fuck it. be creative even if you never really *make* anything. write out plot synopses of stories and then move on. design OCs you'll never use. make mood boards and concept art and don't do anything with them. life's too short to forget everything that inspired you and creation doesn't have to be "complete" to be worth the time you put into it.
Nightingale’s cheekbones burn with a vibrant lavender flush, the sap covering his ruined eye losing just a little bit of its solidity, a drip or two drizzling down under the light of his blush.
With a grin, Cormorant — from his position standing at Nighting’s back — digs his fingers into the bases of Nightingale’s wings, deep into the fluffed feathers until he finds the flesh beneath. His claws trail over the false skin, almost hard enough to draw blood—but not quite. The flared appendages quiver, then jolt when Cormorant grips tight enough to bruise and yanks.
Nightingale’s spine arches, the rope bindings keeping his arms stretched above his head snapping taut. He keens loudly, his voice breaking with a desperate sob when Cormorant pulls his wings harshly again, his back almost feeling like it’s about to snap with how hard his spine is arching.
“Cor! Cor, Cor, Cor—“
His pleas fall apart to give way to another sob, his breath hitching as he tries to inhale and keep some form of composure. His attempt is refuted easily by another yank, Cormorant’s aura drenched in a giddy, satisfied arousal when Nightingale breaks down into forlorn cries, his tail wrapping firmly around Cormorant’s leg and his wings giving a harsh jerk. Cormorant growls, pleased, as his grip restrengthens and he pulls on the feathered appendages hard enough to make it seem like he’s trying to rip them off.
Nightingale’s vocalizations sound wrecked as his whole body curves, forced to stand on his toes, his bindings the only thing keeping him upright as he sobs and shudders his way through a sudden, unexpected orgasm.
Cormorant kept applying a steady tugging pressure on Nightingale’s wings up until the sap-covered thlelein sagged in his bonds, shredded throat struggling to form a whimper.
The fingers of one of Cormorant’s hands carded through the still-fluffed feathers, while the other drifted around to Nightingale’s front.
Rather than reaching down to the glowing, swirled cyan-and-lavender magic coating his pelvis, Cormorant dragged his claws up along the side of Nightingale’s ribcage. When he reached his clavicle, his hand drifted back down along the same path; this time, he let his sharpened fingertips lightly nick at the blackened bones momentarily exposed from the sap’s excessive dripping.
Nightingale tensed, his ears twitching back against his skull and swiveling around. “Cor...” he murmured, the warning quite ineffective from the way his voice had barely any strength behind it.
“Bet ya’d look pretty drippin’ with more than just yer sap,” Cormorant whispered lowly into one of Nightingale’s ears, his grin lascivious as he felt Nighting’s shiver through the hands placed on his body. “Mix some cyan int’ those black drops, hmm? Ohh, a gorgeous sight that’d be.”
“Cor...” This time, the name slipped out as a whine.
“Maybe ya’d look even prettier with yer boobs all sliced through? That’d truly be beautiful, don’t ya think so? Yer ecto’s got all that nice marbled patterning, would look reeaaal good coated in yer blood...”
Since a lot of people here suddently stopped reblogging, here's a friendly reminder to reblog art/writing because in this way you can actually HELP artists/writers to get the stuff they post seen by others, letting them know what without taking away op's control on the post and
So please. PLEASE. Reblog art, reblog writing, it's full of small artists and authors here, who aren't going anywhere because people aren't reblogging anymore. Give artists and writers the occasion to grow, to become famous and bring happiness to others with their content. Because we put effort in what we do, and sometimes not getting any appreciation is very demotivating, and that could also bring someone to stop posting, y'know?
Reblogs make people who post original content feel valid, appreciated, supported. And people who reblog are a godsend.
And remember: ✨REBLOGS✨ and 💀REPOSTS💀 AREN'T THE SAME THING. Reblogging is good. Reposting is bad.
Nightingale’s cheekbones burn with a vibrant lavender flush, the sap covering his ruined eye losing just a little bit of its solidity, a drip or two drizzling down under the light of his blush.
With a grin, Cormorant — from his position standing at Nighting’s back — digs his fingers into the bases of Nightingale’s wings, deep into the fluffed feathers until he finds the flesh beneath. His claws trail over the false skin, almost hard enough to draw blood—but not quite. The flared appendages quiver, then jolt when Cormorant grips tight enough to bruise and yanks.
Nightingale’s spine arches, the rope bindings keeping his arms stretched above his head snapping taut. He keens loudly, his voice breaking with a desperate sob when Cormorant pulls his wings harshly again, his back almost feeling like it’s about to snap with how hard his spine is arching.
“Cor! Cor, Cor, Cor—“
His pleas fall apart to give way to another sob, his breath hitching as he tries to inhale and keep some form of composure. His attempt is refuted easily by another yank, Cormorant’s aura drenched in a giddy, satisfied arousal when Nightingale breaks down into forlorn cries, his tail wrapping firmly around Cormorant’s leg and his wings giving a harsh jerk. Cormorant growls, pleased, as his grip restrengthens and he pulls on the feathered appendages hard enough to make it seem like he’s trying to rip them off.
Nightingale’s vocalizations sound wrecked as his whole body curves, forced to stand on his toes, his bindings the only thing keeping him upright as he sobs and shudders his way through a sudden, unexpected orgasm.
Something I had mini-inspiration-burst to write which cut off basically right when any true interaction would happen. Cliffhanger galore.
When Dragonfly stepped through his portal of light into a world of darkness, he was prepared for the heavy, oppressive feel this universe carried.
He wasn’t prepared for the sudden onslaught of melancholy, of longing, of—
The dark, bitter emotions were quickly locked under a brick wall of impassive calm and scorn. Dragonfly stood frozen in his spot, not even his wings or ears twitching. Deadly silent and still, his body locked tight like a taut bowstring; terrified to turn around, terrified to move and disturb the uneasy and stiff peace of the moment.
One second becomes two, two becomes three, on and on. Dragonfly hardly dared to even breathe until the twenty second mark came and went, and still no sign of a change.
His wings move first, the part of his body nearest to his cold companion. A small flutter. A feather is dislodged from the movement, a breeze blowing it up and letting it gently fall to the ground at the black sap-covered creature’s feet.
Another few seconds pass with no more movements, so Dragonfly deems it safe to turn around and meet the steady azure gaze locked onto him.
“Night,” he breathes after a moment of them simply watching each other, his voice just barely loud enough to be carried to his sitting brother over the desolate, dark gray landscape. The sky glows red above them, and in the distance, a charred stump slouches atop a blackened hill.
Nightingale hums softly, his voice lilting to a slow song while his eye closes. Around him sits his Gang, shifting about as they try to get comfortable on the grass. Nightingale had already been comfortable almost as soon as he’d sat down; there was always comfort and relaxation to be found in the simple act of spending time outdoors, no doubt something brought upon by his past.
“What are ya doing?” Cardinal’s gruff voice, pitched down to a murmur, sounds to his right. Nightingale opens his eye again to look at him, his song halting.
“Humming,” he answers after a moment’s pause, his wings twitching. Next to Cardinal, Cormorant flicks his gaze to the moving appendages, then grins and leans back on his arm.
“Please do continue,” he purrs, drawing Magpie and Plover’s curious gazes.
Nightingale huffs; no doubt Cormorant must have figured out how special of an activity humming was for him, considering the way Cormorant had been getting increasingly talented at reading him. Regardless, he lets his voice start up again, instinct creating his music.
Cormorant smiles as he closes his eye sockets. Cardinal, Plover, and Magpie get themselves settled down, their skulls tilted as they listen to the wordless song.
Nightingale finds he rather enjoys singing for his Gang. Perhaps it is just him longing for the late nights spent curled protectively around Dragonfly, with their tails entwined and his wings both a warm blanket and a solid shield for the smaller thlelein. Perhaps; but still, even with that possibility, Nightingale is happy to share this experience with his boys, his Gang, his— his Pack, even as there is a phantom of his little brother leaning back against his chest to listen to his song.
My Dreamtale Thleleins au— Nightingale is Nightmare, and Dragonfly is Dream. They each have bird-like wings, fox-like ears, and a tail.
“Night?”
Dragonfly’s voice was barely above a whisper, drifting about in the softly blowing breeze. Nightingale twitched, opening one eye. Muted violet light washed over Dragonfly’s face from his brother’s eyelight.
“I... I can’t sleep,” Dragonfly admitted sheepishly, his ears twitching back against his skull, his wings giving a nervous flutter.
Nightingale smiled and reached out an arm to pull Dragonfly closer. The smaller thlelein went easily, tucking his skull underneath his brother’s chin, snuggling in and getting himself comfortable as a dark-colored wing draped atop him.
“Sing for me?” he mumbled into his brother’s shirt.
“Of course,” Nightingale whispered, pressing a soft skeletal kiss to the top of Dragonfly’s skull between his ears. The smaller giggled, already sounding like he was half-asleep.
Nightingale lifted his gaze up to the sky; gazing at the flickering stars he could see through the thick canopy of the Tree of Feelings. When he could once more sense the deep tug of sleep on the edges of his consciousness, he closed his eyes and began to hum.
The song was ethereal, almost physical in the way it curled around the thleleins, a warm, heavy blanket of its own. There was no planning to it; no pre-decided notes; yet it was beautiful all the same, clear and filled with wordless love, a direct calling from Nightingale’s most deepest, intimate being to Dragonfly’s.
Dragonfly fell asleep within the first two minutes, a tired yet happy smile hidden against Nightingale’s shirt.
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