"Y'know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe there aren't as many limitations as we thought. Sure, some methods are weird and all... But doesn't it feel more special? More like... Ours?"—

The monster remains unresponsive for a while, either thinking or just staring at their little naive form. Whatever the case it, their genuine expression of joy and warmth was enough to melt away whatever bits of doubt their lover had, and the shy wiggling of his tongue towards their lips was a clear demonstration of that.

After sharing some more 'kisses', (Y/N) was soon pulled back into this suffocating embrace again. And this time, it wasn't just desperate...

It was also warm, affectionate, intimate... Absolutelly everything about this embrace screamed one message and one message only, which combined with the soft purrs and noises coming from the beast, was much more clear...

I love you.

#nothomegal fic #nothomegal oneshot #gn reader #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head #slasher x reader #slasher fluff

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argisthebulwark · 7 months

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Most Ardently

summary: Terms of endearment Skyrim men would use for you as your partner. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. feat: Vilkas, Cicero, Brynjolf, Farkas, Miraak, Erandur, Teldryn, Arnbjorn warnings: minor allusion to suggestive content, mention of blood. and some swears.

Darling Vilkas, who wields terms of endearment with both kindness and sarcasm. Who knows how to get under your skin or comfort you with just one word. "Oh darling, have you forgotten who trained you? More than anyone else, I know your limits." He would sneer, face flushed when he rounds on you after a disagreement. "My darling," Vilkas would whisper in the dead of night, when your hands are tangled in his hair and you can taste the wine on his breath. "My darling." He breathes just before kissing you, all worries melting away. Cicero is giddy at the idea of his Listener having special titles only he is permitted to use. Who spins you around the Sanctuary when your mood is low, showering you in kisses and praise until he sees the smile he loves so dearly. He would say it often, soft and full of love during a stolen moment alone or brashly in front of any new recruit whose eyes lingered a touch too long. "Oh, darling Listener." He would sigh, gazing at you with unabashed adoration. "Cicero loves you more than words can say."

Sweetheart Brynjolf, who says it with that crooked smile that never fails to melt your heart. Who murmurs the pet name when he finds you slumped behind the Guild Master's desk glaring at the rolls of parchment piled haphazardly before you. Brynjolf who scoops you into his arms, planting a kiss on your forehead and allowing you to grumble about your day. "Hold still, sweetheart." Brynjolf would breathe against your skin, clutching you to his chest as the manor's steward paces its hallways. Farkas, who cups your face so gently and speaks as if you are the only one in his world. Who calls you his sweetheart as he wipes the blood of fallen bandits from your cheeks and checks you for injuries. Who helps you out of your armor after a hard day, sinking into a warm bath and combing the hair away from your face. "You alright, sweetheart?" Farkas would call over the clashing of swords, needing an assurance that you haven't fallen.

My love/My beloved Miraak, whose voice drips with devotion when he calls out to you. That touch of reverence never fades from his tone, eyes softening when he stares at you. Miraak who attempts to cover the depth of his love with sarcasm but would fall to his knees for you if asked, who believes his unnaturally long life's only purpose is to adore you. "My beloved," that deep voice rumbles through his chest as he gazes up at you, ungloved hands twisted in your robes. "One whose soul speaks to mine." Erandur, who speaks tender words of love as a form of worship. Who sings your praises with every breath. Whether it's a retelling of his salvation to an enraptured crowd in some small tavern or against the skin of your thighs he devotes himself to you, the one he loves. "My love," he would murmur over and over, lavishing attention upon you. "My most beloved, you must take better care of yourself. I cannot imagine this world without you, my heart."

Fucker Teldryn, who slaps a hand on your thigh with his head thrown back in laughter. Your gut muscles ache and your voice is hoarse from hours of laughing at each other's stories but you never want such a night to end. Other patrons have stumbled off to bed and you're sure that Geldis is glaring daggers at the pair of you but Teldryn's easy laugh is far more intoxicating than the drinks forgotten on a nearby table. "Oh, you fucker." Teldryn would say, the affection clear in his voice. He drags your chair closer to his, allowing you a closer look at his flushed cheeks and sharp teeth. Arnbjorn, with his gruff exterior that you somehow cracked through. His tough heart that you wormed your way into, the softness he saves for the rare moment alone. He is not one for tenderness but conveys his feelings in a way you understand, a subtle love language you learned over time. "Why do I like you again?" He would grumble, forced annoyance coating the affection in his tone when you squirm closer to him. "Fucker." The word is harsh, a contrast to the soft way his calloused hands brush over your skin. "I didn't want to fall for you, y'know."

#skyrim #skyrim fanfic #x reader fanfic #writing #vilkas #cicero #brynjolf #farkas #miraak #erandur #teldryn sero #arnbjorn #skyrim x reader

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redisaid · 4 months

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Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she��s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #fanfic #count me surprised to be this intrigued by a post-shadowlands premise but ok here we go

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emilypearsonart · 1 year

Text

Character Design Tips and Advice

So I made a thread on Twitter last week about character design, and a lot of people seemed to find it helpful, so if it’s at all helpful here too I’m going to try and replicate it.

If you’re a character designer and want to add your own advice on top of this, PLEASE feel free, this is just basics.

I’m going to use my own art for this.

First off, it's preferable if poses are in 3/4 view, even for the back view. This gives as much information as possible, you tend to see as much of a figure as possible.

Front-views tend to show none of the sides, so if you want to do that, a side and/or backview is usually necessary.

Usually it's best to keep to 3 colors. One of them usually being an accent color. This doesn’t include hair/skin/eye color unless they’re an unnatural tone.

This first image is before I learned this rule, and the colors were very busy.

The second here is after limiting the colors. You can have multiple values of the same color(light blue and dark blue only count as 1) but it’s best to not have them shift in hue.

Think of the characters as having a triangle, square, and circle hierarchy. Every concept is made of these shapes. Triangles are usually associated with evil, edgy or dangerous characters. Circle with soft or friendly characters, square with strong sturdy characters.

Usually one design will have a majority of two shapes so it can look like 80% circle, 20% square OR 60% triangle, 40% square etc. For example, this character is maybe 80% circle, 20% square, gives off a friendly and sturdy feeling.

You can also use these shapes to move your eye to a focal point in a concept(dryad girl) here I had a lot of triangle shapes pointing down to draw your eye through the design and give it unity!

Going off that, using focal points using contrast in color, detail density, textures can help a lot too. This character is extremely busy and noisy, your eye has a hard time resting anywhere.

This one, the detail is mostly on the face and chest, and since the accent color is also there, your eyes are drawn to those spots.

Focus on the silhouette. Is your character recognizable or unique in their silhouette alone? Think of games like Overwatch, League of Legends, Apex how all those characters are recognizable just from their silhouettes.

Depending on the tone/client sometimes more grounded, realistic character designs are preferable. Games like Last of Us, Uncharted, Tomb Raider all have great designs, but focus more on realism and storytelling over heroics.

Overall think of character design as something that provides information. It's less about making a drawing that's super detailed or with interesting lighting, but it's about making a reference for someone else(or yourself!)

Think of what this will be used for. If it’s for a 3D modeler, what information will they need to understand the design for multiple angles, what details need to be clarified?

If it’s for comics, what are touchstones you can use to make this character stand out and be recognized in every panel? How can you simplify it to be drawn 100 different times?

Have fun!

#art #character design #art advice #art tutorial #tutorial

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divine-misfortune · 8 months

Text

Kinktober, day 1. High sex.

Pairing: Zephyr/Mountain/Phantom

Words: 1,100

Contains: Spit roasting, shotgunning, intox play (i mean obv), sort of objectification if you squint

Summary: Zephyr and Mountain share a blunt and a Phantom.

Starting off kinktober strong - huge shout out to @kroas-adtam for pulling this together I'm excited <33

Read on Ao3

Full.

Phantom felt full, fuller than he'd ever been. Even as his lungs screamed to swell and draw breath, devoid of oxygen or relief, their emptiness was a concern best kept at the back of his mind.

Though as if sensing his lungs silent plea, Zephyr's lithe fingers drifted from their place on his waist. Skating along the curve of his spine as graceful as they'd ever moved, Phantom could feel the burning cry simmer to a subtle heat at best. Not entirely satiated but quieted for the moment.

He moaned lowly, appreciative as he could manage around the girth of Mountain's cock stretching his jaw to its limit. With it sat right before the point it'd make him gag, dripping pre down his throat, Phantom couldn't offer up much more sound than that. Mountain's hand had abandoned his hair at some point, no longer guiding him, Phantom couldn't make himself move. His arms were barely keeping him upright. He didn't trust them to support much shift in weight but Zephyr did the work he couldn't. Every lazy thrust forward sent him nearly gagging around another inch of the earth ghoul.

Phantom blinked slowly, sluggishly, to clear the blur of tears away as he heard Mountain's lighter click uselessly. Only putting off sparks much to his chagrin.

"Dew's never around when you need him." Mountain grumbled as the sparks finally caught, and behind him Zephyr laughed.

"You're the one too stubborn to buy a new lighter, sapling." They pointed out as their nails dug into his hip, tone bored enough it hardly sounded like they were balls deep in him. Something so unnaturally calm about them as they pistoned forward again, cock dragging against the most sensitive parts of his inner walls. Phantom made a weak muffled sound. "Don't tell me you're going to hog this joint too."

"If you want me to share you just gotta ask baby."

The earthy scent was strong and thick in the room, windows and doors shut tight, leaving the smoke with nowhere to go but straight to his head. Phantom hated admitting to being a lightweight but he had next to no tolerance, a single joints worth of secondhand smoke left him dizzy. He didn't know if he could blame the floaty sensation on the weed outright, the two older ghouls and their actions certainly weren't helping him keep to solid ground. The haze behind his eyes, while mostly artificial, was entirely their fault. He dared to suspect the smoke to be purposeful, a ploy to ease him from his typical shy demeanor. Inhibitions were easy to forget when they'd effectively hollowed him out, emptied out just to be filled again to their liking.

Mountain inhaled deeply and settled an encouraging hand on the back of his head, and he did his best to let his jaw go slack like they'd taught him.

"That's it bug…" He exhaled and scratched lightly at his scalp. Just when he thought his head couldn’t get fuzzier the mere semblance of praise sent him further. "Just breathe through your nose, know you can take it. Taken more of me before, haven't you?" Mountain chuckled, laughter low and rich as honey.

"And he takes you so well...Don't you wisp?" Zephyr purred as they bottomed out. Skin to skin they spread his cheeks apart to watch the way his body clenched around them, groaning aloud. "Fuck you're still so tight, starting to think you don't want me to last."

Part of him doesn't. He selfishly wanted to feel the way their cock swells at the base, wanted them to tease him with the stretch of their knot before spilling hot and sticky inside of him. The idea alone makes his toes curl with excitement...But part of him does want it to last. Phantom had grown so accustomed to this state that his aching jaw was almost entirely forgotten. Masked behind a wall of bliss that ran vein deep, made his blood run hot and his muscle turn to puddy. Pliant barely described how he felt. Truly content to remain a shared toy between them, an afterthought if they wanted him to be, as long as he stayed stuffed full of cock he couldn't care less.

Above him, the joint changed hands and Phantom sank further along Mountain's shaft.

He could imagine the way Zephyr's lips closed around it, the red glow of the cherry as it burned away for them, pinched carefully between their fingers. He could also imagine the ruby tinged stare Mountain fixes them with, soft and nothing short of pure adoration, as well as the smile that surely split his face. He'd spent so long watching them watch each other. Fallen in love with how they loved one another, and how beautiful it was to love something and have it love you in return.

Fingers tangled through the back of his hair and he briefly debated how sweaty his curls must have felt before he's pulled. Phantom mewls sadly as he's tugged off Mountain's cock, eyes glued to it as the earth ghoul takes to stroking himself.

When did they swap the joint back?

Zephyr's other hand rested loose around the base of his throat while the other remained twisted in his hair. Seeing them, they're not as composed as they sounded, lip bitten red in an attempt to remain stoic.

The angle is different. New. And lets them fuck into the part of him they'd yet to seemingly mold around the shape of their dick. One thrust had his mouth falling open, his head tipping back to their shoulder, and they smiled coyly.

Smoke spilled out from between their teeth before they moved to catch his lips. It's hardly a kiss, but Phantom melts into it all the same, stomach swooping low with desire. Licking both the shallow moan and smoke from their mouth made his cock twitch. It kicks despite the hours of neglect. Still stood at attention and dripping onto the sheets, he almost reached for it until they abandoned his lips abruptly.

They pressed a warm, sweet kiss to his temple before they forced him back down to the mattress by the back of the neck. His head spun as he caught himself on his elbows. Mountain laughed again and cupped his jaw, lifting his face up to rub the wet head of his cock to his pink and swollen lips.

Phantom glanced up to his wide crooked smile as he pressed back into the heat of his mouth, smoke trickling out as Mountain moved to fill him once more.

#spicy tag #writing #void writing #phantom ghoul #mountain ghoul #zephyr ghoul #aeon ghoul #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #ghost the band #kinktober 2023 #ghostober

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princessprettyprivilege · 8 months

Text

The “My GF is Stunningly Gorgeous” Makeup

When I’m painted by number 🥰

Time attempted: 02:35hr

Tools recommended: triangle makeup puff (for diffused, natural finish), angled powder brush, powder brush

Prebase:

I massaged COSRX Snail Mucin Essence into my face with my facial massage attachment on my new brush and heated facial massage tool, along with my cold cream and Clinique cream last night.

I moved the excess down my neck & décolleté. This morning, my face was still tacky from the essence so I didn’t rewash my face.

Base:

*I “warm up” everything on the back of my hand to avoid cakeyness.

First, I squeeze out the tiniest dot of L’Oréal True Match Lumi Glotion in Deep to be mixed in with my MAC Mattifine Primer because I’ll be using more of the tint in areas that require more coverage and sweat first, like my nose, temples, philtrum, around my nose and my outer face.

Squeeze out another dot of L’Oréal True Match Lumi Glotion in Deep with my ELF Power Grip where I need to glow and a tacky hold for under my eyes and eyelids. My eye area is especially important for my eye makeup selection, so I use a little more.

Lastly, use 2 dots of Lumi Glotion with either matte or dewy primer on your neck for the tint to stay cohesive.

Eyes

Apply 3 in 1 tint on eyes, or dust lids in your natural lid color. Corresponding shimmer or deep matte, then eyeliner in brown or black that corresponds with your skin tone.

Foundation.

I use 2 tiny scoops of Clinique Age Transformation Cream to create a natural finish, (I got it for free in a sampler, wouldn’t go out & buy it) along with a pump of Smith & Cult Microblurring foundation in 460 Warm (discontinued) on the back of my hand, then pat it heavily with my makeup puff.

**I now use IT Cosmetics CC+ Nude Glow Lightweight Foundation + Glow Serum in Deep in place of the S & C foundation + Clinique Cream.**

Pat lightly to not disturb my primer base from inner corner to outer face, then distribute it across my face, patting in more to dark spots.

My foundation still doesn’t cover the texture of the spots, but that’s fine, it’ll look unnatural if I went further.

The point of my foundation isn’t to cover my natural skin fully, but to disguise dark spots while allowing my natural skin to show through.

Concealer.

Keep in mind, I have an oval face. I use my Smith & Cult Cancelled V-Line concealer in 260 Warm (discontinued) to sculpt 2 faint lines from the side of my nose to under my eye & upwards. Pat in carefully & lightly as to not disturb foundation or base.

The effect is brightened eyes with a highlighted, slimmer face that’s enhanced with warmth & depth.

Contour.

I use my Essence Baby Got Bronze cream bronzer in Mocha Me Crazy as contour for my nose, below top of cheekbones, and forehead. Blend into hairline and temples. I used to use it generally, but I found it doesn’t add angles to my face well, or if I did it well, it would disturb my facial harmony by looking gaunt & longer.

I follow up with my Black Radiance powder contour and sculptor in Medium to Dark.

Blush.

I use 2-4 rouges and blushes for a healthily flushed effect in layers, since my skin tone isn’t 1 color. I LOVE SHADING!!!!

I swirl 2 dots of LBCC Bloom of Roses Liquid Rouge at the highest point of my cheekbones, patting in with a makeup puff. It’s a pink that’s very faint, but you can go in with more layers.

My 2nd blush is LBCC Superior Rouge (limited edition, no longer sold) and I swirl 2-3 dots downwards mimicking the flush after exercise on my cheekbones.

My 3rd blush is Elf Putty Blush in Bali, and I sweep across where my cheek contour goes.

My 4th blush is Colourpop Serum Blush in Hibiscus (discontinued), and I barely squeeze out any product, patting in 1 dot above the ELF putty blush.

Pat lightly. Use Bare Minerals Original Veil Powder with powder brush, swirl on back of hand for even distribution, sweep across where I applied. Brush away excess.

Time for powder blush. I sweep the darkest shade in COVERGIRL Instant Cheekbones Contouring Blush in Peach Perfection only on top of my cheekbones.

Next, I go in with my PINKFLASH blush color 07 on top since it best represents my healthiest cheek color, and sweep downwards until I see it strike under my eye in natural lighting.

Highlight.

Since my PINKFLASH blush has shimmer in it, along with my contour highlight, I dust my Sephora highlighter palette (discontinued) in the pink, gold, and light gold shades.

Add in places where light strikes on eyelids.

Lips.

Hydrate with lip balm on Q tip, wipe excess. I use LBCC Bloom of Roses Liquid Rouge on my lips, cheeks & eyes since it’s a multipurpose product. Apply any clear lipgloss over.

If I want to wear lipstick, I’ll wear brown lip liner beforehand and blot in pink lipstick to allow my 2 toned lips to show through.

Maximize the pretty!! 💖💖

#high maintenance #pretty privilege #princesskhalyiah #high standards #expensive taste #femininity tips #pretty privilege notes personal

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littlemissmanga · 10 months

Note

hi! saw your 200 word blurbs requests!

can I get #9 or #1 with Jesse? whatever floats your boat, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it either way!

thanks for considering!!

Send me one of the following for a 200 word clone drabble

Nonnie!!!! I did NOT forget about you! I had this in my drafts and I thought I had posted it. Thank you so much for your patience!!

As much as Jesse would love to see you in his shirt, I haven't done No. 9 yet, and I think it's time someone got tied up.

Pairing: Jesse x gn!Reader

W/C: 828 (I did not hold back on this even a little bit and I'm not sorry at all).

Warnings: M, Juicy Jesse being himself. Talk of bondage, filthy desperation, just absolute filth and sin, but no action. just the promise cause I'm a horrible tease :) Minors DNI

Divider by @samspenandsword <3

Also, this functions as a pt 2 to the Jesse kiss prompt :)

Dinner was only half done. The table still wasn’t set. You hadn’t even changed into the cute outfit you bought just for tonight. But with the way Jesse was kissing you, you doubted any of that mattered to him.

It’s his fault for not calling, anyway.

So, you decided not to let it bother you, either. You melted into his kiss, molding your lips to his as his gloved hands slid underneath your shirt, the rough fabric scraping deliciously across your skin. The rough stubble of his jaw chafing your lips and chin, but each scratch just fueled your need. The burn was a constant reminder, even when he pulled away to pant against you, that he was here. Home. Safe.

“Bed. Now,” he barked, his command only undercut by the breathlessness of his voice. Your stomach swooped at the total control he kept over himself, even as his need became evident. You planned on making him a little needier.

He was so fun when he lost control. And you wanted to be taken for a ride tonight.

With a flirty smile, you quickly shut off the stove, Jesse’s presence looming behind you, silently urging you to move faster. He was at his limit, and you loved it. Now he needed to bring you to yours.

You took his hand and pulled him into your room, letting go and slipping your shirt over your head. You turned away from him to face your bed to strip off your pants as you heard his armor falling to the floor.

Waiting …

Any moment now …

A low growl rumbled from behind you as a warm, bare chest pressed to your back. You held your breath to stop the shiver from racing down your spine.

“Mesh’la?” His tone was unnaturally calm considering, and you knew you wouldn’t be walking much tomorrow.

“Yes, baby?”

“Why is there rope next to the bed?” Jesse asked as if inquiring about the color of the bedsheets, nipping lightly at the tops of your shoulders.

“Oh, that.” Your Cheshire grin had taken over your face as you turned in Jesse’s grasp. “I wanted to do something special to welcome you home.”

The Republic cog tattoo on his forehead shifted as he raised a cocky eyebrow. “And you’re planning on tying me up?”

“Hm, maybe. If you’re good,” you tease, giving the tip of his nose a gentle peck and earning a chuckle from him. “But actually, you said something on our last call …”

Tilting the tone at the end of the last word, you let your voice fade, the embarrassment of actually saying what you had in mind stealing your words. You looked at him expectantly, hoping your smart ARC trooper would remember the words he let slip so casually that had you teasing yourself in his absence several times over the past few days.

Jesse’s eyes — the ones you insisted were the “kindest in the GAR” despite being shared by so many others — sparkled with mischief.

“Go on, gorgeous. Tell me.”

He wasn’t going to go easy on you. Not that you really wanted him to. You could already feel yourself getting wet at being forced to admit your desires.

“You said you …” You paused and leaned forward to bury your face in his neck, taking in the scent of regulation soap and sweat that was uniquely your Jesse. Liking it or not, you still weren’t able to look at him directly just yet. “You said you can’t wait to see how many times you can get me to come.”

You damn near purred as his arms came around you, holding you nice and tight as his hand traced your spine.

“I did. And I plan on finding out tonight,” Jesse promised in a low voice, his lips right next to your ear. “But that doesn’t explain the rope.”

You nestled closer, running your tongue wide and wet over his Adam’s apple. You felt his cock twitch against you through his blacks.

“If I’m tied up, I can’t pull away.”

Jesse spat a curse as he lifted you and tossed you roughly onto the bed. In a flash, he was on top of you, pinning you beneath him. He reached between you to run a single, thick finger along the seam of your underwear, making you writhe against him.

“Oh yeah, can’t have you squirming now, can we?” He teased, but you couldn’t answer as his finger pressed harder against you. “You wanna be all tied up like a pretty present for me so I can thoroughly ruin you?”

You nodded frantically, delighting in the wicked smile that spread over his face. Jesse leaned to the side, grabbing the rope and pulling it through his hands just to see your eyes widen at the sight.

“Well, then. Let’s get started.”

Taglist: @dreamie411 @wings-and-beskar @starrylothcat @blueink-bluesoul @wolffegirlsunite @secondaryrealm

#juicy jesse #juicy jesse strikes again #I really don't know why he comes to me so easy #or why I get so filthy with him #he's just special I guess #tcw jesse x reader #arc trooper jesse x reader #clone thirsting

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simhaven · 27 days

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Even more aliens stuff because I'm obsessed

Sorry guys, I am obsessed with building up my alien hood and have been scouring the webs for every galactic and alien type skin tone and accessory that I could find. The sims community is one of the best communities out there.

Here are just a few of the things that I have been able to find.

I can't believe that I missed this, but Pooklet has some pastel colored sims for a truly colorful sims 2 hood. I tend to like these colors in pastels tones.

You also can't speak about color or aliens in the sims 2 without including Berrynooboos. I also just found this wonderful post with all types of alien appropriate makeup to enhance your alien race, plus you will find some pretty unnatural skin sets there as well.

Annachibi also have some lovely skin tones for you just below. I found some colors that took my dang breath away.

What kind of person wouldn't like galaxy brushes? They can blend in any wonderfully weird alien skin. Seriously though, whatever unnatural skin color your sim may have, I guarantee there is a galaxy blush or two that will fit it nicely.

Honeytonkangel has some awesome unnatural colors as well. I've been trying to narrow down the aliens I want for my custom multi-pt replacement mod, but all of these options are not helping 😆.

To make the choice harder, Pooklet also has a post of all of the alien sims that she uses in her current hood. She shares over 20 different unnatural skin sets and they look *stunning*.

Okay that's it for now. I've been to consumed with making my own alien skin as well, but it's hard to choose when you can only have a limited number of default replacement aliens, but the possibilities are endless.

I think I will take a little break from bodyshop.

If my imagination will allow me. 🙄

Also, what do you think of this one? I think she's so cute, but I'm still making decisions on this one. As I said, the possibilities are endless.

Anyway, until next time. Have a blessed day.

#the sims 2 #sims 2 #the sims 2 cc finds #sims 2 aliens

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vigilskeep · 8 months

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have you thought about any of your da ocs in bg3 and vice versa?

i talked abt my da guys in bg3 here and here! :)

as for morghaine in dragon age... blood mage feels like a natural translation for warlock, but i find it quite limiting, it leans more towards fiend warlocks and doesn’t really fit morghaine’s vibe. (now, wyll would be a blood mage knight-enchanter.) what might be more interesting is to play morghaine as some kind of spirit warrior, an ordinary person who gained a handful of unnatural powers in a “pact” with a spirit of hope or compassion (their mother the selkie) that they as a child had freed from mages seeking to corrupt it into demon... only for that pact to become twisted by the pride demon (the archfey) who held dominion over the spirit’s home section of the fade. all of which is actually really fucking cool

they would probably also have partial vashoth heritage to account for their grey skin tone and history of being mistrusted on sight

#morghaine perilous #an addition for isabela’s crew perhaps haha

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myveryownpicrewblog · 1 year

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https://picrew.me/image_maker/1769085

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amatres · 6 months

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OC Mannerism

thank you @the-raging-tempest for the template! it's hard for me to visualize these sort of things but i hope the general vibe gets across at least!

BASICS :

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES >> Taldane, Skald, academic Draconic, basic Varisian, rudimentary Kelish

TONE OF VOICE >> Melodic is the best way to describe it. Her voice almost sounds as if she is always somewhat singing. I'd put her around on a higher end of average, with a very soothing cadence. A Mezzo-Soprano.

ACCENT >> Though subtle due to how much moving around she's done as a child and later on in life after running away, Layla has a brevic accent. The irl equivalent for her would be a balkan accent, thank you Taylor for the inspiration😌. Those who aren't from Brevoy wouldn't likely be able to pinpoint where it's from, but those who are would if they were perceptive.

DEMEANOR > Approachable! Very approachable, friendly, and confident. Her confidence is not in a way of being prideful, but of being comfortable in her own skin.

POSTURE >> From the template Cas made that I'm still filling out: Layla carries herself with an easy elegance and the proper poise of one who spent many years among the nobility. Some who watch her say her movement has an almost unnatural grace and assume it’s due to her moroi heritage.

HABITS :

-Layla is always moving in public in some way, swaying back and forth, playing with her hair or clothes. Her favorite is her amulet, and when she becomes more introspective she holds onto it to center herself. She's not incapable of standing still, she just prefers not to.

-Despite, or perhaps because of, her bad vision she is constantly watching her surroundings and looking over her shoulder at the slightest noise. She does her best to disguise this as part of her constant movement, instead of the surveillance it is.

-She is almost always humming to herself, to the point she frequently doesn't realize it.

COMPLEXITY :

VOCABULARY >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️ Only held back by own limited vocabulary, as Layla is very well read. Depending on who she is talking to, she can range from speaking casually to speaking as if she is for an Jane Austen novel. It is notable however that the more poetic she is in a conversation, the more likely it is she doesn't like someone. Of course she could just also excited and is getting carried away.

EMOTION >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️ Layla wears her feelings on her sleeve with no shame. Whether it joy or grief, you will likely know what she is feeling. Over the years she has tried to catch herself, and with help of people she trust she can at least be brought down from where her emotions take her.

SENTENCE STRUCTURE >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪ Once again held back by my own limits. Again she is very well read, and had a very proper noblewoman's education, so it bleeds into how she talks.

PROFANITY: She doesn't cuss much, not because it makes her uncomfortable, but because she just doesn't feel like it. Her cussing can be surprising to those who don't expect it.

FREQUENCY >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity) >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️ BOLD THAT APPLY

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

THIS OR THAT:

straightforward or cryptic?

finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind?

masculinity, neutrality, or femininity?

formalities or with abrasiveness?

praise or equivocation? (both, depends on the situation)

frankness or flattery (she does both, depends on the situation)

excessive or minimal hand gestures (idk if excessive is the right word, but she isn't 🧍‍♀️ the whole time either so lol)

name-calling or magnanimity? (this very much depends on who she's talking to and if she has control of her emotions at the moment)

friendly or blunt

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? Never, she is able to adjust very easily to the needs of who she's talking to. If they can't hear her, it's because of something out of her control or because she didn't want to be heard.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? Depends on if she wants it to! But she is in general very articulate, so she has no difficulty sharing her point of view when she wants.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? Yes! She is the type of person to find someone who is in the corner and talk to them to put them at ease at a party, and try to get them to enjoy their time. She enjoys talking to as many people as she can because she enjoys hearing other people's perceptions.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? Rarely. She will keep a conversation going as long as the other person is comfortable with it! It's only in conversations where she is angered does she cut it short, either to leave, or kill them lol.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE?

Yes, both ironically and not lmao. noble ass but also mischievous ass.

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE?

but / though / although / however / perhaps / maybe

all of them lmao, it depends on the context.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS?

If the conversation is ended by her and it's not on a bad foot, she will smile and usually give a thanks for talking to her, say it was nice talking to them, and give a goodbye, though not necessarily all of them at once. If she's close to them she might hug them, or perhaps even kiss them on the cheek. It usually won't be in a formal manner, and she'd try not to overstay her welcome.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?

Just on voice? Probably they would assume she's from upper middle class, and probably assume she was raised by a wealthy merchant or something similar, or more accurately as a noblewoman. She can change it to better suit who she's talking to, so if she wants to come across a certain way, she likely can and will.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS?

She can put most people who listen to her to ease, whether they notice it or not. She speaks clearly, and is genuinely polite but not to the point of sounding archaic. Most conversations with her leave her conversation partner in a better mood than they entered it with.

Anything that wasn’t touched on? -Despite me pointing out her habit of humming, she is heard laughing even more often. I think she'd have a very cute laugh, one that bubbles up and is infectious.

-Layla is an arabic name meaning 'night' or 'dark', given to her by her mother shortly before her mother's passing. Many believe, including Layla, it to be a purposely on the nose name for her child who was born in the middle of the night as a dhampir. It's pronounced 'lay-luh' as one would expect.

-If she feels threatened, Layla will be more likely to try and manipulate the person into not seeing her as a threat, before ultimately running away when they aren't paying attention. Ie. the fact that she'll mirror who's talking to.

#tag game #layla (oc)#pwotr pals #this one is long but i'm pretty sure i filled out everything #hope this makes sense! i am not very articulate myself lmao

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aranarumei · 11 months

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hanzawa to tashiro warmup

was having trouble w/ setting the tone of a fic I’m writing so I did some warmup practice. that ended up being some hanzawa to tashiro stuff, so that’s under the cut.

“This is so unfair,” Tashiro complains.

He can’t see much of Hanzawa’s face, what with his hair obscuring his forehead and also the fact that he’s currently looking down, studying Tashiro’s nails with careful intent. But he can catch glimpses underneath Hanzawa’s lashes, thick and secretive like his bangs, and the steel glint of his eyes in concentration. It’s the same way he looks in a match of ping pong, only instead of darting back and forth he’s unnaturally still, swiping stripes of polish across the breadth of Tashiro’s nail.

Hanzawa looks up; there’s the ghost of a smile on his face. Beneath him, Tashiro’s hand is laid flat on the table, guarded by a thin sheet of scrap paper. There’s a clean coat of translucent, scarlet red on his index finger. “What’s so unfair, Tashiro-kun?”

“You are,” Tashiro says, at first unwilling to pay him a compliment. But he relents as Hanzawa’s smile grows wider, anyways. What a jerk. “How are you so good at painting nails? There’s got to be a limit to the number of cards someone’s allowed to have up their sleeve, you know?”

“Cards?” Hanzawa muses, dipping his brush in the bottle of polish, and moving to the next nail. “You make me sound like the kind of person who’d cheat at poker.”

Even though Hanzawa can’t see him, Tashiro stares at him with the kind of look that says, yes, absolutely, you would do that.

Judging by the way Hanzawa pauses over Tashiro’s ring finger, shoulders slightly trembling, Tashiro thinks he knows.

“Anyways,” Hanzawa says, once he steadies himself and resumes painting Tashiro’s nails, “it’s harder for people to paint their dominant hand. I’ve been enlisted by my sister to do this quite a few times, so I’ve had practice.”

“I guess that explains it,” Tashiro says, wondering if he should ask Hanzawa to go ahead and repaint the hand he did himself, too. “What’s your sister like?”

“Ah—could you lift up your hand, Tashiro-kun? I’m going to get your thumb—make sure not to hit your fingers against anything else.”

Tashiro complies, and Hanzawa uses his free hand to hold Tashiro’s thumb steady. Tashiro keeps his fingers splayed, wondering if the unnatural heat of his fingertips is enough for Hanzawa to notice. If he’s noticed already. It would be impossible for him to not notice, because Hanzawa’s hands are chill to the touch—delicate, too, like the glassy sound of ice in a summer drink.

“She’s a little bit like all big sisters are, I guess,” Hanzawa says. “I’m glad she’s able to help out during these events, but,”—a small, breathy laugh escapes his mouth and grazes Tashiro’s skin—“I do wish she’d stop treating me like a child.”

Hanzawa swipes the brush over his fingernail and screws it back into the bottle. “All done,” he says, standing up and stretching the crick out of his neck.

Tashiro watches him, mouth suddenly dry. “Hey,” he says, “think you could redo my other hand, too?”

Hanzawa smiles.

bonus:

“Hey.”

Predictably, Hirano startles, whirling around in irritation before his brows promptly un-furrow into deep apathy. “Wha—Oh. it’s you.”

Sasaki resists the urge to ruffle his hair. “That’s how you greet a friend?” he asks.

Hirano scowls. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Sasaki shrugs and tips back on his heels. He’d just gotten a text that Miyano was way too busy to even text, and while Sasaki thinks he wouldn’t complain if he visited, he also thinks it’s probably not the correct thing to do. It’s Miyano’s last year, and he doesn’t want to distract him from his last school festival—it has to be special.

Besides, Sasaki’s gotten pretty good at waiting.

“You’re not running to see Miyano?” Hirano asks after tapping out a text on his phone.

“Myaa-chan’s busy,” Sasaki replies. He squints at Hirano’s phone, but it’s too far to make out any proper words on the screen. “You meeting up with your roommate?”

Hirano wrinkles his nose, taps out another text. “Not my roommate.”

“It’s the only way I know how to refer to him,” Sasaki says. “Would you rather I call him Kagi-kun?”

“What? No.” Hirano looks aghast.

“Well, that’s all the information I have, name-wise,” Sasaki muses. “Would you prefer ex-roommate?”

Hirano groans. “That’s even weirder,” he says.

“He’s nice, though?”

“Hm?”

“Your—whatever,” Sasaki waves his hand indeterminately in the air, deeply conscious of the ring on Hirano’s hand. “He’s nice?”

Hirano closes his eyes, looking pleased. “Like the damn sun.”

#kiri.txt #my writing #hanzawa to tashiro #hanzashiro #sasaki to miyano #hirano to kagiura #for anyone wondering. no the fic im working on isnt sasamiya related #its just got a nail painting scene and its in present tense #which ive been struggling with lately #harusono

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a-gal-with-taste · 2 years

Text

Clearing the Rain (NSFW)

Summary: The man is like a void, unknown to the likes of you and others, while he holds all the knowledge in an endless vacuum - the bastard knows it too.

You wouldn’t doubt that he possesses some ability akin to telepathy. The way Silco raises his brow at you is questioning, almost taunting in a toyingly cruel fashion. As if to say: you are correct. The Eye sees all, indeed:

And what do you plan to do about it?

(Or, You had fucked up. Anyone else would've run. So Silco is left to wonder; why didn't you?)

Warnings: NSFW|MDNI. Pre!Act 1, boss-employee relationship, light dom/sub, Reader is an unapologetic simp, fingering, alley sex/sex in the rain, light praising, hair-pulling, pre-relationship, suggested possessive/protective behavior (AO3 Link)

Mad or genius. Insane or clever. Sly or sane, man or monster…

Gods help you - some days, it was impossible to tell which is which, and what exactly Silco was. Beneath the practiced and carefully-constructed shield of refinement, of endlessly ruminative nature, there was something else brimming just beneath the surface... whether it spoke of madness, or of genius, you didn’t understand the language of his mind well enough to know.

You doubted you ever will, but you tried, and you try now. Piercing desperately with watching eyes that rove over him in quick, fliting movements, you suppress some tiny sound of frustration at finding... not even nothing . The man is like a void, unknown to the likes of you and others, while he holds all the knowledge in an endless vacuum - the bastard knows it too.

And what do you plan to do about it?

Both of you are aware of how your skills are limited. There’s a million others with more battle-prowess than you, your intellect doesn’t branch much further beyond street-level and subtly equates to a punch in the face for you...

Speaking of which, you reach up to delicately prod at your chin, and the tender skin that’s already darkening there. You’re hardly skilled in the fields of medical, but you know the bruise is going to be a keeper for days to come...

That is, if you will still be allowed to have days left.

You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you die today. Upset, sure, but after today’s fuck-up, you’re not shocked if that sharp little smile becomes accompanied by a sharp little knife in Silco’s hand...

Is it so terrible that you’re almost glad it’s him? This unknown, unreadable creature of cruelty and sickeningly sweet words. Honeyed tones that can coax out even the most reluctant prey, when like the apex predator you know he is in truth, he’s fitted with fangs that can clamp down around a jugular, and kill .

Terrifying. Monstrous, worse than any devil Hell itself could attempt to conjure... yet it’d be the first time he noticed you. This itself is already more than you could’ve ever dreamed of - a private meeting, and though it’s for all the wrong, horribly-wrong reasons, thoughts of your likely impending doom or particularly scathing critique of job performance is not on the forefront of your mind.

No - your mind happens to flirt with masochism, and the only thought that’s circulating through your moronic brain, is how incredible Silco looks with the backdrop of monsters behind him.

And truly, those humongous, terrible specimens of unnatural sea life that glide docilely by the port-window staring out into open sea, only highlight how easily Silco can settle into the company of deadly beasts.

“You aren’t experiencing any brain-damage, are you?”

“No,” You still wince when you prod at a particularly painful part of your bruised jawline. At his raised brow, you drop your hand back into your lap. “Being dragged back here, was... was that really necessary? I would’ve come, if you had only asked-”

“Would you?” He interrupts, and your eyes dart downward. Despite his curious, unassuming tone, his face is otherwise a mask and there’s no point in trying to decipher it, so you settle on directing your gaze to watch his heel, crossed over one knee and bouncing slightly in idle thought. “You seem to have difficulty with orders. Understanding them, doling them out. I daresay you know as much about orders as you do about eye-contact ...”

Your eyes jump up to meet his own. The blue is a slit, brighter but thrice as deadly as the sea behind him, and the other a swirling set of flames.

“You know nothing .”

Like a horror-novel in true, lightning flashes in the skies far overhead, briefly lighting up the underwater waves in faint light as Silco drops his second heel to the ground, and stands before you. In turn, revealing the knife he was delicately picking his nails with.

It doesn’t ease any of your nerves when he tucks it subtly into his boot once more.

“Come. Perhaps I have some opportunity yet to teach you, or offer some other sort of advice for life,” Silco says boredly, walking past you at such a languishing pace, that you fight the urge to kick yourself for thinking you were about to go on some leisurely stroll. Your body hosts the evidence that it shall be anything but, as you struggle back onto your feet, and join at Silco’s side as you struggle not to limp with every step.

You also struggle, and fail, by attempting to defend yourself, “I’m being truthful. I would’ve come if you had asked, sir.”

“And I had asked my men to be gentle when fetching you. Evidently, you’re not the only one who struggles with utmost obedience.” He slows at the metal-railed staircase leading back closer to the surface. A form of mercy, you think, as you manage your way up them without too much struggling and panting. Silco continues, and his tone is unimpressed, “However, at least the result they produce is somewhat agreeable. Crude, and not my first choice, but acceptable.”

You... probably deserved that. It didn’t serve to soften any of the blows, knowing he hadn’t deliberately set the more violent-happy of his gang to fetch you, but even if he had, you probably would’ve deserved it.

Had it been anyone but yourself, you were surprised this more personalized intervention hadn’t come sooner. You didn’t dare to hope that it was out of fondness, and probably more akin to the fact that you simply didn’t matter enough to properly show up on his radar.

That somehow stung a bit more.

But, it soothed minutely on the fact that he waits, and though giving you a cool, unreadable yet assessing look out of the corner of his green-cerulean eye, Silco turns the hatchway of the large door. Correctly assuming that the arm you were holding was far too bruised-up to conjure enough strength to turn it on your own.

Shallowing back a thank-you as he held the door open, you were silent as you followed him through the ground-floor of the warehouse. Almost thankful that there was silence amongst your fellow peers as well... though while their voices were quiet, the side-glares were as loud as screams.

They were also about as loud as the smug little glances given to your new set of injuries - surface-level, even if Silco hadn’t planned it, some of his goons were smart enough not to leave any real damages - but you ignored them all and kept pace just behind Silco.

Only stopping after he crossed the main-front threshold of the door. “Silco, it’s-”

“Problem?” Turning on a heel, just enough so he can raise his good-brow at you, Silco’s nonchalant tone makes you realize there’s no getting out of it. Like his seemingly unaffected voice, this is all just a front - the fake lull to lure you deeper towards the killing-bite, the at-ease coaxing as he guides you out into the rain.

Stupidly, looking at how his hair already begins to dampen and relax under the constant sprinkles, eyes catching the light of a seconds-long crash of lightning overhead, you find that this is a trap that works, and obediently, eyes ever-always on him, you follow him towards your doom.

He’s... It’s a pretty doom, but you’ve resigned to see it as doom nonetheless. You just hope it’s quick.

“I’m not a man of second-chances. We don’t get a second-chance at life, not to mention there’s far too little time to waste for others to play catch-up. Or correct mistakes that never should’ve been made in the first place...” Yet still, Silco continues to keep his tone almost pleasantly natural. Low, rolling tones - a voice devoid of warmth, but as you suppress a shiver at the chill in the air as water drops and breaks through the thick cloud of Zaunite smog, you can feel his words coiling and curling around you. They don’t quite snap yet, but they grow tighter as Silco asks, “And yet how many chances have I given you ?”

You wince, and not because a particularly large droplet landed on the edge of your black-eye. “Silco, I’m sorr- ”

“How many?”

You swallow a small lump that isn't going away anytime soon, before saying quietly, "A few."

“And how many was a few ?”

The lump got a bit bigger when he came to a halt, a more secluded section outside of the dilapidated warehouse - word was it hand only been closed a handful of years ago, yet it cleared out in record-time, and had fallen into a skeleton of its former bustling self in half that time.

You feel like that - a hollow, dreadful shell that shuffles quietly to the side, back to the wall as your gaze finds the metal-tipped boots of his most captivating of all. “A lot.”

A moment passes within silence as two members of an underground gang - one it’s leader, and the other a lackey certain they’ve committed one too many errors for apologies to make any difference. Still, you’re on the verge of speaking another meek admission of your guilt, when Silco sighs, and reaches out towards you.

Giving no time to pull or step away, he takes you in his grasp, smoothly sliding fingers under your bruised chin and with a gentle lift, raising it up to face him. You don’t dare to try to avoid his gaze any longer - a perpetual blunder you might be, but you are not a coward, and face Silco’s unreadable gaze head-on through the thickening drizzle between you.

And it’s indeed unreadable. A mystery in its entirety... Some would claim the eyes are the window to one’s soul, but based on how carefully neutral Silco’s gaze has become, one couldn’t help but wonder if the man was devoid of a soul entirely.

Ludicrous to think that even a man like Silco doesn’t, but in this moment, you can’t help but look to him and wonder. Wonder if Silco does or doesn’t possess one... and even more foolishly, if it was ever possible to see it.

“You were so very promising when I decided to allow you to join my forces,” He whispers. The rain has become cold enough that his breath clouds, and you aren’t even aware of the shortened proximity until that puff of air brushes against your lips. Tasting of smoke, and strangely, of sea. “ I , personally, thought there was something promising to be found within you. Perhaps I was wrong.”

"It was just... I'm not looking for an excuse, but I-"

"You're a liability ," He hisses suddenly, the first slip of emotion shown in the form of a sour-twist on his lips and a hot-flash in both his eyes, enunciated by the flash of lightning overhead as the sky rumbles in terse agreement. "Silly, reckless mistakes such as yours don't deserve a second-chance, let alone an excuse . You failed, and disappointed me. But the worst part is, it isn't even the first-time you've done so ."

Yep - that stung .

It stung as much as the rain pattering down did, as they flickered across your face, pooling down over your eyes as Silco's fingers twitched. Groping your jaw firmly, the man seemed to struggle not to squeeze your face in his hand as he continued, cutting through every attempt at a weak apology or excuse, "Shipments. Clients. Guard-detail and simple message-carrying... I've given you the simplest jobs possible, and yet one-way or another, you return limping, bruised and halfway-broken from gallivanting about, like you have not a care in the world-"

"I... I wouldn't say I gallivant -"

Silco's remaining eye twitches, in time with his nails sinking one-increment more into your chin, bordering on pain. "You failed , and your most pressing-concern is my exact terminology ?"

Swallow, the attempt to speak has is muted out by the next roll of thunder, but Silco is realizing you regardless, eyes cast away and body stepping back away from you - you loathe the fact that you have to still yourself from following, "Once promising, now you don't even care for the mission."

"I do care!" You insist, and can't stop yourself from stepping closer. "I know how important this is for you, and I swear I'm not trying to mess with your dream-"

" My dream? " Silco turns on you, whirling like a hurricane in human form, eyes wild and raging. So powerful, that you have to step back when he steps forward, words practically spat at you in his bewildered outrage. "You think this some selfish venture, that I do this for myself alone?"

"No, of course not-" You had never thought that. Just as you said, the importance of this mission was clear to all, and the independence of Zaun was

" I do this for Zaun, and that is what you should be doing it for." Silco wasn't shouting, persay - he never had, and one could imagine he thought such aggression was almost beneath him. His energy wasn't outwardly furious, but it was by instinct that you stepped back with every step closer he gave, a growl low in his throat that was making your knees weaker with every step-

Until you couldn't.

Until you couldn't step back anymore, your tailbone bruised from the impact in which you slipped on a puddle of rain-water. Not even able to find the strength to feel mortified, only wet and cold, you continued to shuffle back on hands and knees as Silco continued to advance upon you.

Then, your back hit the hard, cold wall behind you, and lost in a green sea and an eye of darkness and fire, your mouth moved without your permission, "Silco, please ."

It was absurdly tiny. Pathetic, quiet, pleading, and... personal . Like asking forgiveness from someone far closer, then that of an employer you've met with a handful of times.

Silco stops, and stares down... as if realizing suddenly that you're on the ground, pressed back against the wall and looking up at him. Not quite with fear for yourself, but apologetic and concerned, not to mention cold and wet as you gazed up at him with wide eyes.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you blink.

And then you want to do nothing but run when Silco says, "Why are you here ?"

Muscles frozen, you can only blink up at him, and hope that the expression you have is one of confusion, and not the rising panic you can feel inside. Because you know he's not really asking about the present moment, or even asking in regards to your current employment.

The gears are turning in his mind, slowly, but surely, and words start to follow as the picture behind his eyes starts to become clearer.

"It's a given that you're not quite the best for most duties assigned. Yet you never complain, always take what's ordered," He closes the remaining distance before you can react, swooping down onto one-knee before you, not even flinching at the puddle soaking through his pants. His eye doesn't even twitch as a river ripples down from his hair-line, crossing over his scars.

You dig your nails into the wall behind you, to prevent from reaching out to wipe the water away.

"You could've left again ago," Silco continues, tilting his head, every studious. "Anyone else would've."

"T-they... they wouldn't have gotten far."

"I'm merciless with betrayal, but cowardice , I can move past," He raises one shoulder in a shrug, but those eyes never leave you. "Unimportant in the grand-scheme, and yet, you never backed down. You stayed, despite knowing you weren't good, despite getting hurt ," A flash of... something, crosses his gaze, and like the bolt of lightning striking ahead, his hand is too quick for you to react, before it's wrapped around your wrist, fingers brushing back a sleeve enough for bruises to show.

"So many failures under your belt... was it for ego?" He asked, in a murmur, but answers himself before you can find the words to. "No, that's not quite it... you were trying to impress someone."

"Silco, I-"

"Was it me?" Gaze snapping to you from where he was studying your skin, his grip tightens firmly. Not painful, but your lips part in a quiet gasp at his warm fingers pressing securely into your skin at the smallest motion, warding off any thoughts of attempted escape. "Did you really stay in order to impress me?"

And... What good was it to lie? It was clear he wasn't letting you leave, and any answer you offered could very well be your last...

The truth was all you could offer, and although you were quiet, it was found to be given quite freely, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I like you."

Perhaps too freely.

The blue widens, not even flinching as another small rivet of water cascades down across his forehead - again, there's a resistance not to reach out and brush it away. His hand doesn't release yours, and it's only when the red eye is left to blaze, while the blue iris is left-hooded as he gazes at you with... something, you can't decipher, do you realize his thumb is rubbing slow, slow circles at your pulse point.

A hum, and he's closer than ever before.

Salt and smoke brush against your lips as he braces a hand beside your head, pressing his palm to the brick surface behind you enough that he leans, looms over you still, even while crouched before you...

Silco still hasn't let go of your wrist.

And you still get the impression that he has no plans to let you go... but otherwise, his hooded and fiery gaze makes you think his plans are changing, quite rapidly. His words confirm that.

"I think it's time we reevaluate your position among the ranks," Every word drips from his mouth like honey, smooth and thick, with an odd warmth you've never heard before, but feel spreading through your veins rapidly. His eye flicks, and Silco has no such qualms on restrain, as he reaches up and catches the rain off your cheekbones with a smooth swipe of his free thumb.

It remains. Circles on your skin, the touch more soothing than loving. But you still find yourself fighting a losing battle, in not leaning into it entirely, and so consumed by the mental struggle, you almost miss the instructions he breathes against your mouth.

"Stand up."

Your eyes open, widened in confusion - when had they closed? "I-... what?"

"Stand up, sweetheart."

Your heart skips a beat.

And before you know it, you're indeed standing up, back to the wall behind you, with one wrist gently braced against the wall, and his other hand bracing the wall next to your head.

"Is this happening?" You ask aloud, mind buzzing too loudly for you to feel shame, only the sparks scattering along your skin as a thumb stretched out, catching wet strands of hair and gently brushing them from your face. "Am I dreaming?"

"Have you dreamt of this for a while?" Silco asked, curious, even as his hooded eye glittered with amusement at your expense, and blushing. "Dreamt of getting caught in the rain by your employer?"

You wanted to argue that he was clearly insinuating that this was much more than that, but he interrupted your mind, and your rapidly-beating heart again, by gently dragging his touch from your cheekbone, down to the base of your throat, and gave a small tug at the button at the collar of your shirt.

Undoing it, in a single snap.

" Or have you been dreaming of getting fucked in an alley by him? "

Like a wire to water, you short-circuit entirely. Only able to gap at him with eyes blown wide, while he busies himself with popping the next button, and soon finger at a buckle. He says nothing else - he's waiting, you realize, but speech is still unavailable to you.

"I know, at the very least, you're successful at talking." Bi-colored eyes flick up to yours, as Silco's fingers push past the layers of clothing, to give the faintest brush of fingers along the exposed skin below your collars. "So then tell me. What do you want?"

Back. Forth. The pads sweep slowly across your skin, almost massaging you, even as they threaten to send a deadly electric-current straight though your heart with every grazing touch. Silco says your name, very quietly, and very firmly, and you remember how you've never been one to lie, or turn down a job from him.

How could you ignore him now?

"Yes."

"Yes, what, sweetheart?"

"Please-"

"Please what?" Mocking your tone to it's exact whiny pitch, Silco leans closer, caging you tight against the wall with a smile like a shark's. Indeed, it's al. "Be a good girl, use your words. Please... touch you? Fuck you? There's already been so much miscommunication, sweetheart... tell me ."

You let out a ragged gasp, catching rainwater on your tongue before you finally whimper out, "Please fuck me."

" Here? In this alley?"

He really is a monster , teasing you so. "Yes, please fuck me in this- "

His mouth slams to yours, more chipped-tongue than lips, and thoughts are all but thrown out the window, scattering out into the rain that continues to come down around you. Both hands leave your skin in a flash, and you resist the urge to whine - barely, but you try.

They come back together at your chest, and Silco inhales on the broken moan you make as he cups you roughly, squeezing you through your shirt as his leg comes to slot between your thighs. The harsh, purposeful grind he gives leaves you choking out his name into his grinning mouth, and those hands, suddenly impatient, move from your breasts to grip at your partially-open neckline-

And he tears it.

"Holy shit, Silco-"

It certainly doesn't come apart into tatters, but you're shocked by the eagerness nonetheless. It borders on feral, like a man driven insane finally finding some source to quench the madness...

An intense comparison for sure, but seeing the blaze in his eye, both of them, you can't help but wonder how true it is. And how long he's gone unsated.

You stop thinking pretty quickly after though, when he shuffles you out of your top, a low growl ordering the pants to come off too. Not even thinking about the rain that's coming down on you both, you only focus on chipped, yet sharp teeth beginning to gnaw along your neck as your fingers grapple frantically at the belt-buckle. Collapsing slightly when he sucks at a particularly sensitive point, long fingers dig into your side as Silco curls an arm around your waist, partially in support, and partially to keep you standing so he could have his way with you.

A large roll of thunder crashed overhead, clearing your mind momentarily, "Inside-?"

" Next time. " Again, your brain sputters to a halt at his words, but Silco continues to pepper the other side of your throat with open-mouth kisses, while his fingers trail up your spine to unlatch your bra. Your hand comes up, grasping at short spikes of dark hair as he goes even further down, nipping any skin unmarred by previous days of duty.

"Next time, sweetheart. Indulge me this once, and all you could ever want will be given freely," It sounded heavy, both in choice of words and in heavy breaths, but you can't keep track of Silco's promises as his hand slides down your exposed stomach, to cup your mound in time with his lips latching onto nipple.

The grip on his hair must be painful, but Silco keeps his fingers amazingly gentle - still retaining some manner of his gift at control - and if you were anymore of a fool, you would think the way his fingers dip past your soaked folds and rub at you with conviction was more akin to that of lovers, rather than the reality of you hooking up with your boss.

Outside, in the alley just outside the secret base at the warehouse.

The mere concept of embarrassment leaves you the moment his fingers enter you. You press your head back, rain soaking your face as you let out a loud groan when those digits press deeper and deeper into you, curling in time with his quickening thrusts, and the grin around your breast. He abandons ministration at your chest, save for gripping one in his massive palm, pinching a hardened bud between fingers-

A prayer slips through your teeth, tight and tense and pleading , and you go to repeat it with a whine when his fingers slip out of you, but the sound of him rapidly thumbing open the four buttons of his pants quiets you immediately.

Panting, but not nearly as much as you are, he braces a bare forearm on the wall, crowding you even closer. Silco gazes at you from under only one set of eyelashes, and you're damn-near hypnotized to hold his gaze as he hikes up one leg around his slim waist.

Fingers uselessly look for a point of sturdiness when the head of his cock brushes against you, almost experimentally. His arm provides enough leverage for you not to melt like sugar in this downpour, and Silco doesn't even wince when your nails dig into the exposed skin, forearm bare and dripping with his sleeves rolled up so...

Any attempt at saying his name, saying anything levels you, the moment his hips push forward in a single, smooth thrust. With a wheezing groan, your head thumps once back as you stretch deliciously around him - then there's a warmth, cradling the back of your skull. The stark difference between the chill of the weather and Silco's hand is as different as ice and fire.

Your body his trembling, and almost doubles in the uncontrollable shudders that shoot through you when he slowly begins setting a pace, fucking you up against the wall while you could only shake, hang onto his arm for dear life, get absolutely soaked in the rain, and still wonder if you're going to wake up from this dream.

Gods, you hope not.

"That...That's it, sweetheart," He muses encouragingly, fingers twisting in your hair to tug your head back, exposing your neck for him to latch on with chipped-teeth as you moan out his name. Other leg coming up to wrap around his waist, you squeeze your eyes shut as your breathing quickens under the nips and kisses he leaves along your skin.

"Silco," You whine out sweetly, feeling his grin turn near feral at your skin as you groan again, feeling him still, fully inside you. Chest heaving as your legs tense, walls tight around him as you whimper wordlessly at his teasingly slow, shallow thrusts, before finally finding the strength to urge him in a plea, "Silco, please -"

The thunder far above you only barely succeeds in muting the cry you let out as he pulls back, before thrusting back into you and soon setting a punishing, brutal pace. Like one he'd been waiting for for a long time, the first in an even longer time... but there's no time to truly attempt to decipher this unreadable man, not when he's fucking you until there are stars bursting behind your eyes, and you're left only to wonder when you closed them again...

Nails digging into the thick leather at the back of his vest, and ankles locking at the base of his spine, Silco jerks your head even further back by the hair to suckle greedily at a particularly sweet-spot at your jugular, and you go rigid. Body locking in place as he hits something deep inside that leaves you to drop your mouth open, the keen building in your chest bursting almost silently as your orgasm washes over you, faster and harder than the rain that's pouring over you both.

You're only able to let out a single iota of a noise when Silco makes a similar sound that vaguely resembles the syllables of your name, and he abandons all pretenses of control or restraint in favor of fucking you with a fevor you didn't think was possible for him to expression.

Day is just full of surprises, evidently.

Thighs become drenched - moreso than the rest of your body - as come and your own fluids smear your thighs as you're boneless against his arms, certain the only thing keeping you upright was Silco's pure stubbornness and iron-clad willpower.

Though. He isn't far behind you. Post-climax, the blazing eye-man sags along the wall, both palms braced to the surface behind and on either side of you, with head hanging as he pants, rain and sweat mingling to drip down his face.

His hair is wild, wet and dropping too. You can't resist anymore, and with hooded eyes, reach out to gently stroke the strands back. Freezing when he stiffens at the touch... then, slowly, beginning your curious exploration of his spiky, shortened-locks anew when he leans into your touch.

His hand drags along the wall, and he starts doing his own exploration of your body too.

Without the franticness of carnal-need, Silco's touch is gentle and considerate - not words you would ever think would coincide with the frighteningly calculating, cool leader of this underground operation, and yet he maps out the marks he left behind on your skin, with all the devoted touches of a lover.

You try not to look too deeply into it. You fail, but you can at least assure yourself that you tried.

Thankfully, the non-sexually generated aches in your body help take your mind off things, as the bruises and pains from your earlier tussles and failures make a grand reappearance in the forefront of your mind.

Raising his hand, you winced faintly when the pads of Silco's fingers touched at the bruise blooming just beneath your eye. Silco didn't pull away, but his touch seemed to lighten somewhat... softer, and if you didn't know any better, you saw his touch was almost tender with the way he brushed at the wet hair clinging to your face.

Digits leaving shivers in their wake, but pinned by his lanky form and gaze, you could do nothing but allow him to trace your skin, eyes flicking from one point of your face to another and blunt nails trail along the contours...

Memorizing, if you weren't mistaken.

By sight and by touch, if you didn't know any better, you would think Silco was committing every detail of the image before him to memory.

And once he does, Silco leans closer down to you, replacing the thumb tracing your lips with his own, slightly jagged at the corner of his skin, thanks to the scars. And all he says, after all of... that, is two quiet, assured words, "You're fired ."

Too consumed by the faint kisses he brushes along your skin, it takes you a minute to respond somewhat intelligibly, "...Oh."

"However, I'm compelled to terminate your current employment venture, and reassign you to a new... station of standing, in a sense."

… you had thought one thing, but now don't know what to think about that . Actually, you're still trying to wrap your head around much of this, now that it's clearing in both mind and in skies above.

But it doesn't clear much of anything. Only the facts are presently available in your fucked-out mind, including the fact that it was Silco to put your mind in such a state. Silco, who you still couldn't quite figure out, and who was as much a mystery to you, as much a mystery, as what you were meant to-do now that you were apparently fired ...

As if telepathic - you wouldn't be surprised if that were the case with him - the Eye pulled back enough to gaze at you, and grins something so roguish that your heart sputters, and you're left breathless yet again. "Would you be interested?"

"In...?"

"You're not suited for field-work. If we're frank, you seem to thrive in indoor environments, save this particular occasion," He twirls a lock of damp-hair around a knuckle in emphasis, giving it a faint tug that has you biting your lip, much to his faint bemusement. "...How good are you with papers?"

Blinking, you admit you're pretty good, having picked up literacy somewhere between living on the streets and living within circles of gangs.

"And I doubt you'd get much injury outside of papercuts and headaches," He continues after mulling around your quiet answer. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was lazily braiding a wet lock of your hair between his fingers. "An improvement , wouldn't you agree?"

"I... yes, I suppose, sir, but I don't really follow-"

Confusion cuts into a quiet yelp, one that has your eyes squeezing shut. Though the burst of pleasure originating from a very pointed roll of his hips, you hear Silco tutting you amusedly as you gradually come back to earth, eyes fluttering back open as you rasp in faint pants. "You've been very personable already, and have had no trouble being on a first-name basis before," He chides, but his eyes gleam rather than darken in disappointment, something you had once been used to. "And if we're to go forward, I would... prefer, to have such previous restrictions loosen, in a sense."

The perplexity in your gaze must be obvious, because for a moment, Silco's ever-hard eyes soften, and he leans forward, scarred lips brushing along yours-

Smoke, and sea-salt. And maybe a bit of rainwater too.

"You're good for distraction," Silco murmurs. "Perhaps you can be trained to be good at other things... things that don't involve you bruising and broken. At least, not in ways you don't enjoy ," A chuckle floats along his breath as his fingers once again caress at your neck, admiring his handiwork as you breathe out, shakily.

"You... you mean, you want to go... officially -"

"Officially , you would be handling the papers," He interrupts you smoothly, pausing, taking in your bare, vulnerable state in the middle of an alleyway, and the fact putting your shirt back on was not only impossible with the ripped, stretched material, but you were likely to catch a cold if you put it back on.

Silco's vest was a poor substitute, one you couldn't even button properly, but it was suitable enough to sneak back into the warehouse without inspiring cat-calls or whistles.

It also smelled of Silco. You tried not to be obvious of your quick sniff to the folded-collar as he assisted with your pants, but there was a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, despite his red undershirt growing damn in the rain.

"Officially , you'd be at my side for many occasions - an assistant of sorts in the pursuit of Zaun, and it's upcoming glory," The man continued casually, before reaching out to take your chin between thumb and forefinger - mindful of your bruise.

"Unofficially, " He said, hooded and forever-open eyes gleaming with too many emotions for you to even begin to hope to decipher. "I believe it's important to ensure that one's strengths and talents are put to good use, in a department they're most suited for." Yet again, he curls a lock of hair around his finger, but this time, tucks it back behind your ear.

Despite the kisses, and despite the near feverious way he had taken you, that slow brush across your cheekbone and ear is the first-touch you think you can attribute as being almost loving.

You don't have a prayer of deciphering anything else about him, certainly not that loose, small smirk he has crossing his face, as Silco leans down to brush his lips across your sweat and rain coated forehead.

"And I think you just proved how well-suited you are for being a well-meant distraction ."

It's the first bit of praise you've ever received from him, and you find yourself blushing and preening under the upgrade from liability, to distraction.

Taking your arm - mindful of limps both from injury and recent activity - you don't try to study the man anymore. You have a feeling it's as fruitless as trying to peer through rain, melting into a misty fog over nearby open-waters, but for the first time, it doesn't unnerve you, that you can't quite understand Silco.

Because when you lean against him for support, and he squeezes your arm in a bit of reassurance practically unheard of from him, you think that maybe understanding will come to you soon enough, someday…

The rain always clears, after all.

[Taglist: @sweatandwoe @lackofhonor @betasuppe @ironandglass @soullessbody @syx-00 @bb-8 @bloodmoon-bites @zillahvathek @my-awakened-ghost @agoutighost @shuttlelauncher81 @stabmemaybe @rosmariner @intpthinkinginquiet @atalldrinkofcaprisun @ladykatakuri @littledollll @sherwood-forests @mazikomo @dropssofjupitter @boredanimatr @gooseberries88 @yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy @cat-shapedgoo @watercolourdreamer @meimayooo @constant-fragmentation @marina-and-the-memes @masterjedilenaaa @callistotml @foppishish @dad-dumpster @nyx2021 @beef-bakery @jennithejester @the-lake-is-calling @ariaud ]

#silco #arcane #arcane silco #silco x reader #mdni #18+#ao3 #arcane fanfic

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