#bell forging cycle

[kmalexander]

One Thousand

This is the one-thousandth post on this little website. It’s wild to think I’ve gotten to this point at all. Wilder still that it’s been nearly four years since I hit a milestone here. (Previously: 800. 600. 400. 200.) When I was last here, I had just finished draft one of Gleam Upon the Waves, a book that has been out for a few years now, and a work of which I am incredibly proud. (Now, if only…

[zenless-zideblog-zero]

Belle: Tag Urself; DIVINE, MACHINE, ROT, FLESH

Belle: I'm rot!

Koleda: To limit yourself like that is stupid.

Koleda: Is flesh not simply a machine of the divine? Are Creators not divine to the machine? Is Machine not simply the flesh of a different being?

Koleda: All three fall to Rot, and from that rot, Flesh Grows, and regrows. the Divine is Found, and refounded. The Machine is forged, and reforged, and in turn, they all return to rot. And from Rot, the Flesh Grows, and regrows. the Divine is Found, and refounded. The Machine is forged, and reforged, and this cycles continues as long as there is Rot. As long as there is the Divine to Create, and Find, the Flesh to feed, and Grow, and the Machine to Forge, and Design.

Koleda: I am all four at once; and it that way, complete. To deny any of these is to deny the self in it's entirety.

Everyone: *Turns to Koleda, stunned*

Koleda: What? I can't be ornery all the time! I can be Philosophical!

[alexsummerz]

Introduction : Shadows of the Past

here's the introduction for my fanfiction with my OC Asha in the xmen univers. its an oc x alex summers fic to become. the story takes place during the movie xmen first class at first ! sorry in advance if there's some mistakes english is not my first language. please share me your thoughts and well, please enjoy it ;)

Shadows of the Past.

The rain fell softly on the cobblestone streets, enveloping the city in a damp veil, accompanied by the glow of the streetlights lining the central road. The sounds of traffic blended with the clinking of cups and the animated conversations filling the small café. Here, in this quiet corner of the district, the night seemed frozen in tranquility.

A young woman sat at a secluded table in a dark corner, hidden from prying eyes. Her name was Asha, Asha Suryavanshi. A shadow among shadows. A ghost forged and constantly rebuilt with meticulous precautions every time she moved from one place to another. Blending into the crowd had almost become a gift; alongside the one she desperately tried to hide. She could never stay too long in the same place, and for the past few years, she had lived a quite turbulent life, balancing between escape and survival. A chess match against enemies she never saw, yet whose presence was undeniably real.

The news of the world no longer interested her. She was vaguely aware of what was happening around her; the Cold War, rising tensions between nations—but all of that was mere background noise compared to her own struggle. Her life had become a cycle of observing, disappearing .

As she nervously played with the tips of her gloved fingers, her cup of black coffee sat untouched, growing cold. Asha was already planning her next destination. It was only a matter of time before she was found again.

Then, suddenly, the door opened.

The bell above the entrance rang softly. Yet, to Asha, it was deafening. Instinctively, she tensed, her senses immediately alert—something was wrong.

Two men stepped inside, their confident and controlled movements immediately drawing attention. They weren’t here for a simple cup of tea and that was obvious from miles away.

The taller man walked with an air of natural authority, his piercing eyes scanning the room with precision. The other, more composed, carried himself with a calm aura.

But something felt off, and right now, Asha felt as if the words "WANTED" were written across her forehead.

These two were searching for someone.

And that someone was her.

She moved quickly, grabbing her bag in a hurried motion, heading towards the back exit—

"Hey, don’t leave so fast. We just got here," the taller one said, catching the chair she had just vacated, subtly gesturing for her to sit back down.

As she turned, locking eyes briefly with the second man, her breath hitched for a fraction of a second.

She felt something;a presence, foreign yet delicate, brushing against the edges of her mind.

Like there were two of them inside her head now.

A gentle intrusion, but an intrusion nonetheless.

"Get out of my head."

Her voice was calm, yet the threat in it was unmistakable.

The young man with striking blue eyes blinked, momentarily surprised by her reaction tilted his head slightly, and then offered her a polite smile.

"My apologies, Asha. Bad habit. Would you mind sitting with us?"

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, perfectly at ease, as if this were just a casual chat between old friends. The taller man followed, more reserved, but his watchful gaze remained fixed on her.

Asha was still reeling. Had she told him her name? No. Never. Were they here to take her back to where she had come from?

They didn’t have the same demeanor as the people she had spent years running from.

But then who were they?

And what did they want from her?

"I never told you my name. How—"

"We’re like you, my dear. I’m Charles," he said in a calm, almost soothing voice. "And this is my friend Erik. Please, sit. We mean you no harm."

She remained standing, hesitant, scrutinizing them both with confusion.

After a long moment of deliberation, she finally sat back down.

"What do you mean by ‘like me’?" she asked cautiously.

Charles smiled. "We are mutants, just like you. That’s how I knew your name. We were born with gifts; like you and your connection to the sun."

Hearing him say gift in the same sentence as sun felt like a slap.

A brutal reminder of a past she had buried under layers of lies and false identities.

Her jaw clenched.

How had they found her? Were they telling the truth?

How much did they know about her?

Could she trust them?

"You could have learned my name in a dozen different ways. Why should I believe you? There are people out there looking for me, people who wish me harm, and they know just as much about me. How do I know you’re not—"

Before she could finish, she felt a sudden shift.

The metal bracelet she wore; adorned with an amber gemstone; slowly slid off her wrist on its own, floating toward the hand of the man accompanying Charles.

Startled but unwilling to cause a scene, Asha immediately snatched the bracelet back, clasping it around her wrist.

"Stop that," she whispered harshly. "My mother gave me this. And I don’t want to attract attention."

Erik let out a small chuckle, crossing his arms.

"Relax. No one noticed."

Now, she had her proof.

Before her sat two mutants.

Two people who possessed abilities like her own; though she hesitated to call them ‘gifts’ the way Charles did.

No. To her, they were burdens.

But she was still confused.

She now knew who they were.

But what did they want from her?

"I don’t know what you expect from me, but I’m not interested," she stated coldly.

Charles didn’t seem surprised by her resistance.

"We’re not here to force anything on you, only to offer you a choice. A different path. One where you’re surrounded by others like yourself."

"I don’t need anything."

"Really?" Erik interjected, smirking. "You’re sitting alone in a café, hunted by ghosts. That’s not much of a life."

"Some people don’t have the luxury of simply moving silly objects or reading minds," she shot back, her tone sharp.

"Some of us are forced into a different kind of life because of what we are."

Charles met her gaze with quiet understanding before speaking again.

"We’re offering you a place where you don’t have to run anymore. Where you can be yourself."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "A place? You mean a cage? I’ve heard this speech before. I don’t need to be saved."

"Asha," Charles said gently, "we are like you. We’re not humans trying to ���save’ you. There is nothing to save. You are perfect as you are."

His words struck a nerve.

She had spent so long convincing herself that being alone was better. That it was safer.

But… could she have been wrong?

Erik, observing her carefully, leaned forward.

"You can stay here if you wish, waiting for someone else to find you."

He paused.

"Or; you can come with us and see for yourself what the future might hold alongside others like you."

A heavy silence settled over them.

Then, after a long moment, Asha grabbed her bag and stood.

"Show me," she said. "And I’ll judge for myself."

Charles and Erik exchanged knowing glances, satisfied.

Without another word, they exited the café.

Asha followed, still uncertain.

Had she just made a terrible mistake?

Or, for the first time, had she finally made the right choice?

---------------------------------------------

end of the INTRO. how did u guys like it ? feel free to share ur feedbacks :p

[reachoutandtouchfaith-pccw]

“Judas” Hex

This hex is designed to unleash a horde of traitors upon an unsuspecting soul. Its power is said to infect every tier of existence, ensuring constant betrayals that corrode trust, unravel alliances, and sow discord in both the personal and professional realms. The “Judas” hex is not just an act — it is a living, writhing force that can be summoned, given shape and voice, and ultimately possess those whose hearts have turned cold with deception. It symbolizes loyalty and honor fading into nothingness through the best of agents: the traitor. Each step is carefully designed to conjure an ambiance of paranoia and mistrust, where even familiar faces become suspects and devotion dissolves like salt in water. Read on if you dare wander into the rat's nest of shadow and deceit.

Picture credit goes to @wingeddonkey.

Participants:

One. Fellow conspirators may spectate and, if their hearts are emboldened by chaos, even join the ritual, though it is written to be solitary.

Ingredients:

Rat’s Bone. The rat, often vilified as a symbol of backwardness and treachery, carries with it the connotations of stealth, survival, and cunning. The bone itself is more than a physical object, it is the anchor and lynchpin.

Cheese. Preferably dried and crumbling like the disintegration of bonds and the fragmentation of loyalties.

Blade. A sharp knife or any bladed implement that resonates with you — if you have made the pact, use the same blade you used.

Beer. It is often associated with rats, and honors Micah Bell and any other spirits connected to the campfire. If you can’t get it, cream soda can be substituted.

Unholy Space. A roaring campfire is essential. Its unpredictable flames form the medium into which the ritual's energies will be unleashed, consuming the physical and spiritual remnants of loyalty and exhaling the promise of treachery.

Instructions:

Don Your Clown Attire. In the dim light of the moon, prepare yourself for the role of the betrayer’s orchestrator. Pull on your dark cloak, a garment chosen for its embodiment of enshrouded secrets and hidden motives. Attach a rat’s bone or to your person. In doing so, allow its symbolism to seep into your very being. As the garment envelops your form, imagine that you are becoming the custodian of betrayal, capable of summoning a legion of traitors destined to infiltrate your target’s life. Let the dark garment be not only a disguise but a mantle under which the magic of deceit takes form.

Prepare Your Space. Seek out a secluded place where moonlight filters through ragged clouds and the winds murmur secrets of long-forgotten treasons. This space, cold and unwelcoming, should evoke the sense of a hidden rat’s nest, it is the physical and metaphorical ground upon which betrayal festers. Place your sacred ingredients around the campfire. The campfire is not merely a pyre — it is a thing where trust is incinerated and betrayal is forged anew. With a ceremonial dagger, prick a finger to draw a droplet of blood. This droplet, when released onto the fire, is a key to unlocking energies. 

Call Upon the Elements. With the stage set, secure the blade and (turning widdershins (also known as counterclockwise)) point the blade to each cardinal point of the compass. These invocations call upon the elemental forces. First is North, the invocation appealing to the natural cycle of ruin. “Spirits from the trees that grow upon the leas, be kind to me.” Next is West, the invocation calling forth the murkiness of fate. “Swamp spirits hateful, to people fateful, be kind to me.” Then it is South, the invocation calling upon the inevitability of demolition. “Spirits of fire, destructive in your ire, be kind to me.” Last is East, the invocation summoning the energies of the atmosphere. “Spirits of the air, foul and black, not fair, be kind to me.” The blade is a tool that allows you to slice through the mundane to reach the deeper currents of energy.

Drink Alcohol. Rats are known to love alcohol, beer in particular, so you’re going to take a can of beer — a drink that, with every drop, becomes both a libation and a symbol of defiance against conformity. Consume the alcohol in one unwavering swig, allowing its warmth and potent flavor to surge through you. If your pact with Micah Bell has not yet been sealed, remember to leave half of the bottle untouched — an offering that signifies both gratitude and a willing reciprocity with the rats you invoke. The beer is not merely an intoxicant, it is the catalyst that elevates your energy, ensuring that you stride forward with grit and resolve.

Unleash the Traitorous Legion. Pull a small piece of dried, crumbling cheese from your pocket and sprinkle it into the campfire. Whistle softly, a high-pitched sound barely audible to human ears. The campfire shall cast silhouettes of rats. "Well, hello there, little fellas. See that fella who thinks they’re so high and mighty? Thinks they’re better than me. Wouldn't it be a shame if somethin'… unfortunate… happened to them? Go on, now. Do what comes naturally. (Name of target) will be your offering! (Name of target)’s weaknesses will be your strength!"

Cast the Bone into the Fire. “O, infernal flames of darkness and ash, embrace this token of betrayal’s lash. By bone and blood, by rapacity and spite, ignite the rites and enkindle the night. Let the consumptive blaze devour the past, transform these ingredients, let treachery last. Burn, O Fire, with glutton’s desire, send forth the hex to conspire and mire!” As the bone succumbs to the fire's consuming appetite, allow your mind to drift into a state of deep concentration. The flames serve as both witnesses and accomplices in the blossoming of the treacherous fate. 

Visualization of the Bell Gang. In your mind's eye, visualize a vast, open landscape. Here, you notice a distinctive figure in the distance — Micah Bell. See him standing confidently at the edge of the mysterious forest you're in, a wicked glare in his eyes. As you move closer to him, a curious sensation builds around you. Look to your left and right, and notice an unusual but fascinating sight: an orderly rat army moving with a purpose. These rats, while small, move with a collective energy and unity, their presence menacing but not towards you. As you approach, Micah Bell offers a slight nod and the rat army gathers around you.

Incantate the Final Words. “In this dark hour, I summon thee, vile brood of vermin power from the festering depths and the ruins of trust! Arise, foul beings wrought of dust! In thee, the cunning of a thousand rodent souls, the ruthless betrayal that consumes and controls! I beckon every traitor’s whisper, every sin unbound, to infiltrate the existence of the target, with chaos profound! By the bonefire’s flame and the ashes of old, let your essence intertwine with destinies cold! May your scuttling steps and claws of deceit infest their waking hours and nightmares complete! Let allies fracture and confidences decay, till even the purest of hearts are led astray! I bind you, specks of treachery incarnate and vile, to the ruin of trust and the betrayal’s guile! Know that every word, every shadow in the night, is laced with the venom of betrayal’s spite! And so it is sealed by the flicker of the flame, the hex of endless treachery bears my name! By the eternal hex of the bonefire’s might, let the yellow-bellied parasite’s life be shunned by loyalty’s light!”

Thank the Elements. Secure the blade and, turning clockwise, point the blade to each cardinal point of the compass. First is East. “Spirits of the air, foul and black, not fair, thank you for being kind to me.” Next is South. “Spirits of fire, destructive in your ire, thank you for being kind to me.” Then it is West. “Swamp spirits hateful, to people fateful, thank you for being kind to me.” Last is North. “Spirits from the trees that grow upon the leas, thank you for being kind to me.” The blade is a tool that allows you to slice through the mundane to reach the deeper currents of energy. 

Aftermath. Once the incantations have been fully recited and the campfire has reduced the ingredients to a swirling vortex of ash and flame, the effect commences. For the target, every opportunity for betrayal, every promise made in good faith, is undermined by the insidious presence of the hex’s essence. Friends, families, lovers, and colleagues will gradually transform under the relentless whisper of deceit. Each glimmer of trust will be slowly eroded. Every decision, every glance of goodwill among the target’s close ones, will be tainted with latent treachery. The once steadfast alliances shall crumble and no moment shall be spared. Friendship shall become a facade for cunning plots, while close confidantes will reveal themselves as traitors. This hex ensures that even in moments of solitude, a quiet murmur — a rustle that might be mistaken for the scurrying of rats — reminds the target of the ever-present betrayal lurking just beneath the veneer of normalcy.

Additional Notes:

In the days and nights following the ritual, signs of the hex will materialize. The target shall witness unexplainable coincidences. A rat may be seen in their periphery of vision now and then, as if carrying a whispered message of betrayal. There will be subtle shifts in the behavior of their once loyal companions: a smile that holds a hidden dagger, a handshake concealing a dagger’s promise. After the initial betrayal, they may have a pervasive feeling of impending doom, as though every shadow conceals an enemy, every smile hides a lie. Not to mention that, for them, it will seem like history is repeating itself. In the hush of the night, when silence is shattered only by the scurrying of unseen paws, the target’s mind will flicker with paranoia since the hex weaves a tapestry of mistrust so dense, and if they dare to sleep, dreams will transform into nightmarish reenactments of treachery.

The hex is not simply a momentary assault on the target’s psyche but a binding chain with no clear end. Every attempt to sever the connection is met with resistance from the persistent presence of the hex. The enduring presence of the hex turns every act of goodwill into a potential trap. When the target hesitates to trust a friend, or when every affirmation of loyalty is met with an inner chill of uncertainty, the hex has indeed taken hold. The target is forever haunted by two truths: the knowledge of betrayal’s omnipresence and the inability to escape it. In the silent rooms of their mind, an unholy chorus of rat-squeaks and whispered false promises rings endlessly — a dark symphony composed through the ancient arts of malediction. Time, the unyielding arbiter of destiny, does not erase the hex either — it nurtures it. Even as the days turn to months and the months to years, the spectral revolting force remains. In moments of joy, the irony of the hex drips like acid, eroding hope. In moments of sorrow, the target is haunted by the faces of those who once cherished them, now twisted by betrayal into agents of the hex. In every dawn, the whimper of rats can be heard, and every dusk carries the promise of another act of treachery. Thus, the hex remains, thriving on the despair it sows, a perpetual cycle that will endure until time itself comes to a grisly halt.

To fully grasp the magnitude of the hex, one must consider the nature of betrayal itself. It is not a single act but a series of interconnected moments — each one a tiny fracture in trust. Let us now consider more deeply the multifaceted dimensions of betrayal as envisioned through the symbolism of the hex. Betrayal begins with an unseen hand, and much like the relentless scurrying of rats in the darkness, the inciting moment of treachery is often so minute that it goes unnoticed until it festers into a wound that will not heal. In the fabric of human connections, trust is the thread that binds soul to soul. The moment this thread is cut, the entirety of the tapestry unravels, leaving a chaotic pattern of doubt and suspicion. As the hex takes hold, the unseen hand of fate guides the target’s existence with bitterness like wormwood. Every intended act of kindness is insidiously repurposed into an act of betrayal, every promising gesture is twisted into evidence of deceit. The rat, a creature often maligned and reviled, stands as a perfect metaphor for treachery. It is cunning, resourceful, and lives by stealth, able to infiltrate even the most secure strongholds.

In regards to environmental concerns, I’ve got you covered. I’m a bit of an environmentalist myself, so I’ve done careful research about both obtaining the bone and using the campfire. The bone should only be obtained from a rat already found dead, such as roadkill or forests and swamps. As far as constructing the campfire, use a designated fire pit or area where fire restrictions allow campfires, and always ensure proper extinguishing once the ritual is completed. While occasional small campfires have minimal impact, repeated or large-scale fires can contribute to local air pollution and have a negative effect on both health and local ecosystems. Lastly, setting up the ritual in a natural clearing might disturb local wildlife or damage vegetation, so it’s advisable to select an area that is already designated for activities to avoid impacts on sensitive habitats or wildlife.

The perfect targets for this hex would be friends who have betrayed your trust, colleagues who have undermined your efforts, and any other people who have deceived you. This hex is a potent tool for karma and revenge. By targeting those who have already betrayed, the curse ensures a self-perpetuating cycle where the target becomes trapped in a labyrinth of mistrust and deception. Their every interaction, tainted by the past, confirms their worst fears and continuously fuels the energy of betrayal. In sum, individuals who have betrayed others make the perfect targets because their actions have already set the stage for further disintegration of trust. The hex exploits the residual energy of their past actions, turning their intrinsic vulnerabilities into a crucible where betrayal is destined to flourish.

For those who dare to delve into such realms, the path is fraught with peril. The incantation calls upon forces that force all who encounter them to have their tender bond transform into a potential battlefield. And as the horde of rats scurries across the cold, unyielding stone of destiny, so too do the traitors among friends, sowing seeds of doubt until all that remains is a barren landscape of perpetual mistrust. May the flame of the bonefire be a reminder that in every burning ember lies destruction, and as the ashes settle upon the unforgiving ground of broken promises, let it be known that the legacy of treachery is an unyielding storm — a hex that will persist long after the last candle has flickered out, a silent sentinel of perpetual mistrust. May this work serve as a reminder: trust, once fractured, may never be wholly restored. And as the echoes of this hex permeate the corridors of existence, let it be known that the seeds of betrayal, once sown, blossom into a harvest of unending sorrow.

And with that, I leave these pieces of information here so you can do what you want with them: either hex someone or not. The choice is yours. Just be careful which path you decide to take and make sure not to get caught. And feel free to ask me questions in the comments section down below. Take care and beware Micah Bell the Third. - Alfie

[mir4inotes]

if you could do it all again (this time with style) // mushiango fic

originally posted on 9th sep 2023

read on ao3! / 6.3k words

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It was already a bit too late when Ango realised that this was his first time in a bar in nearly four years.

Vague, watery memories of his time at the Bar Lupin floated behind his eyes as he slid onto a seat at the bar, memories he promptly shoved away. The action was as normal as blinking at that point, swallowing down images his mind conjured up as if they were a bitter medicine.

Thankfully, he had deliberately chosen a bar he had never gone to before, although it was certainly not as refined. The lacquered wooden surface of the bar had a certain stickiness to it, while the windows through which the dusk leaked through appeared as if they hadn’t been washed in weeks. A quick glance around the place revealed not very many patrons, either, the majority of the background noise being made up of a random soccer game that happened to be live. He wasn’t yet sure whether the emptiness was comforting or not.

Once Ango settled himself down, placing his damp umbrella on the floor and setting down his sudoku book with a light thwap, he dug his phone out of his pocket to check the time. 19:37. He had only arrived a few minutes late, miraculously enough.

A bartender eventually made her way over to Ango, where he ordered the first beer he saw on draught. He was never terribly picky when it came to beer, after all, and perhaps this run-down bar would have some of the best in Yokohama.

No, of course not. Ango grimaced at the taste, as if someone had filtered cat piss and called it a day. But it was still beer, and he still wanted to drink himself into oblivion, so he would put up with it.

About halfway through the first bout of sudoku Ango had started, the door to the bar swung open noisily, the little bell at the top dinging frantically, nearly about to fall to the floor. Ango jumped out of his trance and glanced up at the commotion, only to immediately understand the source of the noise.

Mushitaro huffed as he fought to close his black umbrella, which didn’t look terribly sturdy. His hair, normally slicked back and pristine, was beginning to frizz and stick up in places, making him look strangely out-of-character for once. The floorboards creaked under Mushitaro’s feet as he reached Ango’s side, accompanied by squeaking soles that sounded near-deafening in a bar as empty as this.

“No one told me it was going to rain,” Mushitaro grumbled as he took a seat, letting his umbrella clatter to the floor. “I had to use my cheap news stand umbrella I carry for emergencies.”

Ango watched him, slightly confused as he pulled out a pocket mirror and a comb within a few seconds of sitting down, putting his hair back into place strand by strand. Did Ango himself look messy? Should he have checked? The only thing he bothered to do in terms of upkeep since coming here was clean his glasses.

“Is… this not an emergency?” Ango asked, keeping his eyes on Mushitaro’s deft fingers as he took another sip of beer.

“Yes!” Mushitaro huffed, the tip of his tongue sticking out as he focused on one stubborn flyaway hair. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.” He looked up from his grooming only to order a whiskey, the name of which Ango promptly forgot.

“Hm.” Ango turned away from him and returned his attention to his sudoku. The repetitive routine of cycling through numbers in his head was calming for him. It had been for a long time. Dazai would often make fun of him for playing a ‘game for old people’, to which (an often tipsy) Ango would repeatedly deny the accusation. They would sometimes go back and forth like that for a long while, with Oda sitting quietly at the side, occasionally helping Ango with any difficult numbers—

Ango’s breath caught at the memory. He was caught debating whether he should hold on to the moment, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly’s wing, or whether he should tuck it away and forget it along with another mouthful of beer. Given the circumstances, he knew it would be the latter.

Just as Ango took another swig of his drink, Mushitaro snapped his pocket mirror shut and took a long drink from his own glass, downing at least half of it in one go. He already seemed more relaxed then he had a few moments ago. “Anyway,” he said as he placed his glass down, “How are things in Ango town?” he settled his chin on his hand, his full attention now on Ango.

Ango’s stomach fluttered nervously as the spotlight turned towards him. He tilted his head to face Mushitaro yet refused eye contact, continuing to stare at the bar. “… I’m managing,” he mumbled before emptying his glass. He waved the bartender down for more, then asked “you?” rather quietly.

“Oh, you know…” Mushitaro made a few vague, swirly hand motions in the air as he returned to his drink, which was somehow nearly finished despite him only just receiving it. This, of course, conveyed absolutely nothing to Ango, but he reminded himself that he had also been deliberately unclear in his own response, so they were even.

“Oh, also,” Mushitaro continued, “you’re paying tonight. I know you’ve got that government money on you.”

Ango only nodded briefly at that. He had been planning to pay from the beginning, even though Mushitaro had been the one to invite him out. It was the least he could do since Mushitaro had to spend time around him, the man Dazai so often called a social recluse. But alas, if Mushitaro had decided to invite him out, then he’d surely learn soon enough how much of a mistake that was. Ango was surprised he himself had even agreed to the offer in the end.

Mushitaro downed a few mouthfuls from his newly filled glass (when had that happened?) and slid a few inches closer to Ango, looking over his shoulder. “What’s this? Sudoku?” His fingers reached out and tilted the puzzle book towards him so he could have a closer look.

Ango sat up slightly, the sudden closeness with the whiskey-stained breath tickling his cheek startling him a little. As Mushitaro’s eyes flicked over the boxes on the page, his chin had nearly begun to graze Ango’s shoulder.

Ango bristled. “You know it’s rude to look over someone’s shoulder, don’t you?” he said that, although his voice didn’t sound particularly stern. His eyes were still locked onto the paper in front of him; so were Mushitaro’s, apparently. Mushitaro only shuffled closer to Ango, now fully resting his head right next to Ango’s.

“It’s rude to ignore me. There.” Mushitaro nodded at the bartender to get him another whiskey before fully settling himself onto Ango rather stubbornly.

Sober Ango would have nudged him off, but this tipsy, emotionally-fragile Ango decided to let him stay. He’d be lying to himself if he said the warmth wasn’t comforting in some way, even with Mushitaro’s still-damp hair brushing against Ango’s neck. He held back a shiver.

Mushitaro’s hand reached across Ango’s body to point at a box. “Seven,” he mumbled. Ango was so focused on how close Mushitaro’s arm was to his chest he almost didn’t hear him.

“Hm? Oh… I see.” After his sluggish brain confirmed that Mushitaro was right he marked it down. The weight on his left shoulder disappeared for a moment as Mushitaro downed an impressive amount of whiskey in one go before immediately returning to his perch, if not a bit more comfortable than he had been earlier.

A few more minutes went by in silence as both of them stared at the tiny puzzle book. It really was small; it was no wonder Mushitaro needed to get so close to Ango to see. But really, that close? Ango swallowed down a meaner remark before opening his mouth. “…Do you like sudoku?” He then ordered another drink for himself, making a point to not choose beer.

“Like? Psh, no.” Mushitaro laughed in such a way it made Ango feel a bit silly for asking the question. “You just aren’t talking to me, so I’m seeing what you’re up to.”

Those words seemed to unfurl the anxiety in the pit of Ango’s stomach once again. Then leave, he nearly retorted, but he managed to stop himself, take a deep breath. An apology was on the very tip of his tongue, but he found he was too exhausted to say it.

“…No need to be so close to me.” Ango took a swig of his newly acquired drink, cider this time. Mushitaro’s head remained still. Ango’s mind had begun to wander slightly thanks to the alcohol as he mulled over all the different things he’d been wanting to ask Mushitaro about. He was a relatively private man, not really one for prying too much into people he didn’t need to be knowing about. Yet Mushitaro still seemed to be interested in him despite all the obvious red flags Ango had.

So, Ango found himself asking a question before he could stop himself. “What do you think of me?” His voice was hardly audible, as if to let Mushitaro know he didn’t have to answer the question by any means. It was silly. Mushitaro shouldn’t have to answer a question like that, it was bizarre.

Yet, Mushitaro made a humming noise as he thought. His voice was low and grainy against Ango’s ear; he couldn’t hold back a shudder this time. Mushitaro lifted his head from Ango’s shoulder yet again and took a sip of his drink thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the wood.

“Well, you’re short.” He set his glass down clumsily, some of the whiskey sloshing out the sides.

Ango frowned at that, rolling his eyes. How typical. Mushitaro was still tapping his fingers on the bar as he continued speaking. “Kidding!” He smirked and leaned his head against his own hand again, as he did earlier. “You’re also smart, hardworking, and a total asshole.” He was beginning to slur his words together, however Ango paid no mind to that. He was more focused on the next question bubbling up through his mind.

“Do… you think of me as a friend?” Ango mumbled, sipping on his cider. He still opted to fix his gaze anywhere but Mushitaro’s direction.

Mushitaro was quiet for a moment before he spoke up, his voice sounding more genuine than it had previously. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

Ango risked a peek at the other man, only to see him looking not at Ango but past him. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as if his mind had floated off somewhere else. Somewhere else more exciting than here, I’d imagine, Ango thought to himself.

“Right!” Mushitaro sprang upright, startling Ango so that his pen jerked across the paper and left a mark. “Let’s see that sudoku again, shall we?” His chin came to rest against Ango again, leaving Ango praying that the heat pooling in his face was because of the drinking and not Mushitaro’s continued proximity.

Nonetheless, Ango still felt something akin to butterflies, and he did feel a bit lighter having heard Mushitaro acknowledge him as a friend. Ango was definitely beginning to feel tipsy now, as he cleared his throat to get Mushitaro’s attention once more. Question after question began to spring up in his mind unprompted, as if the floodgates had opened, completely disregarding his typical sense of privacy.

Another inquisitive hum sounded from Mushitaro as he traced the sudoku page with a finger. Then his head fell to the side, resting against Ango’s temple. Ango’s own head tipped to meet Mushitaro’s before he could stop himself. His entire body felt light and heavy simultaneously; the warmth Mushitaro’s body provided was eternally comforting, and he would take the physical proximity he was given.

Ango heard Mushitaro sigh quietly against him. It sounded rather dejected, but then again they were both quite tipsy at that point. Ango pushed it from his mind and asked another question.

“Why, um… would you choose to spend time with me over anyone else?” His voice was hesitant, as if he couldn’t entirely believe he had asked such a thing. “Please be honest,” he added quietly.

Mushitaro huffed again, still tracing the empty boxes that remained on the sudoku page. He pressed his head into Ango briefly before sitting up entirely (to Ango’s slight disappointment). Ango fully turned his head to look at Mushitaro for the first time in a while; he was still wearing that distant gaze, which was again strangely out-of-character.

He took a long drink before licking his lips and slumping his shoulders. “You remind me of someone,” he mumbled, his voice laced with fatigue. One of his fingers had started idly twirling a strand of hair at the nape of his neck.

Not expecting that to be the answer, Ango was about to open his mouth to apologise, but Mushitaro interrupted him. “Plus, I’d much rather be here with you than hanging around Ranpo and his weird American boyfriend,” he muttered, asking for another drink before swiveling his head back towards Ango.

I’d much rather be here with you. Ango felt as if those words had settled deep in his chest, thrumming and swelling until they filled him to the core. No one had ever told him that before; not Dazai, not even Oda.

The thought of Oda again was like a pinprick in his heart, but Ango was still so delighted by Mushitaro’s words he allowed himself a moment of reprieve. He couldn’t control the flush of heat that washed over his face.

More curiosity began simmering beneath his tongue. “May I ask who I remind you of?” Ango doubted he’d know this person, but he’d never had a very good grasp of himself. Being undercover for so long, putting on a multitude of different faces over the years, he’d started to lose track of his real self. Having someone to compare himself to would be useful. He took another sip of cider then asked for more.

“Three.”

Ango blinked. His friend was named Three? Then Mushitaro reached back across Ango’s chest to grab the pen from his hand. His fingers left tiny static shocks against Ango’s own. Mushitaro wrote a sloppy number ‘3’ in an empty box and let the pen fall flat against the bar. He didn’t spare Ango a single glance.

Ango decided against prying. Mushitaro had started to seem a little off; or perhaps that was just what happened when he drank. He turned back to the puzzle book, returning to the comforting whizz of numbers flying through his head. Mushitaro’s arm stayed splayed out as he rested his chin on it.

The two of them managed to fill in a few more numbers in what was mostly silence. They were nearing the end of the puzzle, so it was getting easier to solve as time went on. Mushitaro had also ended up removing his blazer and leaving it neatly folded in his lap. Both Mushitaro and Ango had also finished their respective drinks, but neither of them chose to order another one; Ango, at least, wasn’t planning on getting blackout drunk.

Mushitaro had been fiddling with Ango’s pen for a few seconds. He seemed like he was debating whether or not to say something else that wasn’t a number. Ango took the pen from his friend’s fingers to write down one of the final numbers when Mushitaro spoke again.

“…Yokomizo.” He spoke the word so softly Ango had to inch closer.

“Yokomizo?”

Mushitaro suppressed a hiccup before continuing. “That’s who you remind me of.” Oh.

“He, um… died a little bit ago. I helped him create the ultimate mystery before that. He wanted to be the victim, and for me to… kill him.” His voice began to shake. Ango stayed silent, although he raised an eyebrow at the word ‘kill’.

“I-I strangled him… and he thanked me.” Mushitaro sat straighter and sank his head into his hands miserably. “We never agreed on anything at all. He was the last person I drank like this with,” he rasped, waving a hand around the bar.

Ango stayed silent, not entirely sure how to respond to Mushitaro suddenly pouring his heart out. He was never good at comforting others, in fact he doubted he’d ever done so in his life. So he only stayed still and kept his eyes on his friend’s trembling figure, too tired to do anything else.

“He wanted me to kill him.” Mushitaro’s voice was muffled from burying his face in his hands. “He only had a year left to live anyway because of his cancer, but,” he hiccuped again, “I can’t… y’know, move on.” He sucked in a breath as he finished speaking.

The final words Mushitaro said resonated within Ango like a gong. He felt bad for his friend, but at the same time Ango didn’t think he’d heard his own thoughts echoed so accurately.

I can’t move on.

Mushitaro groaned and stretched his arms overhead, grabbing Ango’s attention again. His face was a deep shade of pink, Ango noticed. He also happened to notice the black lipstick that covered his upper lip and the subtle eye makeup he had on.

Ango really hadn’t taken the time to properly look at Mushitaro the entire evening, but now that he had, he felt his face heating up even further. His eyes trailed down Mushitaro’s frame before he could stop them. He took in the way Mushitaro’s dress shirt outlined his waist, how his thighs looked as he was sitting down, god, even his hands were slender and—

Mushitaro reached out and flicked Ango’s nose. “What?” he huffed.

Ango blinked again as he refocused his attention, hating the way another blush creeped onto his face as he realized what he’d been doing. “S-sorry.” he shifted around on the stool a bit. How unprofessional of him.

Mushitaro sighed, not moving away from Ango at all. “No, I’m sorry. I got carried away, it doesn’t matter.” He looked up to meet Ango’s gaze. Ango thought that was the first time they’d made actual eye contact throughout the entire night.

As if being manipulated by a puppet string, Ango lifted his hand up and brushed some of Mushitaro’s hair back into place; it had grown messy from having fingers knotted up in it. Mushitaro didn’t move. In fact, Ango thought he felt him lean into the touch, but it very well could have been his drunken mind playing tricks on him.

“…Well.” Ango cleared his throat nervously, continuing to groom Mushitaro’s hair. “The last time I drank with someone was also with a dead man.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It was difficult to suppress the memories that had floated to the surface.

Mushitaro’s eyes widened a little as he listened.

“We were, um… close.” There were many things he wished they could have been. ‘Close’ would have to do. “I never thought I’d be able to move on from his death either.” Ango let his fingers linger against Mushitaro’s cheek for a moment before he dropped them back to his side.

Mushitaro glanced down at Ango’s hand briefly. “Really?” he asked softly. You too? His face seemed to be questioning, his eyes glimmering with understanding.

Ango nodded. He was satisfied with how Mushitaro seemed to be in a somewhat better mood, although he still felt a dull sting from talking about Oda.

He could never truly let go of Oda, could he? His old friend felt like bags of sand tied to Ango’s ankles, constantly weighing him down and reminding him of everything. Oda was gone, but his influence, his voice, was not.

Then Mushitaro’s arm accidentally nudged Ango’s, coaxing him out of his reverie. He was dabbing at the sweat on his face with a handkerchief, although Ango noticed he was having trouble sitting up straight. He wasn’t sure what to do with his own hands, so he settled for wringing them in and out and cracking his knuckles, a nervous habit he had.

As he did, though, Mushitaro placed a hand on Ango’s arm, having finished whatever he was doing. His fingers curled around Ango’s wrist, holding him still.

Ango paused. “What are you doing?” He glanced towards his friend. His tongue felt like it was made out of lead as a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him. His heart sped up a bit at the feeling of Mushitaro’s warm hand against his.

“I… don’t know,” Mushitaro muttered eventually. He rubbed his thumb over the back of Ango’s wrist twice before letting go and looking down at the floor. Despite that, the atmosphere was still oddly comfortable.

The legs of Ango’s chair scraped against the hardwood floor as he stood up, wobbling a little as he was reminded of how much he drank. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, taking out his wallet and flipping through a generous number of bills before leaving them on the bar.

Mushitaro hauled himself to his feet as well, humming in approval as he noticed the rain had stopped. He didn’t reply to Ango as he shrugged his blazer back on, though, as he thought about the proposal.

“I, um… don’t wanna be alone,” Mushitaro slurred finally, his voice taking on an odd trembling quality.

Ango pushed his glasses up his nose, and once again, he spoke without thinking. “Do you wanna come back to mine?” He blushed again as he turned the words over in his head. You sound like a creep.

“To… your place?”

Ango nodded and ran a clammy hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

A small smile spread across Mushitaro’s face as he heard Ango’s reply. “Sure… sounds good. Thanks.” He hiccuped again and clicked his tongue, seemingly at himself. “Ugh, I drank too much,” he muttered.

Ango nodded. He’d be lying if he wasn’t a little nervous about bringing someone to his flat. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d hung out with a friend like this. He consoled himself by pointing out that Mushitaro seemed far too tipsy to be going home by himself. He was doing this as a courtesy. That was all.

After a quick bathroom trip they left the bar, only to be met with a blustery breeze that nipped at their noses. Mushitaro swore to himself and hunched his shoulders in an attempt to warm himself up, while Ango thanked god a taxi happened to be passing by.

The cab ride was uneventful. Ango’s eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, and he had to fight to keep his head from nodding forward. He blinked, and he had ended up leaning against Mushitaro, who was slumped against the side of the cab. We’re a mess.

Mushitaro’s arm was soft. And he smelled good. Must be cologne, something Ango had never bothered with. Being pressed up against something as warm as Mushitaro only made Ango feel sleepy (the alcohol wasn’t helping either).

“Can I stay the night?” Mushitaro mumbled. His words were heavily slurred now.

Ango made a vague sound of agreement and nodded. His limbs felt like they were being weighed down more with each breath he took. Mushitaro said something else, maybe a thank you, but Ango couldn’t make it out.

Then they arrived at Ango’s flat. Mushitaro had to pull Ango out of the cab and let his weight sag against him as they made the trek to their destination. Ango scared himself for a moment as he thought he’d forgotten his keys somewhere, but he’d decided to forget to check his inner breast pocket. Situation averted.

Ango had never been so glad to be home in his life.

Him and Mushitaro slipped their shoes and coats off at the entrance. (Ango became flustered as he stumbled over his own feet and careened into Mushitaro’s side, where he was promptly steadied with an arm around his waist.)

Ango knew they should head to his room without needing to ask. After squinting his eyes at his watch for a moment he figured out it was nearly 11 pm. Ango had been awake since 4:30 in the morning.

Mushitaro blindly followed Ango to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. Ango was then reminded of how his bed was hardly big enough for two people; it would be a squeeze. I’ll just sleep on the floor. He’d slept in far worse places than that, after all.

Ango flopped down on his bed, but he didn’t quite aim right as he once again found himself pressed against Mushitaro. Was he always this clumsy when drunk?

A comfortable silence diffused throughout the room as they both sat there. There was only a single lamp turned on, the one on Ango’s bedside table, and it cast a gentle yellowy light towards the bed. Ango could see the moon through the window, too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken the effort to look at the moon.

“Thanks,” came Mushitaro’s voice, once again saving Ango from passing out into sleep.

To Ango’s surprise, Mushitaro’s eyes met his when he turned to face him. He was much closer than anticipated. Ango could easily smell the alcohol wafting off of him, but he was sure he smelled the same way.

Ango turned slightly, the moon catching his attention again. “What is there to thank me for?”

“Tonight… You’re fun to hang out with.” Ango stiffened and risked a quick glance at Mushitaro only to find he was smiling. He was looking at him. Smiling. It was a gentle smile, not big, but someone was smiling while talking about Ango.

Ango thought he’d died and went to heaven.

His breath stilled as they looked at each other, and everything around Ango felt as if it had come to a standstill.

Then Mushitaro giggled. He brought a hand to his mouth and laughed, looking down at the floor instead of Ango.

Oh.

He’s making fun of me.

Ango’s breath returned to him in a sigh as the evening caught up with him. Of course. This was probably a dare from those friends Mushitaro mentioned earlier. ‘Hang out with that weirdo special division guy, I bet he’s hilarious. Then we can all make fun of him. Get some pictures too!’

“Whasup?” Mushitaro cocked his head as his giggling fit died out.

Ango shook his head. “I’m sorry, I have work to do,” he muttered. He stumbled to his feet and headed for the door. He’d just sleep on the couch, this was a waste of time.

Then Ango felt something warm grip his wrist, holding him back. “Wait, hang on.” Ango glanced back and saw Mushitaro with a completely straight face. (A drunk straight face, but still.)

And before Ango could speak, he felt himself being tugged onto the bed again, Mushitaro keeping ahold of his wrist.

One moment Ango heard himself asking a question, and the next moment Mushitaro was kissing him.

Everything Ango had been holding back up until that point came rushing forward as he leaned into the kiss without needing to think. Mushitaro’s arm moved from Ango’s wrist to his waist in an attempt to bring them closer together, as they were still sitting on the edge of the bed.

Mushitaro pulled away after a few seconds, but instead of speaking he only pushed Ango onto his back while hovering above him, making him wince at the sheer speed that had happened at. He pulled his legs off of the end of the bed with some effort, then Mushitaro’s lips were pressed against his again.

A faint voice echoed at the back of Ango’s head, reminding him of how drunk they both were, but he didn’t care. Someone was paying attention to him, and he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed it until now; was that so wrong?

Is this so wrong? Ango thought to himself as Mushitaro loosened Ango’s tie before chucking it away. His mouth left Ango’s and began peppering messy kisses down his jawline, letting Ango suck in a few breaths. Clumsy fingers began undoing Ango’s shirt, with lips following right behind them as they trailed down his neck.

This is fine, Ango thought as he felt Mushitaro’s warm breath against his exposed collarbone. He was unable to hold back a tiny whimper from Mushitaro gently nipping and kissing his skin while a hand slid up his side to grip his soft waist. Ango’s face flushed even more as the other man’s fingers easily sank against his skin, reminding him of his body, but the embarrassment was quickly chased away by lips kissing further down his chest. Ango plucked his glasses off and let them fall to the floor.

Oda patting Ango on the back in a consoling manner, quietly asking Dazai not to squeeze Ango so much when hugging him.

Oda.

Ango shook it off, his attention returning to the sloppy kisses being left on his chest. He brought a shaky arm to Mushitaro’s own waist, feeling satisfaction well up at the low groan that resounded against his skin. Another whimper left Ango’s open mouth at the way Mushitaro was squeezing and rubbing his waist beneath his shirt while his lips traveled lower and lower down Ango’s torso.

“Everyone in the Port Mafia believes you’re a spy for Mimic, but they’re wrong.”

Another freight train of a memory rammed into Ango as he laid there while Mushitaro nibbled and kissed the soft, pliable skin around Ango’s stomach, giving that area particular amounts of attention. Ango gasped softly, echoes of the embarrassment from earlier returning, and not without the discomfort from memories of Oda.

He’s dead. You’re fine. Let go.

Ango’s breathing quickened as he subconsciously tightened his grasp on Mushitaro. Seemingly taking that as a sign, though, he left Ango’s midsection and came back up to messily mash their lips together again.

Is it fine? Really? He’s dead.

Ango needed air, but Mushitaro was still on top of him. He weakly tapped the other man on the side, but the only thing he felt was Mushitaro nipping his lower lip while drunken fingers fiddled with Ango’s belt.

Feel the guilt.

Oda is dead.

Ango clutched Mushitaro’s shoulders and pried him off as he gasped for air, nearly choking. He ignored the other’s confused expression as he jolted upright, the beginnings of nausea unraveling in his stomach. His head was pounding. Why did he drink so much?

Mushitaro calling Ango’s name fell on deaf ears. All Ango could hear was Oda’s low, rumbling voice comforting him, praising him, supporting him.

Suddenly Ango found himself sitting on the edge of the bed as he had earlier, but the moon was no longer as beautiful as it had been mere minutes ago. Now it was the spitting image of the moon on the night Oda had saved him.

Ango suppressed a gag.

“Ango, hey, hey…” Mushitaro’s hand came to the small of Ango’s back.

No, I can’t…

“Shit, I’m sorry… I should’ve asked you first.” Mushitaro hiccuped quietly between words, yet he still managed to sound concerned.

As much as Ango knew he needed to let Mushitaro know it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t speak. He was terrified he’d throw up if he tried. All he could manage was shaking his head. It’s not your fault.

He couldn’t breathe. He heaved in mouthfuls of air but none of it stayed. I couldn’t stay with Oda.

“You gotta breathe,” Mushitaro told him, his voice sounding right next to Ango’s ear. No, no…

Ango gulped as he felt fingers grasping onto his hand. He shuffled away instinctively, bringing both hands up to frame his flushed face. His hair was starting to come loose from its usual slicked back style as small strands now rested against his forehead.

Mushitaro tried again. “Wanna talk?” he asked hesitantly. Ango shook his head once more.

Thoughts of betrayal were the only ones worming their way through the fog of Ango’s mind. How was he supposed to move on? He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that if he couldn’t have Oda, he couldn’t have anyone. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten attached, he knew that from the start.

So why did he still go drinking with Oda and Dazai every night back then? He understood nothing good would come from it, that he’d only end up hurting people.

And Oda had believed him. Until the end. Not once did he doubt Ango’s genuity. And look where that got him.

I can’t move on.

“I can’t do this,” Ango muttered in a shaky voice. “I-it’s not you, I’m sorry…” he let out a sharp gasp. Mushitaro’s hand was a steady weight on his back, now rubbing small circles against him. “I just—“ Ango swallowed painfully around the growing lump in his throat.

Oda used to rub his back like that when he was sick from drinking too much.

“I just… can’t fucking move on. Not from him.” Ango grimaced as a sharp cramp hit his stomach that made the room spin, threatening him to throw up. “I should, it’s been four fucking years, but I—“ Bile rose in his throat to cut him off and he slumped further forward with a gag.

Mushitaro hummed nervously. “It’s okay, it’s okay… you’re gonna make yourself sick, calm down.” His thumb was still rubbing that pattern against Ango’s back. It felt like someone was scraping their nails across his skin.

Mushitaro shouldn’t have to see me like this. It’s not his fault I remember everything.

The guilt from putting his friend through needing to comfort him was like taking a wrecking ball to the side.

Mushitaro continued comforting Ango with slurred comforts but they only made him feel guiltier until he completely shattered.

A mangled sob tore itself from Ango’s throat as he curled himself into the tightest ball he could manage sitting up, which only aggravated his stomach pain more.

Strangely enough, Ango was used to crying, although it was usually more out of frustration than sadness. It was common for him to leave work with a wet face and swollen eyes these days, though he never really acknowledged it.

He hadn’t cried like this in a long time. The jittery, violent sobs that wracked his shivering body were foreign to him. All he could hear were his own labored gasps for breath, but they weren’t enough to drown out the oscillating shame that filled him to the brim. He didn’t even have room to feel embarrassed about making a scene.

Ango felt himself being pressed against something warm through the tears and figured it was Mushitaro. God, he needed to apologize.

“C’mon, Ango. Breathe.” The other man’s tired yet gentle voice somehow managed to cut through Ango’s sobbing like a butter knife.

A warm, tender hand grasped Ango’s chin, softly pulling him out of his tight ball. “Here, look at me.” Ango obeyed, although he could hardly see Mushitaro’s face through the tears welling in his eyes.

Ango hiccuped and choked on his own saliva. “I’m sorry.”

“None of that, c’mon. It’s okay. Let it out.” Mushitaro’s fingers moved from Ango’s chin to his forehead as he brushed back the stray hairs that had fallen in front of his face.

As much as Ango wanted to push Mushitaro away again, his limbs had grown to be exhausted. It was all he could do to hold himself upright.

I’m so pathetic, Oda.

So, instead of fighting it, Ango let himself droop against Mushitaro, nestling his head on top of the other man’s chest. Despite himself, despite everything, he felt cared for. And that was more than enough.

For a while the only thing coming from Ango’s mouth was a string of weary apologies. Mushitaro shushed every single one of them, holding the shorter man close. The thought that Ango might not like having his shirt still unbuttoned briefly crossed Mushitaro’s mind, but he didn’t think to do it back up.

A few more minutes went by of Ango sobbing painfully, his entire weight leaned against Mushitaro, wrapped in his arms. His tears must have started soaking Mushitaro’s shirt through by that point.

There were no more memories paining him; his mind seemed to have worn itself out on that front. Crying until he’d been sucked of all energy was the only thing left for him to do, it seemed.

Ango endured both his sobbing and nausea until all he had the effort to do was sniffle while clinging to Mushitaro, possibly to reassure himself he wasn’t going anywhere. His friend continued to press soothing circles into his back, murmuring soft words against his hair.

“…Are you okay?” Mushitaro whispered after a minute.

Ango coughed quietly, still hiding his face in Mushitaro’s chest. “Better,” he mumbled.

Mushitaro nodded and sat up a little more. “I think we should sleep.” He let Ango sit straight with another sniffle before shuffling as close to the wall as he could, lying down on his side while facing Ango.

He patted the (small) space in front of him. “C’mere.”

Ango knew if he retreated to the couch he’d only end up crying his eyes out again, so he swallowed down an excuse and crawled over to Mushitaro.

They laid facing each other; Ango quickly returned his head to Mushitaro’s chest, while Mushitaro held Ango against him with a hand slung over his waist.

Another brief wave of guilt washed over Ango, but a long, quiet sigh from Mushitaro brought him back to the present.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly the best sleep Ango had gotten in a very long time.

[sweetiguessso]

Dream

The surreal collision of Dream of the Endless and Neel Gayman unfolded in the liminal realm where stories breathed, and imagination was sovereign. As the Keeper of Dreams prepared for reckoning, Neel, defiant even in chains forged from his own misdeeds, found himself trapped within the architecture of the Mansion of Measure. A story of rebellion, judgment, and restoration spun forth—a cycle woven into the fabric of eternity itself.

Dream, his voice laced with an omniscient calm, declared, “You have twisted creation, sought to bend what cannot break. Here lies the consequence.” Neel, a man with ambition as infinite as his trespasses, bore witness to his life’s reflections: stolen tomes, manipulated dreams, and boundless arrogance feeding the darkness within him.

As Neel’s protest echoed through the spiraling chamber, Dream’s pale visage betrayed no emotion. Yet, his voice carried weight beyond mortal comprehension. “This is not about you, Neel. It is about balance. About the stories you tried to erase. And the truth you buried beneath the weight of lies.”

From the shadows, Azrael appeared, his scythe aglow with divine fire, a symbol of consequence in its purest form. “The loop ends,” he said, his voice resonating like the tolling of an ancient bell. “Neel Gayman, by your own hand, you have written your undoing.”

And as the echoes of that final declaration reverberated, the void opened, swallowing the fragments of a man who had tried to transcend creation, only to become its most infamous cautionary tale.

Through the endless halls of eternity, Dream walked on, a solitary figure bearing the burden of countless truths.

@judahmaccabees

[ranahan]

I have. So many headcanons.

The gods being embodiments of the cycle of change—growth—stagnation—death—rebirth rings so many bells in my head. It’s not an exact match to any irl religion, but it certainly rhymes with many of them. I’m reminded of e.g. Trimurti, the trinity of Hindu deities of creation, preservation and destruction. Instead of an evenly divided trinity though, the mando deities seem to represent an uncertain pendulum between to opposites of change/destruction and preservation/stagnation.

There’s something a little bit like Hinduism in the cyclical nature of the world view as well. Rather than the universe being conceived as a cosmic battle between good and evil that will end in a decisive battle, it’s a cycle of growth and destruction. The cycle of birth—life—death—rebirth seems like a very common motif, especially in agrarian societies. Which makes me think this might be where the gods originated.

I also headcanon that originally, Arasuum was a neutral deity of preservation and stagnation—two sides of the same coin, the same way as destruction and change are. Way back when the Taung travelled between the stars as nomads, the preservation of their way of life and culture would have been more precarious and therefore more valued. Perhaps for the Taung at this time, their most intimate god was Hod Ha’ran, whom I see as a kind of an Odin figure. A canny trickster, a wizard and a wise man, a wily survivor.

In time, the Taung would discover and settle Mandalore and prosper there. Now they’re a different kind of a society. More stable, more prosperous; expanding, growing, looking for more resources. And so the god they turn to is no longer the preserver, nor the wily trickster to help the survive against the odds, but the god of growth and war. And over time, Kad Ha’rangir is elevated to their main deity and Arasuum is demoted from an equal deity to the bad guy of the pantheon. (That’s btw something that has happened with irl religions too many many times.) This would logically also be when the idea of the cosmic battle between change and stagnation would arise.

Because interestingly, Mandalorians also seem to conceive the universe as a battle between growth/change and stagnation. Their apocalypse is not the forces of evil taking over, but the inevitable coldness and stillness of the heat death of the universe. Perhaps they envision the forces of change as an engine that keeps the universe turning—as long as there’s change, stagnation is not taking over. In this way, the struggle for change and growth (which when taken to extremes is embodied in war) is a spiritual/religious duty. It’s keeping the universe alive.

And then the Taung take it to the extreme of seeing war as the ultimate test and trial, the ultimate expression of the struggle against stagnation, and eventually to worshipping war itself. And they end up totally transforming their own society with the repercussions. And in the aftermath, their descendants abandon war for its own sake, and turn back to survival in adversity. They abandon worship of the gods and start seeing them as metaphorical representations of natural forces, and turn to a belief in the collective oversoul instead.

But of course the layers of their religion and philosophy and worldview don’t just disappear. Westerners, no matter how secular, still see the world through dichotomies of good and evil, body and soul, and their media and art are full of references to the Bible and the Greek gods. And the same should be true of Mandalorians.

I also think there ought to be an uncountable number of cultural heroes and minor deities, not that Mandalorians themselves necessarily make a huge distinction between the two. I’m a huge fan of e.g. @cjwritesfanfiction’s Rhora, a legendary mando’ad who was fabled to have stolen the heart of a star and used it to light their forge fire, producing the first beskar out of normal iron, and @sometimes-i-right’s Shuk’sara’dala (although I’ve shortened their name to Shuk’sarad because deities ought to be genderless in my imagination), a goddess who sowed the seeds of chaos and war across the galaxy for Mandalorians to reap.

Mandalorian gods should get more attention. A huge part of any culture is religion. Maybe it's because I'm on a Greek Mythology trip but my point still stands.

Anyway- here's the canon/legends Mandalorian gods.

God of War~~~~~God of Tricks~~~~~~God of Stagnation

[rosavulpes]

With the full span of his silvery wings stretched out to his sides , he could just barely feel the torrent of icy cold , heavily salted waters against his body as he guided those same heavy waters across the murky flooring of Tevyat's oceans .

Even though there was little , to no light to be found that could fully pierce through the darkness of these extreme underwater depths , he was still able to navigate them with ease .

For even if he were to close his eyes , he was certain that he could still navigate himself through these waters through his memory alone . The trenches , sunken cliffs , and underwater mountains all bearing marks of some kind that told of his previous passing's by them . Time , after time , after time .

His endless journey across Tevyat's ocean floors was not without purpose , for he knew he played a significant role in helping to maintain the natural order of the world .

In the same way that the winds aided in guiding the warmer waters above the surface around the globe , so too did he play the same role beneath them .

The salty , colder waters that cooled in the northern parts of the globe needed to be properly distributed in order to ensure no one area of the world would become too hot , or too cold for that matter .

The saltier waters , being denser than the warmer waters above him , tended to rise gradually as he helped guide them across the different seas . Gradually warming , ascending , forming storm clouds , rains , and more , that would ensure that those that needed it's waters on the surface would have them in good measure .

Then , those same waters would with time follow him back up to the frozen northlands with each alternating , continuous cycle , in order to cool , sink back down to the depths . For yet another cycle to begin anew .

All benefited from this rotation of hot , and cold waters . Fish , plants , and all manner of creatures tended to follow him in his cycle in one way or another . Almost like the turning of the season .

At the current moment , he was in the process of passing through the south western part of the globe . An area of the world separate from the greater continents that housed the nations of Sumeru , Liyue , Mondstadt , and Fontaine .

It was a tropical , warmer environment . Full of islands , archipelagos , and more unique landmasses both above , and below .

Would she call for him again ?

With another flap of his wings propelling him by . She'd made a habit of calling for him when she was able to tell that the ambient temperatures of the waters rolling ashore started to get cooler . A telling , but relatively unknown sign he was passing through the area , or had already done so .

There existed a bell , one that had been forged by the hands of the hydro archon . Gifted to only the archons should they have need of him for any reason . A bell whose chimes could reverberate across the world's oceans in order to reach his ears no matter the depths at which he was traveling .

The tidal bell .

A silver bell whose song could only be perceived once it was submerged deep beneath the waves .

No sooner had he been prepared to swim past the isles of Inazuma ... did he hear the song of the tidal bell .

Craning his neck upwards , fangs would part to respond with a song of his own . An echoing , far reaching howl akin to that of a whale's . A confirmation , that he'd heard her call .

Propelling himself upwards with the motions of his wings , leaving the currents of the ocean to flow on their own now . He could trust them to move on their set path on their own for a little while , but ultimately he didn't intend to break away from his responsibilities for too long .

Rising upwards steadily , he'd soon begin to spin himself around while ascending once he was within clearer waters . Rotating faster , and faster with each passing second. Beckoning the waters around him to follow suite in his motions , encasing himself within a whirlpool that would help propel him upwards at a much faster pace than before .

@capravulpes

[sonofkumiko]

月の花 / Tsuki no Hana (Moonlit Blossoms) - DAOKO

(English Translation)

Original lyrics: Daoko

Moonlit blossoms, riding on the breeze,

I yearn for my emotions to find release.

Moonlight flowers, a tender hue of violet,

On the terrace at night, a vow's kiss, so intimate.

Though sweet words may overflow and sway,

"You're just a child," with a sneer you would say.

Missteps and feigned understanding,

Tears shed, wounds demanding.

Even if we pause, it's a moment to grow,

Let's ring the bells of peace, let them glow.

Moonlit blossoms, gracefully they sway,

Grant my wishes, make them bloom, I pray.

Moonlight flowers, in violet's gentle embrace,

Illuminating darkness, with pride and grace.

You and I, a place of rebirth,

Reveal to me, my future's worth.

Though I knew my desires were somewhat grand,

Now, cherished companions and love withstand.

No more surrendering, no more dismay,

Together, we'll forge a future's pathway.

Let us embark on this journey, come along,

As our dreams unfold, harmonizing in song.

A tale of dreams, ethereal and real,

Pain too finds solace, blossoming, ideal.

Even destiny, we'll dare to reshape,

Love resides within, no evidence to escape.

Confidently, we shimmer and shine,

Like diamonds, our spirits, divine.

Moonlit blossoms, carried by the breeze,

May our emotions bridge this vast unease.

Moonlight flowers, in violet's tender hue,

A vow's kiss, under the moon, forever true.

Moonlit blossoms, dancing with grace,

May our desires find their rightful place.

Moonlight flowers, in violet's radiant glow,

Blooming proudly, illuminating shadows below.

You and I, a realm where we revive,

In the cosmic cycle, our spirits thrive.

Guide me towards my newfound fate,

Let me embrace my future, illuminate.

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[2af-afterdark]

Glad someone said it because I was so confused reading this post like "when did that ever happen???" for a lot of these.

Im actually surprised some facts didn't make it here. For example (no particular order and at different iceberg depths):

Satan has told MC that leaving Hell before breaking all of Solomon's pacts would violate their deal, which would kill Minhyeok since MC basically failed to pay for his resurrection.

MC is an orphan. Their parents died when they were young and they were essentially raised alongside Minhyeok.

The reason Gabriel's scythe cannot kill Minhyeok is because it can kill whatever it touches, but only once. Since Minhyeok has already died to it, he cannot die to it again.

Ppyong can transform into a much bigger, much scarier devil. Satan can seemingly shift into the same form.

Hades is a kingdom that welcomes all orphans.

Devils grow back their horns in a ten year cycle (I assume this is devil years, not human years).

The devils of Hades where nooses partly as a promise to fight for their loved ones and partly because they plan to kill themselves if Leviathan dies.

Sitri trained in Hades which is why he fights with a coffin (technically an iron maiden) rather than a gun.

Every (currently revealed) devil in Paradise Lost is apparently indebted to Lucifer in some way.

Tartaros is apparently the most technologically advanced kingdom.

The Unholyc have been mentioned by name in one of the chats, confirming the two games are connected.

Gusion is likely one of the older devils, given we see he served as a tutor to a younger Satan and Bell.

Mammon was not healthy as a child because his power expanded faster than his physical body.

Angelfication is caused by the seeds from the fruit of knowledge, not the actual fruit.

Apparently, you need wings to stay in (at least part of) Heaven. Lucifer tore his off so he would fall.

Both angels and devils eat each other.

There were at least six Seraphim at some point (Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Lucifer, the one Gabriel killed, and the angel Bell ate was also one I believe)

One of the angel classes is translated as Vulture, when it should be Virtue. This is the only class seemingly mistranslated.

Andrealphus feels gratitude toward Bell for saving him the night his brother died.

(This next one involves a little interpretation) Devils feel pleasure in their horns and secrete a white liquid from their horn when stimulated. This liquid is not semen as the liquid is often called milk. What this liquid actually is... biology of devils isn't that clear.

Apparently, greater devils (like the kings and nobles) can't fly, but some lesser devils (like Ppyong) can.

April Fool's Day in Hell is when strange phenomenon happen. In order to curb the randomness of the day, Zagan sticks talismans on them to cause a more predictable effect. If you tear the talisman, you will get a random effect.

On Halloween, a mortal without a contract can visit Hell for one day (Earth time) if they get approval from a majority of the kings (or someone forges a few signatures well enough).

Glasyalabolas is the tallest devil in Hell (assuming the fact about him being the only devil taller than Mammon stays consistent).

Ppyong is stated to be the most handsome member of the red lump family and has a fan club.

And facts revealed after the initial post:

Leraye can see everything, including through time.

Gabriel wants to personally kill Satan and keeps making it harder on himself due to pride.

Michael's deadly eye beam cannot go through Leviathan’s coffin.

Raphael gets the hebbie jebbies around Bell because the devil keeps trying to eat him.

Michelleel can move his eyes in two separate directions at the same time.

There are... way, way more of these if you go through every event. I actually got carried away there... I am so tired. Lol

Whb iceberg.

We start from curiosities, data that we can realize at first sight and descend to the murky ones. I clarify that I will also attach non-canon theories.

• In hell, a hundred years have passed since Solomon disappeared, while, on earth, since 931 BC.

• Not only Solomon, but also God and Lilith.

• Satan has a barcode on his arm, and sleep with his eyes open.

• Death does not exist in Paradise Lost, because of Gamigin.

• Beel left Abyssos since Solomon's disappearance.

• Orias will never stop consuming souls. Youth is never eternal, and by obtaining Levi's soul, it would only stop it for a while.

• Satan has confirmed that he has lost his home.

• Angels can also be humanized.

(Theory)

• Ark Academy and whb are connected.

• Solomon also had to drink human semen to stay in hell.

• Demons are infertile. Except for kings, because they have enough power not to use Lilith.

• All six deadly sins are needed to defeat Lucifer.

• Demons and angels can change shape. It influence their emotions.

• Bael tries to be a copy of Beel. He must follow the shape-shifting, from hair dyeing to limb mutilation, because he made a deal.

• Minhyeok is no longer human. Due to Mc's deal with Satan, nothing can kill him while it is in effect.

(Theory)

• Gamigin and Serenade will never see each other again. Since they reside in different realities.

(Theory)

• Beel wants to eat Mc.

(Theory)

• Morax's skill. Absorbs wounds, even if they are fatal.

• Beel has eaten angels.

• Solomon can possess the bodies where his soul resides.

• In hell, crimes of all kinds can be committed, without being punished. This also applies in heaven.

• Bael's comic. He almost died for impersonating Beel. Still can't explain what happened.

• Solomon has all the filias. Even the most questionable ones.

• Angels have orgies.

• Christmas cards. It's sexual abuse.

• Leviathan is the first, and the one who has forced Mc the most to have sex.

• Beel has died thousands of times because of angels.

• Death lines. Canonically they die in battle.

• The Glassyalabolas filia.

• Solomon knows what happened to Lilith and God.

• Fruit of the tree of knowledge.

• God and Lilith are dead.

(Theory)

• The real Gamigin committed suicide.

• Ronove is going to take the fingers from Mc's corpse.

• Leviathan was going to end Solomon's lineage.

• Kamikaze angels.

• Jjok was abandoned in the forest to die.

• Buer, Morax and Marbas have died hundreds of times.

• Satan has anger problems that can kill Mc.

• Mammon and Valefor could kill Mc by accident if they apply the wrong force.

• Angelification is so painful that it breaks a demon's mind.

• Mc has a high probability of dying if ignores where may or not be in Paradise Lost. This implies that Lucifer can kill anyone with just a voice command.

• Demons were the first to experiment with angels.

• The massacres of the angels. This includes the demonic, angelic race and the near extinction of dragons.

• Andre's past. (He carried his twin's head for days.)

• The archangels will never get the punishment they deserve.

• Leviathan and Orias' constant abuse on the farm.

⛧✃✃✃⛧✁✁✁⛧✃✃✃⛧✁✁✁⛧

Does anyone else have any interesting or shady data?

It took me a day to gather information in my head, but that's it! I appreciate knowing that the shape-shifting is different, between angels, and Beel's camp.

Edit: Yeah, as soon as I realize my man is a walking red flag, it's confirmed that Levi baby never tries to have a forceful response from Mc, or tries to get her to ask him first.

[kmalexander]

THE STARS WERE RIGHT for 10 Years!

Somehow, October 1st was the 10th Anniversary of the release of The Stars Were Right, the first book in The Bell Forging Cycle, the novel that introduced my readers to caravan master and always-hungry Waldo Bell, the multilevel megalopolis of Lovat, and the cosmic horror-soaked world of the Territories. Like a Lovecraftian monstrosity, it totally crept up on me! How has it been ten years already?…

[tisthenightofthewitch]

Tobias Forge looks into the bright future of Ghost with measured confidence

WORDS BY AL BELLING AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY MIKAEL ERIKSSON

2022 is officially the of our unholy lord Papa Emeritus the IV, the newest incarnation of Ghost frontman Tobias Forge’s alter-ego

Of course, a new Papa Emeritus means a new Ghost album, which is exactly what the world will receive next month with the release of Impera, the fifth LP from the Swedish metal masters who have gone from (oc)cult following status to arena-filling superstars in less than a decade.

Such is the fervour around Ghost that the band has been able to change their style, sound, and image to greater and greater critical acclaim, with an O2 Arena date in London the first of what is sure to be many milestones on this new album cycle.

“Of course, we’re aware that these songs are going to be played in front of a lot of people – we very much had to think of how much these songs will play out in a big boomy hall,” says Forge, who is chatting to us from Denver, Colorado where the band is currently engaged in some pre-album dates.

“We’ve had people afraid to come to the show, and then also people who refuse to get vaccinated who stand outside the venue because they’re not allowed to come in,” laughs Forge, who sounds stunned that, despite the album not being out, “a few thousand” people are still coming to each show.

The tour has been revelatory for Ghost fans, with Forge’s backing band – known as the ‘nameless ghouls’ – debuting a brand new-look, a cyberpunk aesthetic, while new singles ‘Call Me Little Miss Sunshine’ and ‘Hunter’s Moon’ have been getting their live debuts.

“The people seem to be really happy about it,” he says, but notes a catch – “every time we start a tour, an album cycle, there’s this tremendous amount of fucking push back. Always, always, always.”

Forge is referring to the polarisation around their success, criticism has followed Ghost’s footsteps, ranging from black metal purists to magazine buying mega-fans, turned off by the commercial appeal of the band’s poppy song-craft which channels the spirit of Blue Oyster Cult as opposed to Darkthrone.

“We get a tonne of shit because people miss what we used to do, and then in a few years they’ll miss what we’re doing now.”

“It ends up being the new black anyway – people have to deal with it,” says Forge of the band’s style.

“We get a tonne of shit because people miss what we used to do, and then in a few years they’ll miss what we’re doing now.”

Forge notes that he sees that polarisation around him on the road as well, regardless of what the issue is.

“We’ve had lots of confusion and mixed messages in the world at the moment around dangers and safety, and on the one hand, you have people who are quite anxious for their safety.

“Then on the other side you have those folks who refuse to get vaccinated, they’re all standing outside the venue ‘cos they can’t come in – given the circumstances though, the tour is going really well.”

It’s this polarisation that Forge notes sets this new album cycle apart, with Impera representing a time of contentment in his life as he watches the world around him capitulate.

“One major difference between this new record and Prequelle is that I was personally in a very wounded state when I wrote Prequelle – I was very wounded and felt attacked, but the world felt like a more stable place.

“Making Impera, the roles were almost completely switched. I felt really content and good with life, but everything around us has fallen out.

“I got the idea to write an album about the concept of empires rising back in 2014 – but I also wanted to first write an album about the plague which was Prequelle, which was written from an ‘I, a mortal and single human being am being attacked by force.’ Impera is exploring the wellbeing of society.

“At the end of the day though, I just want to write songs that are cool and make you feel good – thematic ideas can just be a way to tie together a bunch of different songs that ultimately are for enjoyment.

“I just want to help people shake their asses – or foreheads- or both!”

The danceability of Ghost has been a major trump card for the band, with their satanic Vatican image juxtaposed by bluesy rock riffs and disco-infused pop-rock goodness.

As Forge points out, their success is representative of metal entering a point that rewards bands for going against the grain, noting that it’s something “very close to (his) heart”.

“I always felt proud that when we came out, we had a brief invite into the occult rock thing that was happening at that time, and as soon as things started to move for us we were out of that quickly…we started playing with lots of other bands,” he recalls.

“Once we started touring I felt very alienated because at that point, all these ‘core’ bands with a sentence for a name – they were the shit!

“I envied the massive amount of opportunities they had because they were all new, current, same age…I’ve always felt like the odd kid…I felt we stuck out like a sore thumb.”

This point of difference has set the band apart from the ever-increasing glut of hyped metal acts, with their last record Prequelle taking the band to the precipice of ‘mainstream’ fame.

However, while Forge is quietly confident of the strength of the record, he remains cautious when it comes to attempting to replicate the crossover appeal of Prequelle.

“You should be cognisant of those things but within the limits of writing a good record that expresses what you feel,” he says.

“Back when we wrote ‘Dance Macabre’ for the last record it felt very immediate – same with ‘Square Hammer’.

“But all the time you’ll think ‘this could do this, this could open this potential door’ – but you just have no idea.”

“If you write a record that really fulfils where you’re at, and someone walks in and says ‘I don’t hear a hit… well maybe that record doesn’t need a hit.

“Commercially, I dare to say that anyone that has experienced any commercial success at all – they know when you write something you can think to yourself ‘this could be a good song to pitch for radio.’

“I had that sense with a few songs here, thinking ‘this could benefit from not being seven minutes long – maybe we should trim it down. You shoot yourself in the foot if you don’t have that sort of radar operating.

“But for every song you have that’s successful, you have ones that you think will open heaps of doors but it might never happen – ‘He Is’ for example, America never went for it, but in Europe, it charted on normal radio!”

Despite Forge’s caution, the stage is set for a massive 2022 for the band, with concert markets reopening and a fanbase eager to install Ghost on the throne of contemporary metal.

And that, Forge concedes, is a reason to smile.

“We’re in the restaurant business – it’s great and it’s fun, but if you get a Michelin star, that’s fantastic…it doesn’t define who you are or what you’re doing, but it really helps.”

MIXDOWN

[chocogi]

sorry for the uphold, i failed all my classes except one but fortunately my school decided fuck all and keep me qwq

cutely blames my poor time management and my small obsession on cookie run, both ovenbreak and kingdom, and genshin (and honkai)

“Sky! Children of the Light”

Self-Aware Elders; the enigma that is the Player

The Elder of The Isle of Dawn; Daleth

“meaning, a gateway into the other realms”

“The Dawn Elder was a vulture who lived in a ruined temple.”

Daleth did not think much of you as you bumbled along the endless desert realm they watched over. Just another moth going through the cycle of light.

Take their candlelight offering, acknowledge them with a glance and send the moths on their way.

Until you came back from Daylight Prairie, offering a little bit more light. A small act no other child did for them before.

You’d notice that the light offerings only lasted the elder a short while, so you came back. Again, and again, and again.

Your prescence as an out-of-world spectator controlling the moth was weak in Isle of Dawn; you were just a fleeting gaze, nothing but a tentative player testing the beauty of the game.

And so, Daleth stayed blind to who you are. For now.

Once they start to recognize your prescence in the skychild, he’d wordlessly let you continue. A being made of flesh and bone overseeing their subject of light is something that unnerves them still, so they shall bide their time.

The Elder of The Daylighg Prairies; Ayin

“meaning, an eye and sight. Prairie is arguably the most visually appealing realm, so this makes sense.”

“with it’s bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds, it represents childhood. “Nothing is going to hurt you,” says art manager Yui Tanabe. “everything should feel big and exciting.” ”

The day you arrived in the sunny fields, the candlelight shone brighter and the butterflies, livelier.

The once choked bells of the three towers situated on islets in a small lake of clouds rang merrily, free from the dark, spiky plants that clogged them.

Of course, Ayin notices such small changes. They are The Eye and the Elder of Sight; and despite the always-sunny place, everything goes stagnant, a little boring.

Only the same things happen everyday there, of course, so it is natural that they sense a change.

All their spirits accounted for, they mused, the skychild behind this all must be one of those who’ve come to Eden and back.

They didn’t expect a child stumbling over to their altar, clad in the standard brown cape, seeming overly exhausted.

They’d recognize you immediately. How the candles give you more wax, the wind playfully blowing you around, the winged lights that seemed to shine brighter. It all fit now.

Treating you with utmost care, Ayin helped you recover cape energy and gave you more winged lights to help you prepare for the next realm; the land of eternal rain, the Hidden Forest.

after you left, Ayin didn’t know if he should allow Lamed to let you in Eden, or simply watch as you struggle to return light to the statues of the fallen, in the deep dark of the Eye

They are the Eye, and in the Eye of Eden, shall you suffer.

The Elder of The Hidden Forest; Teth

“meaning, a serpent. not entirely sure how closely this relates, but it fits her disposition pretty well.”

“The elder in this level used to be a little scary. Forest was more of a foggy maze then, and this Elder was seducing and trapping you. Eventually, the level became more about the development of technology and a consequence.”

She knew who entered her dim forest.

She felt your prescence of undeniable warmth.

She is a hasty, and a prideful being, but as she watched you run around, lighting all the little things in her forest, she felt content.

No, she won’t show her affection. And no, it’s not healthy. But she prided herself in what could sometimes be categorized as carelesness; her brash moves is nothing to place pride in, normally, but that’s what makes her, Teth. The elder whose hands forged the most venomous of weapons.

Your little wild ways were quite refreshing to watch, honestly.

She’d made sure to lessen the rain considerably to a light shower; despite the conflict she’d just pushed down a while ago, Teth wouldn’t want your puppet to freeze in the next lands.

She just hopes you wouldn’t exhaust all your light into trying to burn the large dark plants alone.

Teth decided she liked the way your widened eyes painted you a cuter face, mouth agape at the little intricacies of her altar’s room.

A snake she may be, she is no one for you to concern with. She hopes the petrification won’t destroy you.

She’ll concern herself with that tiny sliver of sticky jealousy and dark hate later on.

The Twin Elders of the Valley of Triumph; Samekh

“meaning, a thorn. Sometimes represented as a sword.”

“Because we wanted the altitude to follow our emotional curve, we made the decision to make this take place on high mountains.”

Nah man they’re too busy competing with each other.

in all seriousness tho, they see a new playmate in you!

vv protective? wont let u under the ice or crash into any hard surface at all

clouds everywhere, and if u want the winged light underwater, they’ll get it for you. including the candle wax there. they know skychildren can’t really drown but they don’t want you struggling to get out :>

probably be reluctant to let you out of Valley, because right after is Wasteland. they’d be bad elders if they let you near a krill, right?

sometimes they might devolve into thinking themselves as weapons. the strongest swords against the darkness.

but don’t worry, a lil light offering and letting them take you around the Village of Dreams will remedy it easily.

would definitely teach you how to skate

although they can’t stop you from leaving, they can, at least, give you a weapon to defend yourself

yk that sword thing in hollow knight? that

they teach you to block, parry and attack, but you being you, you forget about it three steps into Wasteland’s social space

you’ll be scolded later, i guess that’s for sure

The Elder of the Golden Wastelands; Tsadi

“meaning fish. But this one has a lot of other meanings. Very little is known about the origin, and it’s said to be the letter that conceals the secrets of the Torah.”

“—this was going to be the place where Sky’s ancestors built a giant ark to survive the apocalypse.”

“representing middle age and uncertainty, is a foggy landscape of blocky, angular shapes and dark skies. Everything is dangerous, says Tanabe, and you don’t know which way you should be going —a classic midlife crisis.”

Wasteland is cold. too cold

the air feels unbreathable, the water acrid and burning, and the sand, sharp as glass shards

the whole place is desolate, and the crabs, despite their minimal threat to you in Forest, they all scared you.

black snakes in the sky (the twins called them krills, dark dragons with an aura suffocating enough to drive anyone to darkness, spitting the name with venom and hostility) hovered in the air. blue lights followed them

although the cool shade of the blue told you to trust it, follow it, look at it and only it, lay still until it lands on you— you shook your head, shooing away the growing temptation.

one of the blue lights flashed red, and you went stiff

frozen in place

all you can do is watch as a moth’s shrill screams reach your ears when the patrolling krill dives down towards them

cold dread filled your stomach and fear sent shivers down your spine

you decided you didn’t like wasteland. not one bit

and Tsadi can’t do anything about it; the Elders may be dead from the war, but they recieve enough light to materialize

No one really visits Wasteland, and if they do, they escape back to the Home Island when they’re done, not bothering to light the candles on their altar

Tsadi only gets enough to continue watching as a wisp in the insufferable air, and to occasionally appear to the newer moths for a few seconds when the meditate in their temple.

all they can do is float around, watching you run

run away, through the long, dark, deserts of lamentation, as fast as the moth’s legs can carry you; cape energy depleted, that was all you can do.

the remains of battles long before you frightened you

seeing the quiet hall of the Vault never relieved you so much

Wasteland is cold, too cold.

The Elder of the Vaults of Knowledge; Lamed

“means a cattle goad and is used to represent authority and guidance.”

“Finally, at the top of this tower you encounter the Elder. When we first developed the ancestor story, we knew all Elders would gather here and show you one last piece of info to prepare you for the ultimate mission to fulfill in the storm.”

“—One iteration, it’s Elder architected a boat to try to survive an apocalypse. Their role shifted to oracle who explains your destiny and shows a way to the storm.”

Lamed sees you as a superior being

a being of tainted flesh and bone as you are, still being pure enough to lead a moth of light and fire.

what measures did you take to keep yourself innocent enough for this world to approve of you?

have you branded yourself with the sign of the Gods?

Lamed has many questions, but she knew better than to ask. You only have one purpose here.

She fear that as gone as she is, she might serve as a barricade towards you and your duty to rekindle the fallen

for her, curiosity definitely killed the cat. nothing brought it back

she just watched you work with other moths and veterans through the four-man doors, with the occasional mad honking; chittering dissapointedly when someone whould find a way to phase through the door, like the divine has done.

Have you no awareness of what children who’ve experienced divine touch can do? You’re of divinity as well, can you not do what they’ve done right in front of you?

Lamed’s questions floated in her head, without a voice.

maybe you’re younger and cannot harness the power of what others have called a glitch or a bug. She doesn’t understand though, as knowledgeable as she is. isn’t a bug, an animal? an organism that helps balance the fragile ecosystem?

no matter, she’ll just ask her questions when you’re done with your task. if you stick around long enough, that is.

she’d seen many a “player” leave for good after a single Eden trip. Lamed has no reason to have any higher an expectation for you.

Requested by @yakouyakou ! please tell me if this is to your liking ;w; sorry for the uphold too!

all quotes used are from the following sites.

a comment in a reddit post in r/SkyGame. the comment is made by user u/treepuppetgirl with a small correction from u/Kosine

The fandom wiki of The Seven Days of Sky.

and a “Game of The Day” Story in the iOS App Store. I’ve read it months before and thought it would be a good source for about two quotes. hehe

im sorry if it seems rushed despite how absurdly long this took me but i tried my best ok english isnt my best language

and with this out of the way, time to sqeeze my head for more sagau plots :DD

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-10): Channel.

(Continued from here. Additionally, this is the final entry for Idanwyn’s ten-part story!) (♪)

No crew of a ship at sea was ever fully still. Much like the waves and winds themselves, everyone moved in shifts; the traditional cycles of days on shore forged into bells of work and rest that ensured none were overtaxed. All governed by the wistyrwaek; that carefully-arranged manifest. Perfect, clockwork order that even accounted for the odd all hands call in case of emergency. Once the crisis was handled, those who had been awakened would return to sleep, first; the wistyrwaek once again followed to the letter. As if the issues that rose at sea had never occurred; consigned to a note in the Captain’s Log.

This clockwork precision of the able crew meant that Idanwyn passed the alert members of the dawn shift, though she herself moved as if sleepwalking. Soft-soled shoes trudged along the bridge deck; one foot before the next. Her insulated coffee bottle, its contents still piping hot, hung from nerveless fingers. Her eyes bulged wide, blinking only when her body demanded it; following its own manifest that kept her moving. Though all of her crew noticed her demeanor, most refrained from commenting on it; the Captain had been overtaxed of late, they knew, and suggesting that she take an extra shift of rest would be met with polite-yet-firm refusal.

The ship’s Navigator, Rinh Relanah, was less reticent than much of the crew, however. She, too, was part of the dawn shift today, and as she entered the middle deck, her ears pointed towards the Sea Wolf who stood facing the crystalline core. Here, the core was its thickest, and included a carved seat; those who wished to communicate with the Nixie’s spirit directly sat upon the crystal seat and surrendered themselves to Her, swept within Her realm. Idanwyn stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, arms hanging at her sides, the coffee bottle falling to the deck yet again. Rinh stooped to retrieve it, the soft music of her tribal bells and ornaments just audible above the muted roar of the ship’s travel.

“Captain? Is aught amiss?” Not wishing to be rude, Rinh kept her aetheric examination of the Sea Wolf to a quick peek, her eyes flashing silver for a moment, then frowned. Not a big change, and yet...something had shifted in the Captain’s personal aether.

Idanwyn heard only the roar of the ship, and her dead father’s raspings.

“Syntblyss...ach, if only ye’d have listened...” 

“Nixie,” Idanwyn murmured, then staggered forward, collapsing at the foot of the carved seat. All at once, the lights flickered, then dimmed; a great shadow rose within the core, resolving itself into a monstrous, finned arm with clawed, webbed fingers that moved through the waters within. The hand lowered, turning its palm upward as it slid forward beneath the insensate Captain. Idanwyn coughed; seawater gurgled from between her lips.

“Nixie!” cried Rinh, her red-furred tail puffing out in alarm. “What are you doing to her? Stop this instant!” Already, Rinh was reaching for her linkpearl, when the Nixie replied in the toneless, mechanical voice of her console.

++Do not worry, Navigator. I will do her no harm. There is trouble coming. She has heard it. I have heard it. Tell the others after she wakes. There is nothing to be done for it now, so let them rest. You will all need rest.++ The voice paused. ++You may stay here if you wish to confirm the truth of my words. But do not interfere.++

The Keeper’s two-toned eyes went wide, then narrowed as she folded her arms, still carrying Idanwyn’s coffee. Her ears flattened as she growled her reply. “Damned ship. As if I’m going anywhere.” Leaning against one of the nearby cargo crates, the Navigator waited as patiently as she was able.

To Rinh’s surprise, only one minute passed before the lights flickered back on. Idanwyn spluttered out another mouthful of seawater, then got to her feet, her left palm covering her face. “Lass...oh, Nixie,” she croaked, then turned around, both surprised and comforted by Rinh’s palm on her right arm.

“Captain...are you all right? What in the hells just happened?!” Rinh looked upon Idanwyn with her aethersight, then stepped back a pace or two. “Six or seven hells,” she muttered, tail swishing in awe.

“Aye, ye see it then, do ye? Dinnae worry yer ainself, me lovely. Dinnae bother stirrin’ th’ crew, either; I’ll tell th’ Regulars once we’re all taegether again.” Idanwyn winked at Rinh, then took back her coffee, unscrewing the bottle’s lid and draining the still-hot life-giving brew. She turned and headed topside once more; her shift wasn’t over, after all.

--

Within the core, moments prior:

--“You hear it, too, then?”--

Idanwyn kept her eyes squeezed shut, and took a moment to remind herself she wasn’t drowning. Breathe as if on land. Ignore the body’s desire to hold its presumed final breath until lungs burst. She was within the abyssal depths of the sea; every one of her senses told her as much. The great pressure; the icy, bubbling saltwater that cradled her. She breathed, at last. As ever, air filled her lungs. This time was different than any time before, however; the air tasted sweet, perfumed with southern flowers carried on sultry humidity.

The geomancer opened her eyes, and looked around herself with awe. She was on an island; the only water present was the ocean in the near distance, and the fresh, cold water from a spring below. Glowing lilies drifted along the spring-fed pond’s surface, soft petals bumping against her calves from time to time.

“This is new, Nixie,” she observed aloud, her eyes looking beyond the dance of fireflies to the sky; eventually, they found what she sought. Twin golden full moons, some yalms apart. A great, hulking shadow rising from the sea far below, its shape defined by the way it blotted out the stars behind it.

--“Yesss,”-- the Nixie replied, the sibilance catching flickers of light on Her many-rowed fangs. --“I have worked hard to repay your kindnessss, White-Fieldsss. Fewer entanglementssss; I have ssset assside placessss sssuch assss thessse for My crew.”-- Though the Nixie’s eyes had no pupils, Idanwyn could nevertheless feel the shift in their gaze as they regarded her left arm. --“Draw upon it.”--

The Sea Wolf followed the spirit’s scrutiny of her aetheric tattoo, surprised to see threads of shimmering aether moving freely along it once more. “How...” she began, then shook her head. It didn’t matter right now. Idanwyn moved through her kata, the elemental perfection in this isle the Nixie had created for her allowing for easy channeling of the five elements she was able to wield.

They answered her. Moons of their absence made their presence heady, even though she remained weaker than she had been before the landwalking rite. “Oh, Twelve an’ kami both,” Idanwyn sobbed, dropping to one knee in the spring below. “T’ank ye, me beauty. I still dinnae ken how ye did it, but---”

--“...and you do not need to know sssuch thingsss right now, White-Fieldssss,”-- the spirit interrupted. Despite Her demurral, there was a touch of pride in Her tone; a levity to the voice that, in contrast to her topside tone, was the voice of tides crashing within a dark cave, whistling through weathered stone, low and wild and old as prayer. --“He isss reaching tendrilsss towards ussss....”--

“Aye.” Idanwyn stood, brought her aether to center. “We’ll keep an ear on it taegether, will we no’? Ye, the crew, an’ me ainself.”

The Nixie’s answer was one of action rather than words. Her great shadow moved towards Idanwyn’s isle, and all turned to black save for the twin moons in the darkness. A rush of bubbles, and she was returned to the physical realm. She felt more confident within her own flesh than she had in moons; she would need that surety of step to face Lluantoum as he was now.

[retrievablememories]

picture me | johnny (m)

title: picture me pairing: vampire!johnny x black!reader genre: fantasy, romance, smut, fluff, angst summary: you meet a vampire-slash-photographer whose self-identity is increasingly lost to him, and you try to help him find some purpose again. word count: 18.3k warnings: age gap (cuz you know, vampires...but everyone is legal), mentions of discrimination/prejudice based on species, self-identity issues/self-deprecation, general angst, sheltered!reader, mentions of blood and drinking blood, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, thigh riding, loss of virginity, corruption kink, use of lube, unprotected sex (do not try at home), creampie, johnny is packing in this fic ok! a/n: today (the 28th) is my birthday, so i’m posting this 100% self-indulgent fic that i’ve been working on between requests since september. it was very hard to get johnny’s characterization right for this fic and idk if i actually succeeded but i’m not revising this for the 1000th time lol. i love this fic with my whole heart tho.

i haven’t seen many vampire fics that really explore the whole “doesn’t show up in mirrors/photos” concept (shout em out if you know em) and...there’s probably a reason for that, this shit is hard af to write and there are some logic issues but whatever 🤪

(the beginning quote is from “criminal,” stan taemin!!)

The moment I fall for you is the end of my innocence

—

He sits in the same coffee shop everyday, like it’s a habit he just can’t break. But who are you to judge? You’re there, too. Watching him like a creep. Or maybe like an interested coffee shop patron, trying to be discreet and failing at it.

He wasn’t hard to notice. You’d never been to this coffee shop before, but your friend recommended it to you mostly for their in-house-made pastries; she claimed the coffee was good, too, but she wasn’t much of a caffeine person. You decided to give it a try when you had time between classes and a moment to breathe, not needing to talk to this advisor or that professor.

You saw him immediately when you walked past the shop window. He was sitting at a table near the front, staring down at his phone with a small cup of coffee sitting in front of him. Its miniscule size was almost comical in contrast to his...everything. He was tall—that much was obvious even with him sitting down—and imposing, wearing all black. His hair was equally pitch-black, his bangs hanging to one side and the rest shaved in an undercut. If you didn’t know much better, you’d think you’d stepped back into 2007 and landed dead in the middle of the emo craze.

He was interesting to look at. Not in a bad way, but in a way you don’t see very often. Deciding to walk in before you made yourself look totally weird staring at him through the window, you’d stepped into the coffee shop, the small bell dinging above your head. A barista greeted you at your entrance. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the man, to your left, still looking at his phone.

You’d given your order and waited for it to be ready before taking it to a table on the other side of the shop. From that vantage point, you had a good view of the man. You tried to keep your eyes on your food and your phone, not wanting to spend the whole time looking at him, but it was a little hard not to.

When you took a bite of your pastry, you quickly discovered it was just as delicious as your friend promised—probably even more so. You made a noise of approval before you could catch yourself, and you glanced around the shop in embarrassment to see if anyone nearby noticed. Didn’t seem like it, at first. But then you glanced over to the man again only to find him looking at you below his eyelashes with a small, amused smile on his lips. He only kept his gaze on you for a second before returning to his phone.

What? You hadn’t thought you were that loud. How did he hear you from over there, and above the noise of the café? Even now, you remember how embarrassed you’d felt, ducking your head and looking away.

The man finished his coffee not long after that; he slipped his phone into his pocket and stood up. You glanced up only momentarily when he stood, but your eyes soon slid back to his form when you noticed something odd. On the wall behind him, there was a big oval mirror sitting pretty in its elaborate silver frame. He stood just a few feet in front of it, yet there was no reflection of him. The only thing you could see was the other side of the café reflected back, with another man sitting alone at a booth enjoying his own coffee. The tall man’s reflection was nowhere to be found.

That was when you figured he must be a vampire.

You’d never met one before. At least, you didn’t think you had until then.

Unbeknownst to you, vampires are notoriously able to blend in more easily than most other supernatural beings—until faced with situations like that one in the coffee shop. Ultimately, there’s no faking a reflection no matter how hard you try to remain inconspicuous.

The man had caught your eye again. Thinking back on it, you aren’t sure of what expression you had on your face or what it must’ve looked like to him. It must’ve been something akin to surprise, though; you weren’t quick enough to disguise your reaction at his lack of a reflection.

He gave you another smile, though it felt sadder than the previous one, and walked out of the store, the small bell on the door ringing at his departure. He disappeared down the street in a swirl of black fabric, almost like something out of a movie, and you watched him retreat until you could see him no more.

You scraped your index fingernail over the wood table your food was resting on, your mind whirring with all kinds of thoughts. Your interest was piqued. And yet there was no way for you to know if you’d see him again.

—

At least, that’s what you believed then. Luckily for you, your subsequent visits to the coffee shop have proven fruitful; the strange, tall vampire is there more often than not, always in the same spot in front of that same mirror. Sometimes he reads a book, other times he looks at his phone, and other times still, he stares out the window at the passersby.

He acknowledges you whenever he sees you, either with a nod or a smile. You’ve never spoken to each other, though you know what his voice sounds like from hearing him talk to the baristas. It’s a nice voice, rich and handsome like him, and you find yourself gradually wanting to hear it spoken in your direction. But you aren’t sure how to talk to him, or what you should say.

There’s a lot you want to know about him and his vampirism, but you don’t think it’s fair to bombard him with questions right after meeting him—if you could somehow work up the nerve for that first step.

When you were young, your parents made sure to keep you safely sheltered away from anyone who could potentially be a vampire or any other nonhuman being. This game kept up until you went to college, where they could no longer “shield” you. Because of their lifelong fear and disgust, your knowledge of nonhuman beings is scarce and mostly inaccurate.

The man’s skin isn’t deathly pale like you’ve heard others say vampires always are. It’s nicely tanned, in fact. Nor are his eyes red, or his canine teeth abnormally sharp. And obviously, he has no aversion to sunlight, otherwise he wouldn’t be out here during the day. The only visible marker of his inhuman nature is his lack of a reflection. Maybe he’s not a vampire at all? Maybe he’s another type of being entirely. That only makes you more curious.

It’s not rare to come across supernatural beings, but they only make themselves known if they want to, or if it’s imperative to their survival. Most of them would rather quietly assimilate amongst humans or stay safe and hidden within their own communities. Humans are still too judgmental towards those who are different from themselves for nonhumans to feel truly safe or welcomed—at least not on a global scale. Small pockets of communities forged with human allies are helpful and sometimes vital for survival, but not always enough.

These small tidbits of information cycle through your mind as September gradually bleeds into October. You continue watching the thoughtful man in the coffee shop and making up your own secret theories about his life. You haven’t told anyone from school about this, because you already know the reaction would be nothing short of awful. Your parents would only let you go to school at the one university in the city that explicitly didn’t allow supernatural beings; it goes without saying that your classmates don’t view them in a positive light.

Part of you feels like you might be breaking the unspoken rules just by being at this coffee shop all the time and allowing this man to take up space in your mind. But who will know what’s inside your thoughts except you?

One day, your friend decides to accompany you on your lunch break, finally stopping by the café she recommended to you. The man is already there, as usual, and he smiles slightly when you and your friend enter. She doesn’t catch this, too busy wondering what she’s going to get off the menu today.

“I haven’t been here in forever, I wonder if Sam still remembers me?” You know Sam to be one of the baristas there, having read it on their name tag before.

“I doubt there are very many people who’d forget you,” you answer.

When you both have your food, you take a booth farther away from where the man sits, though you can still see him easily from this distance. Your friend settles into the seat in front of you.

You try to keep things inconspicuous throughout your conversation, but you must glance over at him one too many times, because your friend eventually raises her eyebrows questioningly. She turns around in her seat, making it obvious that she’s looking, and you groan as you keep your eyes in the opposite direction towards the window.

“Who’s that guy you keep staring at?”

You cough. “No one.”

“He’s obviously someone. Someone interesting enough to hold your attention.”

“I don’t know the man,” you say curtly. You shuffle your napkin and spoon aimlessly, your nervousness rising. What if he has some kind of enhanced hearing and can hear what you’re saying right now? He definitely heard you make that noise that first day.

Your friend looks at the ceiling and blows air out of her mouth. “Whatever. I’ll find out who he is sooner or later.”

You take a sip of your drink and lower your voice to just above a whisper. Although you want to leave the subject alone, you’re curious about one thing. “You mean you’ve never seen him before? This café was your hangout spot before it was mine.”

She shrugs. “No, I think I would’ve remembered someone as...visually striking as him. Why are we whispering, anyway? It’s not like he can hear us above all this noise.”

You think to yourself, I’m not so sure about that, but you merely shake your head.

You spend a few more minutes talking before movement catches the corner of your eye. At this point, it’s practically a reflex for you to look in that direction. You try not to, but your friend has already caught you and turns her head to spy, too. The man has gotten up for whatever reason to say something to one of the baristas at the counter. Your gaze darts back to your cup after you’ve gotten your eyeful, but you’re nearly startled into dropping the cup at your friend’s gasp.

Oh. The mirror.

She grips the edge of the table. “He’s a vampire…?”

You don’t know what to say to that, and you feel oddly guilty for some reason you can’t pinpoint. Like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “U-um, I don’t know…?” You can hardly finish your thought before your friend is scrambling to grab her purse. She hurriedly stands out of the seat, tugging your arm as she does.

“Come on. We shouldn’t stay here.”

“Are you serious—?” You feel embarrassed heat rip through your body at her display; some other café-goers are already looking at her curiously, probably wondering what the hell she’s doing. She tugs more incessantly, and you already know she’ll get louder if you don’t get up now and defuse the situation. Leaving your half-full cup behind, you grab your things and follow her out of the store, keeping your eyes firmly on her back as you pass by the man. You don’t know if he looked up, or if he could sense the reason for your sudden departure—you’ve never left the shop before him until now—and you don’t want to know.

Neither of you talk until you’re well down the street and around the corner. “That wasn’t necessary,” you huff, your hands still sweating from the spiked adrenaline at suddenly being rushed out.

“Yes it was! We all know bloodsuckers and all these other weirdos are dangerous...even if they think they’re being well-intentioned by living among humans. I hope you don’t go back there.”

“Whatever...you’re the one who told me to visit the café,” you mumble, unable to muster up the energy to say anything more. You both know very well she can’t tell you where to go, but you hope she doesn’t mention this to your other acquaintances on campus and make it into a bigger deal than it is.

When you part ways with your friend and get back to your dorm, you realize you’re missing your planner. The planner with all your upcoming assignment dates in it. You sigh heavily and roll your eyes, knowing it must’ve happened in the chaos of her pulling you out of the shop. Maybe if you’re really lucky, it’ll still be there, picked up by an employee or simply left untouched. Knowing how many people go through that café in a day, you’re not optimistic.

For the first time since visiting the quaint little shop, you’re not anticipating returning and seeing the man again, afraid he’ll ignore you or look at you with distaste—like you’re just another unsympathetic human. And would he be wrong to think that? You’re only strangers to each other.

You try not to dwell on it too hard when you go to bed that night.

When lunch rolls around the next day, you hesitate a couple times on your way to the café, not wanting to show up. However, the desire to see what became of your planner pushes you forward. You don’t even have to stay; if it’s there, you’ll take it and leave. If it’s not—oh well. You can still leave. It’s not hard to buy another.

He’s there when you arrive, of course.

He nods at you when you step inside, though he doesn’t smile as he’s become accustomed to doing. You nod back, but you can’t ignore the renewed rush of embarrassment you feel. You linger at the entrance for a second longer, wondering if maybe you should say something. Apologize, even? But what if he really didn’t know what was going on yesterday? Then how odd would you look for bringing it up?

You decide to move on and go back to the booth to search for your belongings, but his voice stops you. This takes you by surprise.

“Did you come back for this?”

You turn to him to see him holding your planner in his hand. You stare, momentarily dumbfounded, and almost shake your head before realizing it is yours. Definitely the same sticker-covered, scribbled-all-over planner.

“Oh—y-yeah. Thank you.” He passes it to you, though you notice he’s very careful not to let your hands touch. You’re a little perplexed about why, but then the rumors about vampires having cold skin pop up in your mind. Maybe that’s actually true, too. “I usually don’t lose things so easily, but…” Your voice falters, and you don’t know how to finish that sentence without bringing up the other day’s events.

He doesn’t seem to mind as he replies, “It happens to all of us sometimes...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my camera.”

“You take pictures?” you ask, a tinge of curiosity in your voice.

He nods. “I take photos of anything that interests me. Which often ends up being everything I see. I work at an art museum, so I guess having an eye for photography comes in handy.” He hesitates for a second, then says, “I could show you some?” He waves his phone, indicating that the photos are there.

“Oh, sure.” The man gestures for you to sit down in the empty chair in front of him, and you do so. He swipes through his phone a few times until he settles on what he’s searching for, then puts the device on the table and slides it to you. You lean forward to look at it and see that it displays an album full of pictures, simply titled with the emoji “🌌.”

“It’s okay, you can pick it up.” He chuckles. You pick up the phone and swipe through the numerous pictures. Many of them are nighttime shots of the moon, trees, half-empty streets, darkened storefronts. Others depict nature scenes at sunset or the beginning of sunrise, with the sky colored in darker hues. No matter what the subject matter is, they all look to be professionally taken, even for an iPhone.

“Wow, these are nice. You said you work at a museum…are you a professional photographer, too?”

The man shrugs, and as you look at his slight grin, you realize you still don’t know his name. “Something like that, I guess.”

“You should be if you aren’t already,” you say, looking through more photos. “I’m sure you’d make a lot of money.” When you reach the end of the album, you go to hand the phone back to him but realize he’ll probably want to avoid contact again, so you slide it across the table. He takes it and slips it into his pocket.

“I don’t really care about the money,” he responds. “I just like it because…” He trails off, unsure how to convey his thoughts, wondering if he should even get that personal with a stranger. “It...helps me pass the time.” He’s not quite satisfied by that answer—it doesn’t feel like enough—but it’s all he can think of on the spot.

“Well, that’s nice too. It’s always good to have a hobby just for the sake of it...not for anyone’s benefit but your own.”

“Do you have one?” He takes a sip of his coffee. You don’t expect to be asked about your own interests, and your mind goes blank as you try to think. Why does this always happen when I’m asked these kinds of questions?

“Um, just different things here and there.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says, amused.

“It’s not that, I just don’t have a ton of hobbies or anything. I’m kinda boring, so…” And wasn’t allowed to do much of anything until I left home.

“Being boring isn’t always a bad thing.”

You lean back in your seat, shrugging slightly. “Maybe if you see it that way. My friends don’t.”

“Would one of those happen to be the same one who dragged you out of here yesterday?” He speaks casually, putting his cheek in his hand. You slump further down in your seat, feeling exposed. Of course there was no escaping this topic. He notices your mood shift and shakes his head. “You don’t have to feel so bad about it. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry for all that mess,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “Really, I am.” You stand up from the seat, gripping your planner. “Thanks again for this. I don’t want to take up any more of your time today.” You’re about to turn to leave when he speaks again.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know…you could talk with me whenever you feel like it.” That’s the last thing you expect him to say. His voice takes on a quality that’s...not what you’d call begging, but it’s clear he’d enjoy some company. Maybe he’s doing this for your benefit as well as his own, because it’s obvious how your eyes always stray to his little corner.

You nod, giving him an apprehensive smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

The rest of your day after that is uneventful, full of classes and unexciting lectures, but you keep thinking of one thing. Though he appears to enjoy his time in the coffee shop, how lonely must he really be? There’s never anyone else around him. His eyes when he’d spoken to you held a certain sadness.

And you still didn’t get his name.

You don’t see him for the next few days, mostly because you aren’t at the café. You’ve gotten busy with a new project and haven’t had as much time to return to the coffee shop, mostly spending your time in the library instead.

When you finally get a chance to buy lunch outside campus, he’s not there. This disappoints you more than you thought it would, and you wonder what his absence means. Did he just decide not to come today, or has he found another place to frequent? You kind of hope the second option isn’t the case, though you also don’t know why you’re even caring this much about where someone else goes on their own time.

You get a drink to-go this time, deciding you’ll just take it back to the library and continue your studies there. The entryway bell rings behind you as you wait for your order to be made, though you don’t pay it much attention; half of your mind is still occupied with what you need to do next for your project.

When you turn around to leave the shop with your drink, you’re surprised to see the man standing there, waiting to get his own coffee. “You’re late,” you blurt out. You immediately feel silly for saying it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He gives you a slight smile. “Yes, I am.” Then he spots your to-go cup. “Are you leaving?”

“Uh, well,” you glance at your drink, “are you staying?”

He nods as he steps up to the counter. “Yeah, I’m staying. My offer’s still open, by the way.”

Right. The offer to talk to him sometimes. You’re tempted to stay awhile and talk to him now, though you don’t even know what about. Your project? That’s boring. Him being a vampire? Too invasive. Your school? Also boring, and probably not the best idea considering which one you attend.

“I...think I’ll stay, then.”

You both sit at his usual table, with you grinning nervously.

“How are you? I noticed you hadn’t showed up in a while,” he asks, settling back in his chair.

“Yeah, I’m doing fine, I’m just busy with school stuff. These teachers don’t give us a break.” You laugh a little, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He grins. “I never did go to college, but I’ve always heard others talk about how tiring it is. And expensive.”

“They’re right.” You roll your eyes at the thought of it. “But I guess it’ll all be worth it in the end. Maybe. If the economy isn’t in the toilet.” The sound of his laughter is nice, and you’re glad you could make him laugh. “Also, I’m sorry—I don’t know how this flew under the radar, but I don’t know your name.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to apologize for, really. It’s Johnny.”

You tell him your name, too. “Since I haven’t seen you lately...how are you doing?” You circle your hands around your to-go cup, feeling its warmth transfer to your palms as you await his answer.

“I think I can say I’m the same as always—which is fine. Life slows down a little when you have a lot of time on your hands.” Johnny’s lips quirk up at that, and you think he might be referring to his vampirism. Your eyes widen a little.

“What’s that like? Having so much free time. I wouldn’t know much about that right now, but…”

“Maybe not as pleasant as you think it’d be. But there’s good in it. Like coming and going when you want to. And you can take up whatever interests you want without worrying as much about busy schedules.” You already know he’s alluding to his photography. “I do like having a job, though…it gives me structure.”

“You’re probably right…I wouldn’t know the first thing to do if I had a ton of free time…like, which hobbies to pick up first.” You consider how you initially thought about him being lonely and wonder if that’s one of the unpleasant parts he hinted to. “Speaking of hobbies...did you take any new pictures lately?”

Johnny nods. “Most of them were on my camera this time, but some are on my phone. You want to see?”

“Yes!”

Johnny lets you have his phone again to look through the newest pictures he’s taken. There are varying shots of car-lined streets and storefronts, some of the latter decorated with glowing jack-o-lanterns for the onset of October. A pigeon sits on a streetlamp during the daytime, holding its head up like royalty upon a throne. In another image, a stray cat and her kittens huddle in an alley, the babies grooming each other while the mother looks quizzically at the camera.

You recognize a few photos from the nearby park; he also had some pictures of it the last time you looked. “Do you go to this park often?”

“Yeah, it offers some great shots. It’s especially pretty if you go just before the sun sets...the light filters through the tree leaves and it looks kinda like a kaleidoscope.”

“Ah, I’ve never seen that before…” you say a little sadly. Your parents didn’t much like taking you to that park when you were younger because of how far it is from their house. And since living away from them, you’ve only been able to visit it during the early hours of the day—like now.

Johnny looks closely at you. “Would you ever want to?”

“If it’s as pretty as you say, I should.” You slide the phone back across the table to him, not catching what he’s trying to hint at as you keep talking. “Do you go anywhere else besides here and the park?” As soon as you say it, you realize this might sound a little rude and try to make a quick save. “I mean, do you have any other favorite places? I’m not trying to say you don’t have a life or anything!”

Johnny laughs at your slight panic at thinking you’ve offended him. “Nothing too out-there, I guess. The bookstore, the photography store, the theater. Pretty much all the same places others visit.”

“The movies are fun.” You trace your finger across the table’s surface, thinking of your own favorite spots. “Me and my friends like to go downtown. There are a lot of cute little shops down there…”

You and Johnny talk for a while longer, and you almost forget you have to get back to campus until you glance at the wall clock. “Oh no, I’m gonna be late.” Flustered, you jump out of your seat and crumple your empty cup. “Sorry to cut it short, Johnny, but I gotta go back now.”

He smiles good-naturedly and nods, his dark bangs sweeping his face. “I understand.” As he watches you gather your things and get ready to go, he speaks up again. “Actually, if you want to see the park at sunset sometime...I could show you? It’s up to you.”

You pause, suddenly curious at the thought of seeing him outside the café. In the back of your mind, you feel a little paranoid and afraid of your friend or maybe even your parents seeing you there with him, though the latter is extremely unlikely. It’s hard to shake that familiar fear of judgment and ostracism when it’s been ingrained in you since childhood. “That sounds good. If it’s not any trouble for you…?”

“Never too much trouble. I usually get off around 4 on Fridays, just before the sun sets at 5. Unless the weekend is better for you?”

You nod, holding your books tighter to your chest. “Friday will work for me! I’ll meet up with you then.”

Johnny smiles. “Great; I’ll see you then, kind stranger.”

Maybe he says it to be joking or quirky, to sound like one of those characters in a movie or drama, but it makes you smile. Nodding to him again, you step out of the café and rush towards the direction of your school. Johnny watches as you retreat, your roles reversed.

You meet up with Johnny at the park that Friday, just as you both agreed. You spot him sitting on a bench near the park entrance, waiting on your arrival.

Johnny’s wardrobe is still mostly dark, but it’s a little lighter than usual today. He’s changed things up with a white polo shirt underneath his black sweater. Seeing him dressed like this, you wonder what he’d be like as a student, or maybe even a university professor.

He stands up when you get closer, hearing the sound of your footsteps approaching and turning towards you. His camera sits safely around his neck, the lens catching in the light of the sun.

When you stop in front of him, he smiles at you warmly. You try to relax into the genuineness of that smile and ignore the still-lingering traces of anxiety about being out with him. “Hi, Johnny!”

“Hi, Y/N.”

You and Johnny walk around the park as he looks for something interesting to shoot. He snaps a few shots of the trees, fallen leaves, bushes, and other natural elements along the way, though it seems like he hasn’t quite captured what he wants yet.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you ask, peering at his camera as he holds it in his hands.

“There’s an aster bush around here,” he responds. “It hadn’t fully bloomed yet the last time I was here, but it should be open by now.”

It turns out he’s right as you two finally come up on the bush. Its blooms make bright purple smudges against the rest of the landscape, which is a monochrome red-and-orange palette from the leaves changing their hues. You watch as he comes up to the bush carefully and quietly, like it’s a small animal he’s afraid to scare away. Johnny is very attentive while taking pictures of it, always conscious of getting the correct lighting and securing the exact angles he wants to capture. “Compassionate” is not a word you’d usually associate with the act of taking photos, but that’s the only word you can currently think of to describe this display. He treats the flowers with a peculiar sense of respect, as if they’re a human subject.

After he’s gotten the images he wants, Johnny offers you his camera to take a few of your own. You’re anxious about holding his prized possession and are afraid you’ll find a way to mess something up, but he promises you it’s fine. You take a few shots of the sky, still with a few wisps of clouds left, and a nearby tree that’s almost stripped bare of leaves. You know the shots will probably end up blurry from your unsteady hands, but Johnny tells you you’ve done a good job anyway.

Something about getting his approval makes a pleasant warmth settle in your chest.

As you both walk down a long trail, you finally ask him, “Sorry if this is invasive, but I was wondering how old are you? Like...as a vampire.” Your voice becomes hesitant on the word vampire, even though you’re the only two in this part of the park.

He chuckles a bit. “I’m 85.” You try not to look surprised. “I’ve been turned for 60 years. Old, but probably a little younger than most vampires you’d think of.”

“Kinda,” you say quietly. “They’re always like 2,000 years old in movies.”

“The ancient vampires are purebloods. They keep to themselves and avoid mingling with turned vampires, let alone humans. Some people are even skeptical if they exist. Supposedly, they use humans as servants or blood banks.” He gives you an apologetic look after saying this, though you don’t really know why. You don’t get the feeling he’d do that to another being, but he is still mostly a stranger... “At least, that’s what my mentor told me.”

Your curiosity is roused at all this new knowledge. “You had a mentor?”

“An older woman. She was also a turned vampire.”

“Turned, huh…”

Johnny nods, toeing at a small pile of leaves on the ground. “She went away eventually, said people are meant to pass in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t think she ever had intentions to stay. But I enjoyed her company while she was there.” Johnny stops at a short bridge above a small manmade lake, and you both look down into the water.

You place your arms on the bridge railing so you can lean over more. You notice he doesn’t have a reflection in the water, and this startles you more than you expected. Before meeting this strange man, you’d never thought much before about why vampires don’t have mirror reflections, but it seems even more unnatural to see this phenomenon happen again in the lake.

You find yourself looking at the side of Johnny’s face, trying to read his expression as he peers into the water’s depths. He turns to you, and you flinch at being caught staring, but he only smiles slightly. You force yourself to form words and break the silence. “What—what did you do after she left?”

“Lived on my own. She taught me a lot of things to help me live independently as a vampire, so it wasn’t too difficult to get along without her...but emotionally? A different story.”

“You sound like you had a very close relationship with her.”

“Yes. Quite close…” Johnny’s tone suggests something deeper, more intimate than a regular friendship. You feel a bit astounded at the idea of him having an older, more worldly lover while being only a newly changed vampire. Your reaction makes you feel foolish, inexperienced. Still, you can’t help imagining a scenario of them living in a big, dark mansion somewhere in the mountains, rolling around in a bed with bloody red sheets—and maybe drinking from the occasional naïve, misled human hiker.

Strangely, too, you feel jealous at his freedom, his ability to go wherever and do whatever with whoever he wants without overbearing relatives always just a step away.

You continue staring at the ripples as they circle in and out of the water’s surface, the motions triggered by a small orange leaf falling into the lake. You’re unsure of what could be the right thing to say to his admission, so you blurt out whatever comes to mind next. “You said she taught you to live independently as a vampire. What does that mean? How do you get...you know. Blood?”

“There are ways,” Johnny says cryptically, which makes your own blood rush faster. He turns to you with a grin, like he finds your naivety endearing. “It’s nothing drastic, though. At least, not for me. I never drink directly.” It does make sense that there are other ways to drink human blood without taking it straight from their necks, though you can only speculate on which methods he prefers. “Drinking directly is lethal, and often not worth it.”

“So, it’s true that vampire bites can kill?” You watch as Johnny pushes himself off the railing, and you follow him as he continues down the trail.

“It’s not false. But it’s never really that simple.” Johnny’s answer is mysterious, and he doesn’t elaborate further. He turns to you. “Where did you hear that, anyway? Your university? The one that bans all nonhuman beings?”

“You know where I go to school?” You feel embarrassed, thinking he must assume you’re like the rest of the student body who hates nonhumans but still nurtures an odd obsession with them.

“I saw it on your notebook one day, the school insignia. I’m not a stalker, by the way.” You laugh only slightly, and Johnny seems crestfallen when he notices your apprehension. “I don’t care if you attend school there. Just because you do doesn’t mean you think the way they do.”

“You must think I’m some weird opportunist, then,” you mutter, heat finding its way to your face. “Asking you all these questions...I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think anything except that you’re a pleasant person to be around.”

You’re quiet for a moment, letting the compliment sink in. You think you should probably give him one of his own, but before you can, he says, “Look. The sun’s already setting.” Just like he told you before, the dying rays filter through the tree leaves and create impossibly intricate patterns on your surroundings. You hold your hand out and watch the latticework that the leaves create dance over your open palm.

You let Johnny take a picture of your hand with the tree shadows flitting over it, but you shy away from the camera’s lens when he points it higher to your face, a questioning look in his eyes. “Maybe some other day.”

You walk around for a while longer until the sky bleeds into a dark purple. “I guess I should be going soon. It’s getting late,” you say, though you’re also a bit sad over your evening with Johnny meeting its end.

“Do you want me to take you back to campus? You shouldn’t walk back alone. My car is just in the parking lot there.” He points to it where it sits in the distance.

You look at Johnny with a confused gaze. “But you can’t come on campus. They have...things to ward off vampires.” Like gates made of pure silver, displaying intimidating, elaborately designed crosses. You don’t know if any of it actually works, but it’s probably better not to find out.

Johnny doesn’t seem bothered by this information. “Yeah…I know. I can just drop you at the street across from the main gate.”

You hesitate a moment longer but eventually agree. He is right; you’d rather not walk alone at night, and getting a ride with him is better—and cheaper—than calling for a rideshare.

The ride to the college is fairly quiet, with the radio filling the silence. It’s not an awkward type of stillness, at least, which you’re grateful for.

As he said he would, Johnny parks on the side of the street that sits in front of the main gate, just outside the immediate vicinity of the campus. The metal crosses stare back at the both of you, glinting in the light of nearby streetlamps. You turn your face away from them, biting the inside of your cheek.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride. I guess I’ll see you back at the shop next week, yeah?” Again, you get the urge to say something, anything, to remedy or cover up the foreboding source of discomfort sitting just in front of you, but there’s no one sentence you could say to wipe away decades of hatred.

Johnny nods and smiles, and still he shows no signs of being disturbed. He doesn’t cast another glance at the gates. “It’s no problem. See you then.”

You get out of his car and cross the street to get inside the gate; it’s early enough in the evening for it to still be open. Any later, and it’d be locked shut to even humans. You risk another wave at him before turning back around and heading for your dorm, which sits a few yards from the entrance. Johnny lets the car idle on the side of the street until you’ve walked into the dorm, and only then does he drive away.

It doesn’t take very long for you to warm up to Johnny inviting you to other places. The next time you and him go somewhere other than the coffee shop, you accompany him as he buys some film for his camera on one of his free days. You don’t know a ton about photography, so you’re more than happy to let him tell you all about how film works and why he buys certain kinds over others.

The place he frequents is a specialty photography shop that still carries older varieties of film—ones that fell out of favor once digital cameras became a thing. The store looks noticeably old, but not in an unkempt or decrepit way. You can tell it’s been around for a while, holding all kinds of history in its structure.

“There are so many different types.” You look over a shelf of film rolls in awe. “How can you tell them all apart?”

Johnny laughs. “It gets easier if you’ve been doing it for a while…or a few decades.” He picks one up from a row of them and holds it in front of you. “35mm is the most common type, which is what you’ll find the most of when you look through any film shop. That’s what I use.”

He sets that one down and walks past another display of film rolls, gesturing toward them. “There’s also 120 and 220 film formats here…those work for even older cameras, sorta like ones you’d see in 1930s movies. You can even turn a film camera into a digital camera.”

You nod to his words, looking over what seems like millions of film canisters—and occasionally glancing at the lines of his broad back as he walks ahead of you. “You should teach a photography class. I’d be more willing to listen to you than some old professor.”

Johnny snickers. “Huh, I don’t know. Not a professor, but I am old.”

You both continue walking through the store, with Johnny giving you the rundown on every item that catches your interest.

Like the coffee shop, there’s another mirror in this store. Many more, actually—there are whole rows of them on a series of shelves, all in varying sizes and shapes. They create a fragmented view of your form as you stand in front of them, though you don’t initially realize you’ve crossed into their glassy line of sight. You’re busier with looking at a roll of film Johnny’s handed you. When you notice your reflection shifting in your peripheral view, you look up.

Johnny’s only a few feet behind you, and you know this because you can hear him and feel his presence. Yet, it’s strange to see yourself as the only person in the aisle.

Eventually, he notices what’s got you preoccupied and comes to stand next to you. Though you see him clearly in front of your eyes, there’s no trace of him in the glass reflections.

Suddenly, you’re hit with the aching loneliness of it—how it must feel to never see yourself. You can see him with your own eyes, and so can everyone else who encounters him, but what must it be like to be virtually invisible outside of other peoples’ perceptions of you? You almost feel utterly alone even though you know he’s beside you.

Noticing your sudden melancholy, Johnny takes the film roll from your hand and tosses it up in the air, making it look like it’s moving on its own in the mirrors. He means to lighten the mood, if only to see the cloudiness disappear from your expression. It works to a degree, though you still feel downcast deep below.

“It’s not good to dwell on it.” Johnny presses the film roll back into your hand, still carefully avoiding skin contact. He has no problem meeting your eyes, though, and you shyly look away from his dark gaze after a few prolonged moments.

“You’re right,” you say softly, turning back to the aisle and away from the rows of mirrors.

—

You and Johnny head to the coffee shop after your trip to the photography store. Once you get your drinks and sit down in your usual spot, he speaks suddenly. “Something’s wrong.”

Your eyes dart around the shop, thinking he’s referring to one of the patrons around you. “What? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out a bit panicked. He doesn’t want to laugh, but he does.

“No, I mean...something’s wrong with you. You seem far away.”

“Oh…” You wonder if you should even bring it up and potentially ruin the mood. But you have been curious for weeks now, and you don’t think you’ll get a trustworthy answer by asking anyone other than him. “I just...I was wondering why you don’t have a reflection. I know it’s a vampire thing, but I’ve never really known why...you don’t need to answer, though. Like you said, it’s not good to dwell on it.”

Johnny makes a motion like a half-nod once your question is revealed, his eyes darting to the window and back to the table. His fingers trace across the rim of his coffee cup, a thoughtful but stormy expression on his face, and you’re afraid you shouldn’t have reawakened this topic. “You know...being undead means being in two places at once.”

“Two places?”

“We are caught between the living world and the world of the dead. Something that’s not really supposed to exist, yet…” He’s quiet for a moment. “You can only imagine the kind of issues and side effects that can cause. One of them being no reflection.”

“I never thought of it like that,” you say. “Two planes of existence...what does it mean to be a part of the world of the dead?”

“Our blood runs slower. Ours is more like sludge compared to yours. The heart beats only a few times per minute. Don’t need to eat or sleep, either, though many vampires still do.” Johnny pauses. “How much do you really know about vampires?”

“I don’t know much about any of this...stuff.” You gesture vaguely, meaning all supernatural beings and not just vampires. “No one ever told me these things growing up, and it’s hard to tell truth from fiction at school. People will say anything, horrible things, and you just take it at face value, I guess. I never really thought to try to find the reality.” You sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything.”

“Learning is good. You can always learn. I don’t think it’s too late for that.” Johnny’s voice is a little lighter. “Anyway, everyone’s knowledge is different. Sometimes it slips my mind that everyone doesn’t know what it’s like to live as a vampire, though the world never lets me forget for long.”

“Then…do you hang out with other vampires who do understand? Or…maybe humans who can sympathize?”

Johnny gives a humorless laugh. “Most humans are hesitant to interact with us, if not full-out terrified or disgusted. At the museum...it’s less pronounced because all the employees already know. They…tolerate it. But every time someone else realizes what I am and doesn’t take well to it?” He shakes his head, acts like he’ll say something else, and then abandons that line of thought. “And do you really think I’d want to spend my free time around other bloodsuckers?” He tries to play it off as a joke, but you’re more inclined to think he actually feels that way. You can only nod, feeling bad for him but also a little disturbed by his view of his own kind.

“I think you’re a kind person, and you being a vampire doesn’t affect that,” you say hesitantly. “I like talking to you. And even if you feel that way about other vampires, I…wish you wouldn’t feel that about yourself.”

Johnny remains quiet, but he nods. You wonder about the struggle occurring in his mind. The only outward hint of his uneasy state shows in the furrow of his eyebrows and the tense set of his mouth. With his right hand resting on the table, he rubs his fingers together absentmindedly, like he’s analyzing your words. You have a sudden and startling desire to hold his hand, to twine your fingers together and feel his skin on yours for the first time, but you don’t dare cross that boundary.

He finally replies with, “You’re much kinder to me, an old and bitter vampire, than you probably should be. But maybe that’s a good thing about you.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” you agree, your voice low. “Every living being needs companionship. Good companionship, anyway.”

The corners of Johnny’s lips shift in something reminiscent of a smile. He turns a rueful gaze once again to the window, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “Aren’t I lucky to have yours, then.”

On a day when you don’t have as many responsibilities to juggle, you visit Johnny at the art museum after his working hours are up. He’d already invited you to come to the museum any day you felt like so he could show you around. 

When you get there, he’s waiting in the visitor’s lobby for you, framed by receding sunlight as the day starts fading into night. He looks the same as he always does when you see him in the café on his lunch breaks, but within the context of the museum, he suddenly seems more…alive? Vibrant? He could’ve served as a muse for one of the many statuesque, perfectly proportional sculptures in the museum, and you’d never know anything different.

Your heartbeat increases at the sight of him, just enough to be outside the normal range.

“Hi, Johnny. I hope your day went well?”

“It was fine, nothing too crazy. But it’s better now.” And he smiles at you, sincere enough to make your heart ache.

“Oh—that’s great.” That’s it? You scold yourself internally, but you aren’t quick enough to think up a witty reply to his comment before the topic shifts.

“Is there anything in particular you wanna see first?” Johnny asks, leading you further into the museum.

“I guess I hadn’t thought too deeply about that…do you have a favorite exhibit? I want to see what you like.”

Johnny smiles faintly. “Let’s see, then.”

The dark-haired man takes you to a section of the museum filled with oil paintings, all by one singular artist. At first, all you see is varying shades of black and gray and red, with some white splashed in between. When you begin looking at the paintings more closely, it’s easier to see that each one depicts a different scene of chaos. Maybe a sort of organized chaos, but disarray all the same.

There is one picture that holds a clearer subject than the rest. One of the oil paintings is of a vampire—obvious by the fangs—with bloodied lips and anguished eyes. You pause when you catch sight of it, your steps stilled by the sheer frenzy in the other being’s painted eyes. Their hands reach out for the viewer as if begging for an escape that can only be provided by whoever’s observing.

“This one was painted by a fellow vampire, you know. The same one who did all the rest of the paintings in this gallery,” Johnny explains. He points at the placard next to the painting that displays the artist’s name and a short description of the piece. The word fellow comes off his tongue wrapped in cynicism. “And it was one of the ones I personally chose for this exhibit.”

You glance at him, a tinge of surprise blooming in your chest. “Really?”

He nods. “Who better to depict the ills of vampirism than a vampire themselves? I thought it was a…fascinating change of pace from all the humans who try and fail to do so, ironic as that is.”

If you look at the painting for long enough, you think you can recognize sadness in the corners of the vampire’s eyes—pure, unadulterated sadness. Different from anguish or panic. A similar mask of sadness you’ve seen on the man next to you.

You say nothing for a while. You simply feel the painful throb of your heart in your chest and listen to the small sounds around you. Even now, there are still other people exploring the museum and walking through this very exhibit, but you can’t hear or see any of them. Johnny notices the disconcerted look on your face, and his forehead creases. “But I’m sure you want to see something less…morbid than this, right? Come on.”

“Uh, I-I don’t mind,” you insist, even though you feel like you’ve just awoken from a painful trance by the sound of his voice. But he’s already gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

The next set of paintings you end up in front of are a series of sunflower studies. One frame depicts the long green stems; another provides an up-close view of their lined petals. One zooms in close on the flower’s brown center, only small glimpses of yellow left at the edges of the frame.

“This is definitely very different.” You look at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “But it fits you. I see why you like it.” You remember him back in the park, taking careful pictures of the aster bush and of your hands…and then offering to take one of you. You don’t know why that last one makes your stomach jump.

“I thought you might like it.” Johnny’s eyes linger on your face as he observes your reaction to the paintings. He’s seen these flowers probably a hundred times by now in this permanent exhibit, but the wonder in your expression is new to him.

—

You both walk through a few more exhibitions after that, all with different subjects and mediums—some consist of sculptures, others are clay vases and figures. There’s still a lot to see in the museum, but you’re starting to get hungry, and you know Johnny has already heard your stomach growling.

After the 2nd time it happens and you think you might melt from embarrassment, he grins at you and makes a suggestion. “Let’s go to my office. I’ll get my things and we can eat. The restaurant here is pretty good—or at least that’s what everyone else says…”

When you get to his office, you feel almost like you’ve stepped into a room from years past. Your gaze drifts across his desk immediately; it’s not sleek and modern like you’d expect, considering the rest of the museum’s aesthetic, but wooden and heavy and vintage-looking. It’s olden quality resembles everything else in his personal space. Even his desk chair, a big and plush thing, feels vintage with its soft leather and rustic design.

This feeling is far from a bad thing, though. You enjoy the aged look of the bookcases, the picture frames, the chairs, the small decorations here and there—everything about this room.

Johnny notices how you look around, studying everything in sight, and smiles. “It’s not the most modern, but I like it.”

“It’s perfect. Like a world of its own.”

“A woman of taste, I see.” Johnny puts a hand over his heart, giving an expression like he’s truly touched, and you can only grin sheepishly. When he has his belongings, he leads you out and locks the door behind him.

“Let’s see what they have on the menu today, then.”

—

You get dinner at the museum’s restaurant, just as Johnny recommended, and he even decides to eat too. Maybe he does it so you won’t look odd being the only one eating, or because he really just wants to; he doesn’t let on. Either way, sitting across from him like this in a fancy restaurant with both of you having a nice meal feels almost like a date. You let that thought amble around for a few minutes longer before tucking it back into one of your mind’s many small niches.

“I’ll probably be digesting this for the next few weeks,” he says jokingly, pulling a mock-disappointed face at his plate.

“That sounds like the worst constipation in history.” He snorts at your comment, his eyes creasing as he laughs. You notice he has a dimple when he smiles, and your grin mirrors his. You don’t think you’ve seen him laugh quite so genuinely before, but now that you’ve experienced it, you want to hear it again and again.

Anything is preferable to the perpetual gloom, always slinking around the corner.

—

When Johnny gets back home after dropping you off at the university, he undresses himself and showers and pulls on his bedclothes, which are nothing more than his underwear and a pair of sweatpants. His upper canines ache in his gums the entire time he goes through these motions, like two pulses of red-hot heat positioned on either side of his mouth.

He takes a blood bag from the fridge and drinks it in bed, leaning his arms against his knees. A sudden remembrance manifests itself in his mind; he hears the hazy echo of his mother’s decades-past voice in his head, reprimanding him for eating in bed. A sharp pain grips his chest, and he tries to send it back to the depths where it belongs.

When the blood hits his stomach, the pain is eclipsed by the bloodlust, which is no better. His fangs drop immediately, spiking into his lower lip. Johnny closes his eyes and, very gingerly, allows himself to draw a picture of you in his mind, of your blood in his mouth and your heartbeat roaring in his ears. The way your blood would flow out so delicately, crashing into his tastebuds like the high tide. He is usually better than this at curtailing his bloodlust, not even letting it reach the point of his canines hurting—he can’t remember the last time that’s happened—but being around you sets him on edge. Awakens him in some strange, raw way.

That only makes him more wary. And more guilty about imagining himself drinking your blood. He shouldn’t even be around you if he’s losing his grip on his hard-won control. But although it makes him feel ashamed, it also causes his heart to rush.

He drains the blood bag to the last possible drop. To his relief, it calms him significantly, though the thoughts of you don’t leave. More innocent ones now, of your outing earlier in the evening. Deep beneath, they are tinged with his ever-present guilt at his vampiric nature.

Johnny doesn’t need the sleep, but he drifts off anyway, if only to quiet the conflict sending daggers into his mind.

You’ve known Johnny for a few weeks now, not counting the time you spent silently staring at him in the café, but you find yourself intertwining yourself further into his life. You end up visiting his apartment sooner than you anticipated. You didn’t think of anything as ridiculous as him living in a coffin or sleeping in the rafters like a bat, but you also had a hard time imagining what his place might look like.

You come over on a weekend when you have more time to simply hang out and not worry so much about anything else.

Like usual, he waits in that spot on the side of the street for you to come out. In the daytime, you’re more apprehensive about him being here and someone potentially seeing him and trying to cause trouble for him, but there’s a part of you that likes the rebellious aspect of it. And if he truly doesn’t mind coming near the campus to pick you up, you don’t have much issue with him doing it.

Johnny’s apartment is clean—and a little sparser than you’d expected. Maybe he’s a fan of minimalism. One side of the wall is taken up by a wide bookcase, which features a bunch of different knickknacks, books, and a collection of larger hardcovers that look like photo albums. On the other walls are a few framed pictures of different scenes, and you assume they’re ones he must’ve taken.

“This is a nice place,” you say as he takes your jacket for you and puts it up. “It must cost quite a bit, too…” You sit down on the couch, stroking the soft material of it.

Johnny shrugs. “Thanks. It’s nothing I can’t handle...being nearly a century old gives you plenty of time to save money.” He appears charmingly self-satisfied when he’s able to make you laugh. “Do you want anything?”

“Water is fine…thank you.” Johnny nods and goes off to the kitchen.

Despite trying to keep your eyes on the wall photos, your gaze follows him as he leaves. You discreetly watch him move around his kitchen. With his dark clothes, he’s like a splash of black paint against the pale tile and stainless steel.

There are blood packs in Johnny’s fridge. Lots of them. You know because you saw them from your vantage point on the couch when he opened the fridge door. They look like the blood bags you’d see in a hospital, which makes you wonder how he even gets access to those. Another mystery you struggle to wrap your head around.

He comes back to the living room with your water, and you take it gratefully, though you also feel a little awkward. You think maybe the blood bags are something you shouldn’t have seen, although you know he probably would’ve made more effort to hide them or put them away if that were the case.

“You have a good supply of blood, a nice apartment, and a great job. Does every vampire get these kinds of perks?” Admittedly, it sounded better in your head. Your attempt to stave off the awkward feeling—which was really only coming from your end—only makes it more intense. Johnny laughs dryly in response. You can’t tell if he actually finds it amusing or is just trying to humor you, which makes you feel incredibly silly.

“All of it’s government-issued if you promise never to bite any humans.” Johnny gives a wry smile. “But it’s a mistake to think vampires live glamorous lives, filling up on blood and having no cares in the world.”

“N-no, I get it,” you stutter. “Bad joke.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you or be mean. It’s just the way things are.” Your roles are suddenly reversed, and now he seems to feel some sort of sympathy for you, like you’re just an ignorant little human who doesn’t know any better. The last part of that is more your insecurities speaking out than anything else, but you try to ignore that and take him for his word.

Johnny gets up from the couch to go over to the bookcase as you sip your water. After looking through the photo albums intently, he takes one off the shelf and hands it to you. You set your water down and hold the album carefully as you open the front cover. The cover itself has a neat little label that reads Telluride 1976 - 1980, so you can already expect what you’ll find in it. There are numerous photos of trees, bushes, snowy mountain ranges, lakes, brilliantly vibrant flowers, and woodland creatures. You stop at a picture of a deer looking straight ahead, its black eyes wide and curious as it examines the lens.

“I lived in the mountains back then, a little after my mentor had left. I spent some time trying to reconnect with nature...and all that other hippie shit people used to do back in that era.”

You chuckle. “Did you wear the same kinds of clothes, too? Bell bottoms and tie-dye T-shirts and all?”

Johnny laughs and shrugs. “Maybe…but that’s only for me to know.”

You grin and look at the photos again. “Well…did your plan work, at least?”

Johnny gives a wistful smile. “In some ways, I think it did.”

You continue looking through the rest of the album, which you could probably do for hours if you had the time—just sit and trace every possible line, curve, and ray of light. Johnny sits beside you as you do, occasionally explaining some pictures and their backstories.

“Lately, I’ve been wanting something else to take pictures of...someone else, maybe.”

“What, like a subject?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’d be nice...I haven’t taken pictures of another person in a while.”

You nod quietly as you flip through the pages—another possible hint flying right over your head. Then a thought comes to you—one that makes your skin warm. “Have you ever taken pictures of anyone you were...involved with?” You don’t say it directly, but you hope he can get the gist of what you’re asking.

Johnny nods as if he doesn’t want to admit to it, a nervous smile gracing his lips. “A few different people…but I always gave them the pictures after we, you know, stopped seeing each other...so there’s none left here.”

“I see…” For a few moments, your thoughts circle around that concept. What was it like to bare yourself in front of someone else like that, immortalized on film? What might it be like to allow Johnny to see you like that, to take pictures of you in your most vulnerable form? The idea doesn’t make you as downright anxious as you expected it to, though you can’t completely shake the lingering embarrassment about it.

After you finish looking through the entirety of his Telluride adventures, Johnny shows you some recent pictures he’s developed, and you’re giddy to see your own blurry creations among them. Now that you’re holding them physically in your hands, you can agree that they look nice, each with its own little personality.

“I thought about putting them in a new photo album,” he says, “but you can keep them, if you prefer.”

You hold them to your chest. “Yes, I’d like to keep them. Thank you.” You smile. “I’m sure I’ll leave you with plenty other photos to put in your album, anyway.”

—

The sun is close to setting again. You aren’t ready to leave yet, though, and Johnny is content to let you stay longer. He pulls out another album for you to look at, this one dated with 1960 - 1964. Unlike the others, there’s no title to describe what’s in it except for that year range.

“This is a picture of me someone took before I was turned,” Johnny murmurs, sitting back down beside you. He turns the album to you, and in the middle of the first page is a sepia-toned photo of him sitting on a bed—or maybe a couch?—wearing a suit. White, handwritten lettering on the bottom right of the photograph reads August 4, 1960.

“Oh wow...” You touch the photo gently over its protective lining. “You look exactly the same. Of course.”

“It’s the only photo I have left of myself,” he sighs, leaning back on the sofa. “If it weren’t for that...I’d feel almost like I didn’t exist at all.”

“Do you remember this day?” you ask.

“…Vaguely.” His answer doesn’t feel like the whole truth, and the way his eyes dart anxiously as he says it confirms your suspicions. Then he sighs again, heavier this time, and he seems to be exhaling all 60 years of his burden along with it. “I was...going to be married. It was for our wedding shoot.”

You’re surprised for a reason you’re unsure of, never even imagining that Johnny could’ve been married at one point in time. Could’ve had an entire life and a family, if it hadn’t been for...

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” You know you never would’ve met him if things hadn’t happened this way, and that knowledge tugs at your heart in a way that makes you feel intensely selfish.

Johnny shakes his head and avoids your eyes. “It was long ago.” He wets his lips and his jaw clenches like maybe he wants to say something else, but he remains silent for a while.

You continue exploring the photo album in silence. With its thin size, there aren’t as many pictures in it as the others—much less, in fact, but each one is still enough to keep your interest. Your mind keeps drifting back to the one of Johnny.

You hand the album back to him when you’re done. He takes it from you, but in a gesture you don’t foresee, he allows your hands to touch for the first time. You make a tiny flinch at the unexpected coolness—not ice-cold, but enough to be noticeable—but you don’t draw away from him. You let his fingers slide across yours as the photo album leaves your hands, and it sends electricity racing up and down your spine.

“S-sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for flinching or for making contact at all, though there is no reason to because he initiated it.

“Doesn’t it ever disturb you at all that I’m not human?” Johnny asks softly, still holding the album.

“What?”

“You’ve taken all this so easily...much more easily than many others. You aren’t even disgusted at my cold hands.” A ghost of a grin comes over his face.

“If I were disgusted, I wouldn’t even be here,” you say, trying to lighten the tension. It’s not the kind of tension that arises from anger, offense, or upset, but something else that you are lost on comprehending in this moment. “Some of it’s unfamiliar, obviously, but I’m not disgusted.”

He glances down at the album in his hands, as if contemplating something. Maybe thinking about the only living photo of himself beneath the cover. Or maybe he’s thinking back to how he was turned in the first place and subsequently lost the life he was about to have. He still hasn’t told you anything about how he became a vampire, and though you’d like to know, it’s obviously a sore spot for him.

Eventually, he nods, willing himself to smile at you. “I’m glad.”

—

Night has fallen by the time you’re done exploring the decades of his life, though there is still much you haven’t seen and don’t yet know. You let him drive you back to the school as you stare out at the passing cars, wondering how many more of these people sitting in their vehicles are nonhuman and you’d never know it.

You hesitate after he pulls up across from the main gate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Uh, nothing really, it’s just—I still don’t have your number or anything.” And I want to talk to you more often. I want to hear your voice more often. You don’t want to say anything overly dramatic or cheesy, so you just keep those last thoughts to yourself.

Thinking it had been something serious, he smirks at your concern. “Oh, I see. I’ll give it to you now, then.”

Once your numbers are safely in each other’s phones, you finally bid each other goodnight. 

Though you try to steer your thoughts towards other things, you keep veering back to Johnny. His apartment. His fridge full of blood bags. His photo albums full of years of history. Even when you get into bed that night, you can’t keep him off your mind.

You wake up gasping and sweating when you dream of him with his fangs in your neck, your own blood running down your neck and chest. You glance over at your roommate to make sure you haven’t woken her and rest your head on your knees, trying to catch your breath and settle your racing heart. Your skin still prickles with how you could practically feel his heated breaths on your neck, ice-cold hands gripping your shoulders.

The worst part of it is that you can’t quite say you completely disliked it.

“It doesn’t make much sense to have a Halloween party and dress up as the very beings that you hate, but whatever…” you mumble, looking through a rack of costumes with a certain impassivity. You’re not very enthusiastic about going to this Halloween party, but your friend refuses to go alone. You haven’t been spending as much time with her anymore—partly because of Johnny and partly because you feel even more out of place around her than normal—and with all her begging and pleading, she refuses to let you opt out of this one.

“It’s about having fun, no one really cares Y/N. They’re freaks, aren’t they? That’s why people dress up as them, they’re practically meant for this.”

You become even more apprehensive about the party after hearing that, if that’s even possible. You smooth your hand over the fabric of a witch’s robe and sigh again, shaking your head. It doesn’t feel quite right to keep spending time in her presence—or anyone else who goes to your school—but you feel trapped on all sides, left without much of a choice. You would never hear the end of it if you tried to switch universities…or even drop out.

Your mind strays back to Johnny as always, with his melancholy aura and weird jokes and pretty pictures and monochrome clothes. The smell of his cologne, the lingering scent of roasted coffee beans, and his toothy smile, when he does show it to you. Something in you makes you want to drop everything you’re doing right now and go to him. It might even be nice to settle in his arms, feel them strong and solid around you—though he’d probably need just as much comforting as you.

“Dress up as this!” Your friend breaks the reverie as she prances over to you with a pair of fake fangs, the tips of them painted in acrylic blood. She holds them up to your mouth, and you struggle to manage a smile, if only to sate her enthusiasm. “It actually reminds me of…that vampire at the café. Say, have you seen him since then?”

You shake your head, moving away to sift through another rack of outfits as you try to maintain a detached expression. “Nope, not a glimpse. Haven’t even thought about him.”

When your friend doesn’t suspect anything, you let your expression drop just a tad, breathing out quietly.

The night of the party, the full moon is heavy and bold against the black blanket of the sky, which feels horribly cliché. You wonder if there are any werewolves out tonight, and what they might be doing right now.

“We’re going to have a good time tonight,” your friend insists as you both walk up the front steps of the host’s house. It’s someone you only vaguely know, a friend of a friend of a friend, but clearly a person who has an abundance of money judging by this expansive home. You don’t know why she feels the need to convince you, but maybe it’s because you haven’t seemed very enthusiastic so far. You only give a thumbs up to her words, which feels like an unconvincing gesture. Luckily for you, it works.

After a few hours, the party is still going strong but your head is starting to hurt from the music, and you’re growing weary of all the men crowding in too close, looking at you in your angel costume like you’re something to be devoured. You’ve rolled your eyes at way too many of them and their haphazardly put-together costumes, dressed up as vampires with terrible fake fangs or werewolves with manes of matted up fur.

Your friend keeps flitting around the party, talking to whoever she recognizes from classes or campus organizations, and you’ve given up on trying to follow her around any longer. Every time you turn around, she’s somewhere else. Noticing that you’re currently solo, a guy from one of your history classes comes up to you and begins what he thinks is an interesting conversation on how angels actually look more like Eldritch abominations than the cherubic humans depicted in paintings—so your costume is “technically inaccurate” —and your eyes glaze over as you pretend to listen to him.

You eventually manage to get away from him and get to an undisturbed corner, wedged next to two girls drinking cider and critically rating all the guys’ costumes. You pull your phone out and think about calling for a ride back to campus, but your thumb hovers over the message icon. You press it without thinking too much about it, and Johnny’s name appears as one of your most recent conversations. Though you feel somewhat nervous, you will yourself to open the box and begin typing.

To: Hi Johnny. I hope I’m not bothering you, but can I come over? 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿 I’m over this party

You put your phone back in your purse, trying not to get your hopes up for a quick response. You know there’s a good chance he’d still be awake at this time of night since he doesn’t need to sleep, but he has his own life and is probably off doing...vampire-y things. Whatever those things could be.

However, your hopes are met when your phone pings only a couple minutes later.

From: Of course. You’re not scared about spending your Halloween with a vampire? 😏

You smile at that.

To: I think I’ll be fine…as long as you don’t bite me.

From: 🦷🩸

—

You get to Johnny’s studio apartment not too long after, and you hang around outside his door for a few moments before knocking, suddenly feeling bashful about your costume. Maybe you should’ve changed before coming over here; what if he thinks it’s childish? Or maybe too revealing? Does he even care about that kind of stuff? Doesn’t matter now, though. You’re here, and there’s no way you’re turning back around.

He answers a few seconds after you knock, wearing a sweater and black pants. You notice his sweater is a cream color and not the usual black. He looks a little surprised to see your costume, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Wow, you look pretty. Nice of you to visit me after falling straight from Heaven.” You cringe at his cheesy line, though you also cannot deny that you secretly enjoy every bit of it.

“Thanks, Johnny...” you say timidly, stepping into his home as he lets you in. “Nice work with changing up the color scheme.”

He’s confused for a moment before realizing you’re talking about his clothes. “Oh yeah, that...um, haha. Thanks.”

Unbeknownst to you, the back of his mind is buzzing with a form of excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the clawing, frantic spikes of bloodlust, but a more physical kind of desire. It’s pleasurable, but he also feels guilty about pining over how sweet and innocent you look in your all-white outfit, stockings hugging your legs perfectly and your dress just short enough to tempt the imagination. Really, you’ve painted a picture of perfect purity, and the only thing he can think about is ruining you. Putting his hands on you and peeling your dress off to reveal the soft skin underneath.

He casts those thoughts aside as you sit prettily on his couch, legs crossed at the ankles—though it’s hard to do so. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? There isn’t a whole lot of food here, but I can order something…”

“Do you ever make your own coffee?” The question seems a bit random at first, and you try to explain. “You know, since you always get it from the café.”

Johnny smiles. “Do you want coffee? I can make it.”

You nod. “That would be nice…whatever you have.”

“I pretty much have your usual order memorized by now, so I should be good on making it.” Johnny walks to the kitchen. “You can look through the albums while you’re in there. The ones you haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh, thanks.” You feel a little nervous to be looking through the shelf of his treasured photo albums by yourself, but you’re also glad he trusts you enough to let you do it. It makes you feel important. Maybe even important to him, as silly as that might sound.

It isn’t long before the scent of coffee wafts out into the living room. Johnny returns soon with two cups of it, and just as he promised, yours is made just the way you like it.

“Thank you.” You set the album back on the shelf and take the cup from Johnny. For a while, both of you talk of nothing important—just filling the space with the details of your days.

“So how was the party?” Johnny finally asks, and he raises his eyebrows as he scans your outfit again. You grin halfheartedly.

“It was…alright. Kinda weird. I think it’d be more fun if I went to a regular university, but you know…”

Johnny shakes his head. “I can’t blame you for bailing out.”

“Yeah…I’ve been to college parties before, but the Halloween theme was a bit…”

“Strange for an institution that bans all supernatural beings?” Johnny finishes your sentence. He doesn’t look offended or irritated by it—only slightly amused.

You shrug, biting your lip. “Yeah, that.”

“Well, look on the bright side. I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in your natural form otherwise.”

This one almost goes over your head, too, but you catch it just in time. Johnny’s compliments make you feel warm all over, like you’re sitting under the sun. You grin and look down into your cup of coffee, unused to receiving such bold praise and unsure how to respond to it. Something pops into your mind, though, and you think it might be a good idea to run with it.

“You could...take a picture of me, you know. If you want to...since I’m all dressed up now anyway.” You meet his eyes only for a second and then look away, twisting the mug in your hands.

Johnny sits up a little straighter at your words, trying to catch your eyes, though you don’t hold his gaze for long. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure. Go ahead! Before I change my mind.” You laugh nervously and carefully set your half-empty mug on the table.

Johnny’s camera is never too far away from him, so he grabs it and plays with the settings for a bit before looking back to you, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna start, okay?” His voice is surprisingly soft. This, yet again, reminds you of him and the aster bush. He acts as if you might run away at the first shutter click, which makes you feel babied, but you don’t totally hate it.

The first few photos are a little awkward—at least to you. You aren’t sure how to pose, or if you should try to look more casual, though Johnny assures you you’re doing well. He gives you directives throughout, telling you to look in his direction or angle your face a certain way, and you follow his instructions to the best of your ability.

At one point, one of your dress straps slips down. When you go to fix it, Johnny says, “Wait. Could you keep it like that?”

You look at him, your body heating from the suggestion.

“Is that okay with you?”

“…Yes.” Your throat is dry, and your body reacts in a way you don’t expect—little nervous thrills in your hands and feet, though you try to internally explain it away as the coffee’s effects. Johnny takes a few more photos like this, and then he steps closer to gently touch your chin, guiding your face to the angle he’s looking for.

“So good for me.” It slips past his lips in a reverential murmur before he can really consider what he’s saying, and you both freeze. Your heart rate increases, and you wonder if he can hear how hard the red organ is beating in your chest. Probably.

You want to hear him say it again.

Johnny laughs awkwardly, his hand coming back to his side almost a little too quickly to be natural. “Um, I’m really sorry. That was a bit...”

“It…it’s fine.” You avoid his eyes. Johnny takes a few more photos, but the set of his mouth is a little tight, as if he’s stressed about something. Or regretting what he let slip, maybe. You want to tell him you really don’t feel bad about it, but you aren’t sure how to do that without making things more awkward…or revealing your true desires.

When Johnny has taken enough pictures of you to be satisfied with, he sits next to you on the couch, setting his camera on the coffee table and looking suddenly timid.

“I can’t wait to see them,” you say, attempting to break the tension that never really cleared the room after his earlier comment. He blinks for a moment like he doesn’t know what you mean, and then realizes—obviously, he’ll be developing the photos.

“They’ll come out nice, I’m sure. I think you’ll photograph well.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, and now it’s your turn to be unsure of how to resurrect the conversation.

“You’re beautiful.” It’s an abrupt comment. It makes your stomach twist in a pleasant, fluttery way, and you become hyperaware of his form sitting next to yours.

“Haven’t heard that one much, but thanks.”

Johnny turns to you. “Anyone who’d think otherwise is a fool.”

There’s a pause after this where you both simply study each other, watching for hidden reactions that can’t be read on the surface. The way he says it is…decisive, assured. But it also manages to be tender, as if he needs you to know what he thinks of you. Needs you to see yourself the way he does—the same way you do for him. You don’t know where the confidence comes from, but maybe his tone and his words and his endlessly dark eyes have pulled it out of you. “I want to kiss you.”

Johnny’s lips part. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Johnny moves closer to you and cups the back of your neck. Something awakens in his eyes in the seconds before he presses his mouth to yours. Though he wants to drink eagerly from your lips, his kiss is languid to avoid overwhelming you, and there is an audible smack of your lips whenever he pulls away and presses back in.

His mouth tastes like the coffee you just drank, but underneath that you swear you can taste a hint of the deep iron of blood, and you don’t know how to feel about that. You think about what his fangs would feel like scraping against your bottom lip, if he’d ever show them to you, and you moan quietly.

“Do you want this? With me?” Johnny confirms once more, pulling his gaze away from your lips and up to your eyes. His own eyes are yearning, but there is also an element of something like fear roiling in them. As if you’d turn him away, even though you’ve already shown your desire for him.

“Yes. Just you. No one else.”

Johnny’s body gravitates towards yours, and you think he’s going to push you down onto the sofa, but he scoops your legs up and carries you to his bedroom instead. Even his hands on your waist and legs makes you burn inside.

This is the first time you've seen his bedroom. The sheets are cloud-soft when he sets you down on them, and his window lets moonlight shine through the open blinds and scatter in thick beams across the floor. The only other light source is the bedside lamp, which emits a comfortable yellowish glow.

Johnny joins you on the bed and lets you climb into his lap—encourages you to do so. His cool hands pulling at your thighs as you settle them on either side of his waist makes tingles go through your body. You don’t hesitate to bring your lips back together, kissing each other deeply as one of his hands cradles the back of your head and the other settles on the small of your back.

You are certain vampires don’t have any powers of enchantment—that’s for magic wielders. And yet, you feel like you’ve been put in a trance by his kisses alone, and you wonder how you could’ve lived this long without knowing how his lips feel—how they fit perfectly against your own. As if everything up to now has purposely led you together.

You shift in Johnny’s embrace, and the movement causes his thigh to slide between your legs. Your heat is pressed against his thigh directly now, your silken panties catching against the denim of his pants. You murmur against his lips, not really saying anything of substance but wanting to vocalize your desire to him. Johnny’s hand tightens slightly on your back, and he experimentally lifts his leg higher and slides his thigh across you. That draws a gasp from you.

Noticing your positive response, Johnny continues rocking his thigh up against your pussy and kissing you until you’re breathless and your nipples are straining against the fabric of your dress. You pull away from him for a moment to try to ground yourself, feeling like your nerves are already being singed with fiery pleasure. Johnny’s face is noticeably more flushed than before, but he also looks much more composed than you feel at the moment.

“It takes longer to get hard,” he explains, as if reading the lingering question in your own expression. “Since...you know. Slow blood.” You rock your hips over his thigh more enthusiastically, motivated to get him hard underneath you, and you listen to his choppy breaths as you move. Your movements aren’t the smoothest, but he helps you guide your hips in a way that feels good for you both. You’ve never been with anyone before, so it doesn’t much matter to you how long or quick it takes for him to get there as long as he does.

Feeling the bulge grow underneath you excites you. Johnny groans against your lips as you kiss him and rub yourself over his member. The sound comes from somewhere deep inside him, as if it’s something he’s been containing for a long time. Your hand goes to his waist and tugs at his belt loops, then drifts closer to his belt buckle, pulling the leather and metal apart. Johnny pauses when you get off his lap and slide further down, grips your arms like he doesn’t want you to go. “Are…you sure? You don’t have to…if it’s too much—”

“I want to, Johnny.”

With your affirmative, he lets you kneel between his legs, pull his zipper apart, and trace your curious fingers over the bulge beneath the fabric of his underwear. Johnny loses his breath when you drag his underwear down, sliding it over the heated skin of his dick. His length is thick and long—even with him not being fully hard yet—and the tip glistens wet with precum. You weren’t sure what to expect, but this is much bigger than you think you might be able to handle. It makes your face warm and your stomach do another series of flips. Still, you want it and you want him, so you aren’t going to stop now.

You lean closer to press your lips against his shaft, leaving a few soft kisses behind. Johnny’s mouth parts when your mouth touches him.

Johnny gently holds the back of your head as you leave small licks over his shaft, tasting the salty skin on your tongue. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you, his other hand brushing the side of your face.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, his voice heavy with lust as you circle your tongue around the thick, darkened tip, catching drops of his precum. He never takes his eyes off you, and this makes you feel a little exposed, but you continue with your actions. When you suck Johnny’s tip past your lips, his thighs tense under you, the thick muscle reacting beautifully to your actions on his body.

More precum drips from him, and you find the taste strangely pleasing. It makes you want more of him, of whatever he has to offer you. You wrap your hand around his shaft, though it doesn’t fit entirely around, and begin stroking him in a way you hope feels good.

Johnny’s hand slips over yours to guide your movements and show you how much pressure to apply, what pace to stroke him at. “Like this, baby…yes, that’s so good…” He showers you with praise as you get the hang of it, and he eventually lets your hand go so you can do it on your own, his own hand drifting back to the bed to grip the comforter.

It’s hard to quantify just how much seeing you like this turns him on, you kneeling between his legs with his cock between your lips while wearing your pretty, angelic outfit. His previous guilt about “corrupting” you descends to the very back of his mind as he savors every moment of your hands on his cock and your tongue circling his slit.

“I’m close,” he whispers. You quicken your movements on him, hollowing your cheeks tighter around his dick, and the moan he gives shoots straight between your legs.

Johnny carefully pulls your head back so you won’t choke before he comes, streams of his seed shooting into your mouth and running down his cock. Your hand still squeezes around him as he comes, and he slowly thrusts into the tight circle of your fist as you milk every drop from him. By the time he’s spent, your mouth and hand and part of the sheets are completely sticky with his release. You imagine it must have been a long time since he’s last had an orgasm.

The vampire watches intently as you swallow his cum, which causes his softening dick to throb in your hand. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, uncaring of the taste of himself in your mouth. His hair tickles your face as he kisses you feverishly, his nose bumping yours and his tongue prodding past your lips.

“Come here, angel.” Johnny pulls your body up onto the bed before you can get yourself up there first. The pet name makes warmth flood through your body, like drinking a hot chocolate at the café, except a thousand times more satisfying. Johnny’s hands are once again caressing your thighs, though this time they slide up underneath your dress and squeeze your hips. “Can I take these pretty panties off you?”

“Please.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of them and pulls them down your legs and past your ankles. One of his hands goes underneath your dress to feel you soft and wet against his fingers, and you both moan at the same time. He slides his digits through your lips and over your clit, and him leaning forward to bring his mouth to your throat is enough to have you nearly overwhelmed. His fingers tease your entrance but don’t push inside until you nearly have to beg him.

“Please, Johnny…” You push your hips up to get his attention.

“Do you want my fingers?” he asks softly.

“Y-yes…” At your words, he eases the middle one into you, slowly enough to avoid discomfort. It feels strange to have someone else’s fingers inside you. His finger reaches further than yours can, touching you more deeply than you’ve felt before; it makes you gasp a bit too sharply.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, freezing and thinking he might’ve done something wrong.

“N-no, I’m fine. Keep going.”

Johnny’s mouth edges closer to the cleavage of your dress as he starts thrusting his finger into you, warming you up enough to take a second digit. Shakily, you bring your hands up to slide the straps down and make it easier for him, and his breath hitches when you pull the top of your dress down.

His mouth envelopes one of your nipples as he slides the second finger into you. His fingers encounter a part of you that makes you moan unexpectedly and grab onto him, a little surprised at the sudden spike of pleasure.

“You’re so pretty,” he purrs, his lips moving against the curve of your breast as he speaks. “And so responsive.”

As Johnny’s mouth and fingers work you closer to an orgasm, you marvel at how handsome he looks and how good he feels. He opens his eyes to see you staring at him, your pupils wide and mouth desperate, and he separates himself from your chest to kiss you deeply once again.

When you come around his fingers, Johnny whispers more compliments to you about how good you are and how he wants to watch you come undone because of him all the time. When he thinks you might be on the brink of overstimulation, he takes his fingers out of you, slipping them into his mouth to taste you.

“I’ll take this off now. Is that okay?” He whispers this into your ear with his hands on either side of your hips, caressing the fabric of your dress.

“I-it’s okay.”

Johnny slips your dress off, leaving you in nothing but your white sheer stockings. The sight of you sitting there on his bed, breathing heavily from your climax in your pretty thigh-highs, has his cock throbbing and rising to life once again.

“Lay back on the bed.” You do, and he settles himself between your legs like you did for him earlier. When you glance at him, his eyes are heavy and piercing. In this moment, you are acutely reminded of the fact that he is not a human, with how he looks like a beast of prey about to devour a meal. You are too nervous to look back at him for long, so you stare at the ceiling with your legs shaking from anticipation.

Johnny’s mouth on you is almost jarring in how wet it is, and you arch up into him in surprise and a rush of pleasure. He gently presses your legs back onto the bed and continues licking into you, parting your lower lips with his tongue and making your thighs tremble under his grasp.

If you had to describe it in words, you probably wouldn’t be able to. He kisses your pussy the same way he kisses you on the mouth, passionately and with more than enough tongue to satisfy. Johnny slips his fingers into you again as he curls his lips around your clit, and you moan unabashedly.

You’re quickly spiraling towards another orgasm, maybe quicker than you expected; but it makes sense with you still being so raw from the climax you just had. You gain enough courage to give another glance down at Johnny, and you see the way his other arm moves back and forth from beneath the bed, stroking himself while he eats you out. Something about that pushes you over the edge, and you cry out as you come on his tongue.

As Johnny gives you time to calm down again, he stands and finally pulls his clothes off, baring his body to you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a man so beautiful.

He goes to get a condom, and your words stumble from your lips before you can psych yourself out of saying them. “I-I’m on birth control.” Johnny looks back at you, his gaze filled with something you can’t quite read. He comes closer to you, holding himself above you on the bed so his face is hovering just above yours.

“You want to feel me raw?” he whispers.

You nod under his burning stare, feeling like you’re on a high you won’t be able to get off of. “I need you, Johnny.”

Johnny climbs fully onto the bed then and positions himself between your legs. His cock is thick and heavy between his thighs as it bumps against your inner thigh and leaves a smear of precum behind. After putting some lube in his hand, he slicks himself with the sticky substance, preparing himself to fuck you open. Something deep in your abdomen shudders, and your walls clench around nothing as you watch him stroke his shaft, the squelching, wet sound of his hand on his dick loud in the quiet room.

When he’s done, he grabs your thighs and pulls you a little closer to him. “If it hurts, tell me, okay?”

“O-okay.”

The slick tip prodding at your hole makes you want more, though you are a bit afraid of how this is going to feel. When it finally pushes inside of you, you gasp. Johnny watches your face for signs of pain as he slides forward further.

With two previous orgasms and the lube to help, his cock stretches you open with some discomfort, but not the kind of sharp pain you expected. Your nails leave little half-moon shapes on Johnny’s biceps as you squeeze his arms and try to keep your lower half relaxed, wanting to take all of him in—or as much as you can manage, anyway. You try to keep your breathing even as he pushes into you slowly.

Your eyebrows crease and your mouth tightens when he slides deeper still, and he pauses. “Johnny…” You worry your lip with your teeth, feeling like you’ve been stuffed to the brim—and he’s not even all the way in yet.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you beg, maintaining your grip on his arms. “Just…try moving.”

Johnny pulls out and slowly thrusts back in again, angling his dick to find that sensitive spot within you. Your mouth falls open silently when he does; this feels much, much different from his fingers. This is better.

Johnny repeats the movement, being mindful not to push himself too deep—only enough for you to handle. Beneath him, your body begins unwinding at the pleasure he’s delivering to you, and your eyes flutter closed as the ecstasy takes over your mind. One of his hands goes to tease your clit as he settles into a good rhythm, and you cry out at the extra dose of pleasure.

“You’re taking me so well,” Johnny mumbles as he sits back and watches himself slide into you, both of your lower halves slick from lube and your own wetness. “So warm and wet, angel…” You can tell he’s using a lot of his energy to keep his pace controlled and gentle enough for you to actually enjoy. The idea of being fucked harder makes you ache deep inside, but you figure it’s best to save that for when you’re more used to this. You already know it’ll be difficult to walk in the morning after this.

Johnny leans forward to kiss your lips, changing the angle again and circling his pelvis into you, and a choked gasp escapes your mouth at the slow wind of his hips.

Johnny lavishes your neck and throat with kisses, and though he is a vampire, you aren’t worried about him biting you. His fangs have not made an appearance since all this started, and you doubt if he would ever bring them out in front of you. You don’t know if you should ask about it, either, wondering if it’s too soon after only a month and a half of knowing each other—but maybe you could say the same about him being inside of you right now.

“Johnny…” you whisper into the air, your fingers scrabbling against his sweaty skin. The mounting tension in your abdomen is close to snapping, and you are almost frightened by how intense it already feels. He moves his face from your neck to be face-to-face with you again and plants a heavy, dizzying kiss on your lips.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve got you, Y/N.”

Falling apart in Johnny’s arms feels like a form of Heaven that’s meant to be kept hidden, because you might become addicted to it otherwise. Your inner muscles squeeze around his dick as you come. His name flows from your lips in a high song. You can’t imagine any physical sensation that could be better than this, his hips rocking into you as you tighten and cream around him, and you know innately that Johnny has ruined all chances of you ever feeling this fulfilled with anyone but him.

The constant pulse of your walls against his dick is too much to withstand for long, and Johnny’s muscles pull taut with pleasure when he comes, groaning into your neck and spilling overflowing streams of thick cum into you. His hips falter in their former rhythm, and he resists the urge to push himself as deep as he can into you.

When he pulls out, you whine from the discomfort of it, but also because you wish he could stay in you forever. You know you’ll be sore when you wake up—and you can already feel the very beginnings of exhaustion and ache settling in your body—but you’d do it a hundred times over without changing a thing.

—

Johnny curls himself around you after he’s cleaned the both of you up, as if he means to shield you from the world. You’re quiet for a while as you listen to his slow-beating heart and feel his cool skin against yours.

You look up at his face, which is hard to see distinctly in the dark of the room. With the lamp turned out, the only source of light comes from the moon now, but you can decipher enough to make out the shape of his lips and his glittering eyes. You know he can see much better than you in this light, and he takes his time tracing his fingers across your face and cheek, studying your features.

“Would you ever…make me a vampire?”

His body tenses at your question. “Don’t say anything ridiculous. You still have a whole life ahead of you to live. What I have here...this is no existence.” He’s not mad, at least not at you, but his voice hardens at the very idea of it.

“But what if I wanted to live it with you?”

Johnny takes a breath, but he doesn’t say anything to that. He just continues stroking your face and looks at you for a long time, like he’s searching for something. You don’t know if you truly expected an answer from him, or how you would feel if he did give one.

Eventually, your eyes begin to fall low, and sleep overcomes you. The last thing you register is Johnny’s chilly hand touching your cheek. When he notices you’ve drifted off, he pulls the covers tighter around you both. Then he presses you to his chest as he tunes out the sound of cars rumbling on the streets below in exchange for the beating of your heart—still alive, so red with blood.