#expressing its love to us through mimicry

[raiynnah]

Fix-it

@wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 575

Sirius flinches as the door creaks open, though he does not move from his position hunched over the kitchen table, staring into a bowl of soggy cereal. Remus shuffles in, blood-stained hair and glaringly new scars appearing from the darkness of the unlit night, the only source of light coming from the buzzing light bulbs screwed precariously in above them.

“You’re back,” Sirius says, voice flat. Exhaustion has stolen his fire-hot anger, his bubbling resentment, and even the acidic fear that ate at everything he touched. Though they’re mellowed, emotions still threaten to spill over if he isn’t careful.

“Yes.” Remus goes to take off his coat.

“It’s been five weeks. I thought you might have been dead,” he spits out accusingly.

“Well, I’m not.” Remus shrugs but strategically avoids eye contact, driving Sirius closer to the insanity he knows awaits him. He wants so desperately to see if those hazel eyes are still familiar, or if they’ve grown cold and lifeless like everything else.

“I can see that,” Sirius says, hoping for something more without being willing to give more of himself as well. Remus sighs, sarcasm dripping from his next words.

“What do you want me to say, Pads? That I’m sorry you’re so paranoid? That I’m sorry that I at least can follow orders?” That stings.

“I did what I knew was right and you know that! I got us all out, didn’t I? Which Moody’s orders couldn’t have.” He glares even harder, face falling into an unknown mimicry of the family portraits he grew up around. “I don’t know why you insist on being such a rule-follower all of a sudden! I know there’s more to it but Remus…” He softens, voice dipping into a whisper. “Whatever it is, we can fix it, no matter what you’ve done.”

Remus flings his arms out, throwing his coat over the back of another chair, a thunderous expression directed at Sirius.

“I haven’t done anything! Why do you insist that I have?!”

“Because you disappear!” Sirius yells. “Because you never say why or where or even when! Because Peter told me to watch out!” Shocked silence meets him but Remus’ face has gone pale, eyes wide and terrified.

In a harsh whisper he asks, “Peter told you he doesn’t trust me?”

“There’s no hiding anything from him, Remus, you know that,” Sirius explains gently.

“Seems like I’m not the one hiding.” Sirius frowns in confusion, wondering if this is meant to be an insult against him.

“What do you mean?”

“Peter told me to be careful with you.”

“No…” He doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want Peter to be a traitor at all, but he wants it to be Remus even less. Better safe than sorry, right? He stands up, just catching his chair when the momentum throws it off its balance. “I’ve got to get to the Potters. There’s still time.”

“What are you talking about?” Sirius walks over to Remus, trembling with adrenaline, and flings his arms around Remus’ malnourished body, holding tight as the weak frame of the man he loves staggers under the sudden weight.

“We should talk when I get back, I think we’ve both missed a lot. Trust me, please.”

“Okay but only if you trust me back.” Sirius nods, relief flooding through him.

Everything will be better from now on, they’ll make sure of it. He’ll explain everything to James and they’ll figure it out.

[sinfulforrest]

Lazy Morning Love - Home x GN!Reader

Here's roughly 2.6k words of very fluffy smut with Home!

Content includes a load of fluffy smut, explicit consent for everything, some tentacle action, and just Home combusting over its gigantic praise kink!

Some more Home posts can be found here, here, and here! Enjoy!

Ah, mornings.

You never used to like them that much, but you’ve found yourself growing fonder of them the more time you’ve spent within Home. Well, you think they’re mornings here. There’s no real way to tell the time, no night or day cycle, no proper sunlight or moonlight to signify the changing of days anymore. Still, you love waking up in your shared bed to feel the soft and steady breaths made by Home’s shell tickling against your neck.

As you regain your consciousness you can feel the shell’s bony claws twitch and clutch onto your waist, pulling you closer to its resting form. You shuffle a little, trying to turn over and gaze into the face of your carefully constructed lover’s body, but you’re met with a strengthening grip and a slightly disgruntled, half-hearted growl from behind you. You giggle.

“Home, com’on! I wanna see your face…please?” you softly laugh as you flump your head against your pillow in surrender.

“…but I’m comfy, and I like having you against me just like this.” Home whispers, burying its face into the crook of your neck now, snuggling against you. You wriggle a little as it moves a hand onto your stomach, gently squishing at the soft flesh there. You’d put on some weight since you started living together with Home, most likely from the flesh that it’s been feeding you. It liked your plushness a lot.

“I know Home, but I just really want to look at you,” you sigh, purposely grinding against it. Home’s next exhale comes out in a shudder. “Pleeeease? Just for a little bit? And then you can scoot right back to how we were, I promise.” you whine, smiling wickedly as you keep grinding your ass against it, feeling victorious as you hear a weak purr escape your lover.

“Alright little love, alright. Come here.” Home sighs as it releases you from its embrace. You squeak in excitement, rolling over to finally see your sleepy love gazing at you. Its fluffy hair is wild and unkempt from where it practically buried itself into your covers and you make a note to sit down and gently brush through it later; you were surprised to find out early in the relationship that Home adored having its hair touched and brushed far more than it really should. You found it adorable.

You reach out to its pale face, rubbing your thumb against the sharp edge where its cheekbone would be. The feeling of Home’s skin was something that you were still getting used to. It felt thin - dangerously thin in some places - but it had the texture and feel of what felt like rubber. It was usually cool to the touch too, which was very appreciated when your living environment got hot and humid.

The shell nuzzles its face against your hand as the purring from its chest grows louder, and it clasps one of its larger hands over your own, tracing a long, clawed finger along your knuckles. Home’s usual wide eyed and ever-grinning expression was much more subdued. Its eyes were heavy lidded and threatening to close whilst its mouth was shut for once. The exposed teeth on its lipless upper jaw form what you’ve come to recognise as a smile for Home. An intimate, soft gesture that’s the best form of human mimicry that it can muster. You place a soft kiss just above its nasal cavity, pulling back with a smile as its skin flushes a faint pink.

“God, I love you so much. I love you so, so much Home,” you whisper softly, kissing down to its jawline now, following the veins that paint its pale skin with streaks of blue and purple. Your hand slips from Home’s face to its chest, feeling the rumble of its purrs reverberating against your flesh and bones. “I’ve never felt safer. You’re so wonderful, so doting, so gentle…” you giggle, shuffling lower to kiss its collarbone. It squeaks in surprise, playfully wriggling against you now. It could absolutely break away and stop you from doing this, but you knew that it’d never do that to you. To others, absolutely; but never you.

“Little love, that tickles...!” it laughs softly, pressing you closer to its body. You give Home a mischievous smile, nuzzling against it and letting your hair tickle its skin for you.

“Just adore you so much,” you sigh, trailing your hand down its chest, lower and lower until you stop just above its pubic bone, teasing the thin stretch of hairless skin there with the sultry scrape of your nails. Home groans now, realising that it probably should’ve kept you snuggled up to it instead of letting you work it up. “…let me show you how much I love you, Home. Please?” you ask it, looking up through your lashes and blinking in faux innocence. Home lets out a chuff of air, its trademark grin starting to crawl across its face.

“Go on then, little love. I trust you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

You practically tear off the covers, exposing both of your naked bodies to each other. The tentacle between its legs is in full view, and you firmly grasp it as you shuffle further down the bed to get a better view of it and the wonderful being that it’s attached to.

It pulses and throbs slightly as you begin slowly pistoning your wrist up and down the length of the shaft. You make sure to really grip and tease around the firm bumps that travel from the base of the tentacle to the tip, and you’re rewarded with the wonderful sound of Home groaning from further up the bed. The sound sends a sharp pang of arousal shuddering through you, travelling all the way down your body to culminate between your legs.

You shoot it a smirk as it whines and looks away in embarrassment, looking shocked that it made such a noise. It’s still not used to receiving affection, much preferring to be the one in control and giving you love instead. You’re not complaining; Home was an attentive and eager lover, always putting your pleasure and wellbeing first, but it wasn’t fair for it to hog all the fun.

Your free hand rakes its way down Home’s leg leaving four parallel trails of red skin in their wake, and the soft groans quickly morph into a desperate growl.

“Oh, does that feel good? You’re so vocal this morning love,” you smile, keeping a steady pace as Home furiously nods and tries to hide behind its hair, hands - anything that can make it hidden. “Good…don’t be embarrassed, that’s good…you’re doing so good for me Home, so wonderful…” you chuckle as you begin to teasingly press soft kisses down its wriggling length. It’s holding back, trying desperately not to buck up and rub its tentacle against your lips.

You look up again at Home, and seeing how it looks like it might implode from your relentless teasing you decide to stop messing with it and let Home get some relief. You dribble some spit over the very tip of its tentacle, rub it in, and then you take the appendage into your mouth whilst keeping a firm grip on the base. Home whines, placing a clammy hand on top of your hair to shakily stroke you and guide you further down.

“T-That’s it little love, like that, just like that-!” Home moans as you start taking it further into your throat. You get too greedy, choking around the tentacle as it unexpectedly wriggles and bullies its way further down your throat and you retreat to cough and get air. Home looks panicked but before it can ask if you’re doing alright, you dip right back down and eagerly take it into your mouth.

You grip its hips, doing your best to hollow your cheeks and breathe through your nose, running your tongue against the underside of the tentacle to wind Home up further. The tentacle tastes rather sweet and feels soft, yet firm at the same time. It’s a sensation that your tastebuds can’t get enough of. The slick fluid secreted from its tentacle mixes with the spit that runs down your chin and onto Home’s body.

Home is whining without restraint now, running its claws through your hair, beginning to rut up into the warm, welcoming heat of your tight little throat, and you gladly take this rougher treatment by moaning around the appendage and sucking harder, teasingly scraping your teeth against the soft flesh. This flips a switch in Home. It starts thrusting up into your throat more erratically, growling as it does so. You know what’s going to come next.

“A-Ah! I’m gonna...!” Home moans, shoving your face down so that your nose is flush against its pubic bone. Your eyes water as you feel its release flood your throat with a final thrust, drool and cum spilling from your mouth and nose as its tentacle continues to dump its load into you.

You’re feeling lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and your jaw throbs with a dull pain, but you continue to keep it hinged open the best that you can for your lover, finding that the lack of oxygen and light-headedness that you’re feeling is making you feel even more worked up. Eventually, Home pulls out. You do your best to greedily gulp down its spend, but you still end up spilling a lot down yourself.

“Love your taste so much…” you chuckle hoarsely, wiping some of Home’s seed away with your fingers, only to make a show of you sucking them clean whilst Home watches with wide eyes. You’re unable to stop the proud grin that’s widening across your face as you watch Home stop breathing, practically freezing as it turns red.

“Get over here,” it rasps, lunging forwards for you. It grabs your shoulders, pulling you on top of its body. Home’s tongue slithers out of its maw, eager to get a taste of the combination of your saliva and its own seed. “We taste so good together, love this, love you so much little love…” it slurs as its tongue travels up to your mouth.

You obediently part your lips and let the tongue into your mouth, letting it lap against your tongue and your teeth. Given Home’s lack of lips, this was the closest thing to a true kiss that you got from it aside from the times when it’d nuzzle its exposed teeth against your head.

You suck against the slick appendage, fluttering your eyes shut as Home deepens the embrace that it has you in. You feel the tentacle spark back to life, rubbing between your asscheeks, lubing and preparing the area for its eventual entry into your body. Your union with the shell and the very being that you’re both in. Home pulls its tongue out of your throat, moving to lick at your neck.

“Little love,” Home’s voice reverberates in your head. Everywhere, yet nowhere all at once. Another part of Home that you don’t think that you could ever get used to. “Let me make love to you, please…wanna feel you around me again, you’re so good, please...” It pleads, staring at you unblinkingly.

“Yes! Yes, please Home, I need you-!” You exclaim eagerly, only to get cut off by Home rutting up right by your hole. You cry out, clutching its shoulders.

Aided by the slickness coating it, Home’s tentacle squirms its way into your hole inch by inch, the girth spreading your tight ring of muscle and making it burn pleasurably. It purposely eases itself in as to not hurt you and cause discomfort, and your mind is full of echoes of Home praising you for being so good for it.

“I’m going to start moving now, alright little love?” It whispers to you. You nod, kissing its neck.

It pulls out slowly but thrusts into your hole quicker than you were expecting. The two of you moan in unison. Home keeps a firm grip around your hips now as it thrusts up into your drooling, greedy hole. The ribbed texture of its tentacle rubs against your walls in just the right way, pressing right against that spongy area of flesh that made you weak. You do your best to meet Home’s desperate thrusts in the middle, desperate to get more of that friction and feeling of fullness from Home that you’ve been so desperately craving.

Home’s mouth unhinges slightly, and you almost miss them slithering from its mouth; a pair of strange looking tentacles, dark blue like veins, but with green tips that were coloured the same as the hypnotic bulbs that adorned Home’s chest. You pull back a little, curious about these new arrivals. Home’s grin widens, and the thin tentacles come up to your chest. The tips open like a flower bud, and they quickly suction onto your nipples, sucking and squeezing the sensitive flesh.

“Doesn’t that feel good, little love? I’ve been thinking how I can suck and kiss your flesh like you do with mine…and this is what I came up with.” Home breathes into your mind, and you nod breathlessly. You hope that Home can hear your thoughts, how crazy all these sensations are making you feel, how good it is for you, how much you love Home. It simply chuckles and carries on making love to you.

The tentacles on your nipples continue their devilish work as you start riding and grinding down on Home harder and more desperately, wanting your release to come and flood over your senses. Home picks up the pace, entering you with minimal resistance now, and removes a hand from your hips to start playing with your sex, urging you to release yourself on it.

“Home-!” You cry, hunching down and grinding yourself against it. You bite Home’s neck and scratch down its chest as you come undone around it, seeing stars as your hole rapidly flutters and twitches around the ever-quickening pace of Home’s tentacle, urging it on to release within you.

With a final thrust and growl, you feel the warmth of Home’s seed flood into you as your hole continues to milk the tentacle and coax seed from it. Your stomach starts to swell ever so slightly, adding a pleasurable pressure as you lay on top of Home’s body as it keeps its arms wrapped around you. The tentacles latched onto your nipples have slowed their pace down, but they continue to gently suck and knead at your sensitive buds.

“That…that was so good.” You gasp breathlessly, trying to shift a little so Home can spoon you again like you promised. Home stops you from moving, shaking its head.

“I’d like us to lay like this now, little love. Lay as one for a while. Be one with me?” its rasping voice asks you, echoing in your head.

Your hole is plugged up by its tentacle and it has a firm grip on you, not bothered at all by you putting all your weight onto its body. There’s no chance that you’ll be able to move from this position for a good while. Feeling drowsy and full of your lover’s spend, you nod with a smile, settling down to lay against its chest.

“That sounds wonderful…” you sigh, snuggling down as you let the soft light of Home’s bulbs lull you back into a comfortable slumber with your lover.

[iridescentscarecrow]

i've mentioned the categorisation prevalent in early csm before in my 156 post but i think the way this human/devil dichotomy is engaged with through aki, and how this engagement is so intertwined with both the ghost devil/future devil collaboration and the mouse metaphor is very important in how it eventually feeds into denji.

because devils in their essence are despite aki's categorisation, in reality, ultimately shackled by humans. devils are ideas that are built out of human fears and imaginings. devils are used as tools by the public safety while simultaneously being the ones they fight against.

fujimoto's story telling is non normative. it doesn't attribute evil to even an agent such as makima. it sets these agents against structure. aki meanwhile does categorise into good and evil, and this re: how he frames his goal is what consigns him into structure.

denji's encounter with him sets for us much of early csm, as we see denji's artificial goal formation occurs through a mimicry of aki's. this is despite much of his reality and initial circumstances being more similar to power's (the pet/pochita for denji -> artificiality of Dream Goal). power attempts to empathise with denji's situation at the bat devil location meanwhile

aki overtly attempts not to do this, in spite of being a character who is able to empathise (reading this ability in the frame of the very devil/human duality he imagines). this is obviously visible in his treatment of denji in early p1.

when he sees denji as a human, he smokes the cigarette and throws it onto denji. its an implicit sharing of a role, as well an acknowledgement of the wastedness of it. it's so interesting to me that this "kindness" of his makes him try to kick denji out from Structure.

the notable change here is when makima describes how denji is bound and threatens denji's life in front of aki. because makima is structure, and aki's categorised viewpoint does not allow for defiance of structure.

we see him for a split second exhibit concern. and in the same chapter he tells denji, despite being just told that denji is a hybrid: "if you're a devil, be grateful we're letting you live." this categorisation allows him to ignore denji's circumstance and immerse himself into his goal.

holding both angel and reze's occupation of the role of the country mouse is something that informs the parallels between their respective beach scenes. there's a lot of flesh to this re: reze//angel and makima which i'm not elaborating on here but i find it poignant how both scenes involve the country mouse asking aki//denji about the person they like, the relation to structure, makima.

and the artificiality of structure is something that's constructed for denji in makima's case (not just her self, but also the Family) and for aki, it's a substantiation derived from himeno, a repetition around the idea of Ghost.

himeno's character is so very interesting to me, in her expression of messy agency. the cigarette shared between akimeno is a signifier of the fatalism that clouds (pardon the pun) their relationship. and this fatalism centres around the choice being made by himeno (and aki) to stay in PS, within aki's doomed pursuit.

this pursuit isn't one shared by himeno, we know this from her letters. himeno has the ability to leave but chooses to stay. understanding her agency through the Ghosts of her old buddies she bestows upon aki is so important because

himeno's also the one who teaches aki to smoke, shares with him her own fatalism, derives a feeling self from this encounter, one both outwardly irreverent and inwardly desperate.

she muses about this feeling, contrasting her emptiness in the graveyard in the moments before her death. her love for aki is very much an expression of her own autonomy, a choice that you see repeat in aki: in the rift between flashback!aki and his present self. the imbued expectance of death.

he attempts to connect with her and this triggers her writing herself into his tragedy. because he's soft. because he cries when people die, and will cry at the graveyard where she stood in front of her buddies' graves

a Ghost isn't the person who died, it's the concentration (the intangible effect of them) on the person who lived. himeno recreates herself onto aki as she becomes more and more unlike the empty self in the graveyard. the ghost devil is a marker of how her agency enacts onto aki his own personal tragedy.

and this is where easy revenge comes in. the ghost devil is the one that hands aki this cigarette. himeno's ghost mirrors both how he translates his family and the element of choice so central to the aki//denji interplay. categorisation comes back here because at its core:

easy revenge is. revenge that's easy! simple! i will blame the gun devil (an Other) for my family's death, despite it being a product of multiple causal (human) factors. this externalisation will further lock me into the structure responsible for its production and make me its agent, partaking in and re-enacting these very cycles that made me hurt in the first place.

fjmt literally hits us over the head with this line of thought in the implication that mkm in essence coordinated the gun devil contractors. and in the end the nut kicking competition is himeno's requiem, aki's easy revenge, the cigarette ghost handed him.

and the irony is that this competition (this setting into structure) is shared with denji, someone who borrows his goal from aki but whose circumstances resemble power's, angel's, reze's.

the halfway there city mouse (choosing both choices in part two), himeno's choice too located within denji in the rooftop's scene's extension. she stays in the PS for aki, denji refuses to run away with reze because of makima’s construction. but delinking denji from his proximity to aki/goal formation reminds us of the muscle devil arc, denji offering to leave with the girl.

and you see this happen!! despite the refusal: a recognition of this connection is what makes denji ask reze to run away with him at the beach. and aki too finds himself on the beach. he quits smoking alongside him starting to use the future devil’s powers. future offsets ghost (past) and is responsible for the entirety of aki’s horrific tragedy, that subversion.

the beach is the site where the city mice attempt to detach from structure. denji leaning away from makima (the root of the artificial goal formation), aki leaning towards family (contradictory to Ghost/his externalised goal). 

in both cases, this attempt is subsumed by makima. she takes & repurposes reze’s prior violence onto denji in the alleyway. she swallows up both angel’s complicity in that scene and their remembering their past into chaining aki, finally, entirely devoid of agency, enshrined into that structure.

and in a feat of sick irony, aki becomes the Ghost (the gun he externalised his anger and direction into) for denji. this is the worst possible death, denji’s forced mirror whose very frame and viewpoint is upset and molded in a way to force denji along his own structure, the story makima writes for the chainsaw man.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

God I love everything about Yves so much he’s so powerful it’s ridiculous.

It’s like being besties with the last boss right off the bat and now you get to play life on easy mode with this cheat code of a man.

I can’t wait for the “The Court™️” arc where Yves wipes the floor with Evangeline and everyone related to her.

Also Yves always seems like such a cool character who has everything under control so those rare moments where he shows extreme emotions like when he cries or gets cuteness aggression hits so much harder. It makes you wonder how he would’ve been if he hadn’t gone through all he did and had to adapt :( Whenever he cries I wanna hug him.

Also unrelated but god I wanna play with his hair so bad. I wanna have cuddling sessions with him and start braiding little chunks of his hair while being wrapped in a blanket with him and a movie playing in front of us. I hope he likes movie nights and Ghibli movies because with me he’ll have a lot of them

An ask that mentioned about touching his hair

similar ask about watching your favorite movies

Yves would love to have those sessions very much. You would think that he knew nothing about Ghibli movies, but he researched so much about it, that you may think he was on the production team itself. Yves just likes to hear you rave about your favorite things, that is why he would be quiet and smile, expressing his interest in listening to your info dumping.

He would sit still as you weave his hair into braids, watching the wonderfully made animation in front of him. Yves has already analyzed it numerous times to know what the main themes of it were, the hidden easter eggs, and different fan interpretations of it. Yves understands why you love it so much, be it due to its beautifully expressed story or because you simply relate to the characters.

Give and take, you play and braid his hair, Yves expected to do the same to you. Of course, he is going to maximize your tingles by massaging your scalp and controlling his strength. He prefers when you're the one in his lap, where his form encases you like a crescent. That way, he could witness all those precious reactions to key parts of the movie, especially the ones he deems new or unseen before.

It's cold, so you snuggle deeper into him, pulling the blanket around you tighter. Yves would press a kiss on your head, ideally, movie nights would happen after you and he are fed, freshly showered, blowdried, and mildly sleepy. He wouldn't have any makeup on, so you don't have to worry about smudging red lipstick on your face.

Because he has a flatscreen television in front of the bed, you can fall asleep anytime you want. Soft, plush pillows will surround you, strategically placed so that you have less of an urge to leave his arms, let alone the bed.

Perhaps you would absentmindedly toy with the brush of his braids while your eyes are trained on the screen, but Yves doesn't mind, because he would similarly soothingly rub your arms or thighs, or twirl a lock of your hair out of habit. He would have numerous pillows propping his back up at the best angle, becoming your personal couch for the night.

Maybe you might yearn for more media regarding a specific Studio Ghibli movie. Perhaps you didn't like the ending, it was too bleak and sad for you. So you cope by consuming fanmade content that aligns with your ideal.

Yves knows this, he monitors all of your internet activities after all. He would pretend that he wholeheartedly agrees with your take and even sketch fanart of your favorite characters. His work would be so well made, so intricate that you would think it was an official lost chunk of the actual movie. He's been an expert in mimicry since he was a mere boy, hence, copying its art style and creating a narrative that doesn't seem too far off from the movies is simply child play to him.

You could fangirl/fanboy over the characters with him. He would gladly join you and add fuel to the fire by feeding you his own headcanons, analyses, and drawings. You might think that he's even more enthusiastic than you are with the way he is obsessively collecting observations about the works of Studio Ghibli. You knew that he would make it big in the fanbase if he published his thoughts and creations surrounding the media, but they're for your eyes and ears only.

It is baffling to you because his art is god-like. Yet, he is content with an audience of one: the love of his life.

Yves will allow you to have movie nights daily. He gets to hold you and you get to relax. It's a win-win. During days when movie nights aren't appropriate (i.g., you fall sick, and have to rest), he would just alter your environment to make you sleepier than usual. No need to tell you no, you're already dozing off with your head on his chest.

It would pain him to undo his braids. It was your hard work. But he has to take care of his hair, so he would gently pull the bands off and proceed with his regular haircare regimen. The same goes for you, he would let your hair breathe as you sleep, and he wouldn't want you to suffer from hair damage or loss either.

But that only means you get to braid his hair again tomorrow night.

[ceruleanchillin]

When You're At The Function F***in It UP And Your Man Walks In (Mayans)

Warnings: Implied sexual content, language, fighting

Characters: Angel, Coco, & EZ

A:

You’re on thin ice as it is sis. The little forest-green dress with the the deep plunge front and slit sides, the one that ended up purchased after your friends hyped you into it. That’s supposed to be in the trash according to one Angel Reyes. That, or reserved for private nights in.

Currently, it was wrapped around your form, helping you grab envious/admiring glances from around the room.

Your hips twisted to the layered bass, using the random behind you for stability. Your friend next to you cheered you on, her inner hype man on full display. There’s a breakdown in the song, and you lose yourself in the rhythm. Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice telling you “Superstar mama, say hi for the gram!”.

Your eyes zone in on Gilly, eyes wide. Everyone knew the Mayans rolled deep when they went anywhere. Where there was one, there was the rest. Especially when it came to the three musketeers and their wrangler, EZ.

Like you were busted sneaking back into your room as a teen, you froze. You narrowed your eyes at your friend who shrugged and mouthed sorry before disappearing.

“Gilly fuck off!” You hissed, moving away from the random. Your eyes scanning the crowded den.

Gilly laughed, tucking his phone into his kutte. “Ayy, don’t get mad at me,” he fluttered his eyelashes and fake coughed into his hand. “I don’t feel so good baby, I’m just gonna stay in tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes at his high-pitched mimicry of your last conversation with Angel.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. Your friend swore she nixed all Mayan related invites, just for that night, on your behalf. All you wanted was to be able to turn up like you did pre-relationship. Normally you could at clubhouse parties since Angel trusted everyone there with his life. Any party outside of that was a gamble, and Angel could referee like he got a check for it.

Your eyes finally met said man’s across the party and a chill and went down your spine. Angel was propped against the wall across the way, eyes on you.

The rest of party fell away as you made your way over to him, schooling your features into your ‘what did I do daddy?’ pout.

“Nah, don’t come over with that lip poking now.” He shook his head, speaking when you were in range of him.

“And what are you doing wearing this fucking pillowcase out here? What did we talk about?” He pinched the thin strings of your dress.

“Nooo, don’t be mad. I was walking through my closet and it fell on me. Besides, you liked it when I modeled it for you.”

Angel scoffed, refusing to even entertain your comments. Coco chuckled from his spot next to his friend as he lit a cigarette.

“I thought you had club shit, I didn’t even know you’d be here.” You cringed as soon as the words left your lips, the shots you’d taken earlier still putting in work.

“I didn’t know you’d be here either. I thought you were sick. There’s some soup in the car that thought it was getting dropped off. Apparently wrong thoughts is the theme of the night.”

Petty by Angel Reyes.

“Soup? Baby, that’s so sweet.” You tried to pet his cheeks, but he was keeping you at bay.

“You aren’t even sick! Imma give that shit to Gilly.”

“Nooo.” You whined again, still trying to get him to let you touch him in some way.

“Get that bitch you were dancing with to buy you soup.” It was his turn to pout, but there was fire in his eyes as he tracked the guy you’d been dancing with. “It’s all he’s gonna be able to fucking eat in a minute anyways.”

“Sorry I blew up your spot ma, I just wanted to see my plug and get out.” Coco opened the palm of his hand not holding the cigarette and revealed a small bag of weed.

Angel snapped his head towards him, expression incredulous. “Don’t apologize to her, she lied to her man! She gave some puto hope! Get on code!”

“I love you hermano, but this is your guard dog-ass fault.” He pointedly ignored his friend’s heated glare as a girl in the doorway caught his interest, slipping away when she positively returned his gaze.

Angel’s attention was claimed by you once again when you pulled his head down towards you. You smothered his cheeks in kisses, to which he was physically unresponsive.

“I don’t know if I want you kissing on me querida.”

You rolled your eyes. Petty or not, everyone knew Angel’s life force depleted the longer he went without touching you. Even in your tipsy state you could see his fingers literally twitched with the need to take their rightful place on your hips.

“I just wanted to dance like I used to, and you don’t dance. Then you beat down guys who want to. You left me no choice, so let me have kisses.” You locked your arms around his waist, successfully avoiding his half-hearted attempts to push you away.

He scrunched up his face. “How the fuck am I catching strays in this situation? I’m the victim!”

“I’ll make it up to you later if you stop being a hatin’ wallflower and let me grind on you.” Your hips found the rhythm of the slow wind song thumping through the room.

His hands encircled your throat, drawing you closer to his person. Your pupils blew at his darkened expression, your lower half squirming with interest. He pressed his lips to yours, and the party faded to nothing again. His fingers flexed around your throat before closing just enough for him to draw the subtlest gasp from you. He felt it more than heard it over the noise, but it was enough.

He pulled away, licking his lips as you tried to remember where you were and if sin always tasted so good.

“You’ll make it up to me right now in the traitor’s car.” he held up keys you recognized to be Coco’s.

You started to protest on principle, but your body was going through withdrawals from a lite touch (for Angel). He could see the wheels turning, but you were letting him lead you out of the room, palm openly covering your ass.

“Who are you texting?” You asked, more annoyed with how his hands were no longer possessively roaming your body than a real answer.

He quickly pocketed his phone and returned his hands to you. “No one baby.” definitely not telling his boys via group chat to handle the random for him. “Stop worrying about anything other than how you’re gonna get around at work tomorrow.”

--------

C:

It was bad enough you couldn’t make it to New Orleans due to work, and Old Lady “responsibilities”, but this petty fight you were in with Coco was the kicker. You couldn’t even remember how it started, but it escalated back and forth until you weren’t speaking and were back staying at your apartment.

Poor Letty had been reduced to messenger girl, especially now that she had a car. A tug of war with your point being “she was my girl first, that’s how we met” and his point being “she’s my kid, blood first ma” had broken out. You didn’t know what was going to wear through its welcome first, your lack of Coco, or Letty’s patience, but they were competing. It wasn’t like Coco was doing any better if your daily updates from Letty were any indication. He was impatient, tense, chain smoking, and was getting closer and closer to going through with the apology call he was openly fighting.

It wouldn’t be long before you were back to getting your back arched out of shape if that was anything to go by. Not a moment too soon if your own miserable habits were anything to go by. You wanted to use the party to distract yourself, hoping Coco would break first the following day. If not, it was sure to be you.

You spent the whole day throwing your frustrations into decorating your best friend’s backyard. It looked like the French Quarter threw up its best years, but it was the perfect backdrop to lose yourself to some bounce music.

Normally, you could goad Coco into being your twerking post, and that resistance (plus his turned on bi-lingual hypeman compliments in your ear) was everything missing at the moment.

You pouted and weaved your way out of the crowd to your friend who was busy playing good hostess.

“Ah ah, no whining. If you wanna really make it Mardi Gras, shake your ass on a dude.”

You narrowed your eyes, annoyed she shut down and solved your problem before you could whine about it. “Coco hates that shit! Plus he’s spoiled me, it won’t even be the same.”

“Coco isn’t here, and it doesn’t have to be the same, it just has to do.” She turned away from where she’d filled two shot glasses for the two of you. “Besides, we both know your ass is gonna be all in his neck crying about how you miss him tomorrow. Do your thing before you go out sad.”

She clinked shot glasses with you, pleased at her accurate assessment and your sourpuss face.

“Fuck you.” You laughed, voice rough from the burn of the shot.

“Save that for Coco.” She smacked your ass, draped one of the many beaded necklaces hanging off her shoulder around your neck, and sent you on your way back to the crowd of writhing bodies.

It was nothing to find dudes to grind on, and you fell into the synergy. You couldn’t count how many fast paced songs you’d thrown it back to, or how many guys you’d danced with. The stack of beads you’d acquired gave some idea though.

Meanwhile, Coco’s skin was alive with the kind of anger he felt. He’d been seriously contemplating coming to your place and forcing out admissions of how his life wasn’t right without you in it. He couldn’t remember who or what started it, but it didn’t even matter when your scent was starting to fade from his pillow, and his touch starvation was acting up.

All of that went careening out the window when he stumbled upon a pouty Letty, huffing and sucking her teeth at her phone. Turns out you, and “everyone in the goddamn world but me” according to Letty, were at your friend’s blowout Mardi Gras party. Coco knew it was your favorite holiday, but it was news to him that you had any plans since you couldn’t officially go this year. News he didn’t welcome at all, since all of the videos he saw you in you were throwing (his) your ass on multiple dudes. Did you think he wouldn’t fight everyone???

He was already on his bike before he’d even registered leaving the house. He sent a quick summoning call in his boy’s group chat, your friend’s address the destination.

The party was louder and wilder than the videos let on. He’d already spotted his boys by their kuttes, mingling in their respective ways, but didn’t seek them out. They’d find him if he needed them to. Coco on the other hand, needed to find you.

His eagle eyes picked apart the crowd until he spotted you twisting yourself to the rhythm. Coco didn’t know whether to shoot the asshole behind you, or take you away to deal with the feelings you were bringing out of him.

You knew he loved when you brought the South to the West Coast with your hips and ass.

He charged into your space, his hands immediately going for the guy’s arm and snatching him towards him.

“Make a choice cabrón. Get the fuck out, or be an expensive bill and sad memory for your moms by morning.” He pressed his kutte to his person, emphasizing that he was strapped.

The guy raised his palms and quickly exited the scene. Unwilling to test what clearly was a warning that Coco would happily make good on.

You tugged on him, trying to get him to move away from the crowd. Scanning those around you to see who saw or heard, you noticed more than you would’ve liked. They wouldn’t make a fuss, noting his kutte, but still.

“Stop it. What are you even doing here?” You hissed, tugging his arm harshly for his attention.

He turned his gaze, wild with adrenaline and arrogance at his victory, on you. “You should’ve stopped yourself before throwing it back on random fuckers for the internet. This is on you.”

“No, this is on you. If you hadn’t done what you did or said what you said…”. You trailed off remembering that you couldn’t recall what had happened, just the frustration.

“What did I say or do (y/n)?” He noted your visible annoyance that he’d chosen to use your real name instead of a pet name, and with a smirk, he walked you backwards until your back gently hit the fence.

Between not recalling what started the fight, and your man looking amazing, you settled on a pathetic. “You remember.”

“No I don’t, and neither do you.” that familiar prickle of intensity sparked between the two of you.

Everything between you and Coco felt like a live wire dancing back and forth. High energy moments usually ended in either great sex, or separation (sometimes by the force of your friends) to let things cool down.

“I know you’re gonna catch a case if you keep moving like that Johnny. Is that what you want?”

“Nah mujer, that ain’t what I want. I want you home where you belong, but you’re out here playing me instead.” Slender fingers tugged sharply at a few of the beaded necklaces in your stack.

You sucked your teeth and turned your head, ignoring the warm cheeks and butterflies in your stomach at his on-brand admission of missing you.

He placed a hand on the fence next to your head, grasping your chin to turn your attention back to him.

“You’re being a drama queen. I thought I was talking to Angel for a second.”

He threw his head back as laughed, and you got an almost overwhelming urge to kiss him. Or at least bury your fingers in his soft curls, they were begging for it at this po-

“Fuck that, he’s still got me beat. Wait til you see the tantrum he’s saving for you for not getting invited tonight.”

“He was, I just told her to can it because of you. He should be mad at you.” You pouted, but your tone was teasing.

“I could put in a good word for you…you know, if you’re done being petty.” He leaned in, running his lips over the shell of your ear.

“Or I could just offer to throw it back on him to make him forget.”

It was your turn to laugh when Coco tensed, and pulled back from where he’d been teasing you with light touches. You didn’t love him no longer touching you, but faltering him made it almost worth it.

“Or you could take me home and we could both forget…” you clutched at his kutte, leaning into him.

He pulled your hands away by your wrists, his thumbs rubbing over your pulse points.

“Nah, if dancing is this fucking important to you, come on then.” He pulled you after him.

“Cocooo,” you whined, more interested in getting him to touch you again. “Take me home already.”

“My lady wants to dance.” He sat on the outdoor wicker couch and patted his lap. “So dance.”

You stood there in confusion for a second, before what he meant became clear. “I’m not doing that here!”

“You didn’t have an issue earlier, move those hips ma.” He looked between you and his lap again.

Could’ve been the way he was biting his lip, or the laid back way he rested against the couch, but that coupled with lack of access to him, had affirmative words running through your mind.

You playfully rolled your eyes, faking like his request was that expensive. “Only because I want to get you home, and I know you’ll never quit whining if I don’t.”

You slipped onto his lap, the action already drawing attention from partygoers just for the potential of what was to come.

He grasped your hips to still you before you started to move, his palm pressing you back to him by your throat. “And don’t half-ass it yeah…or I might do the same when I get you home.”

--------

E:

It wasn’t until Creeper hit his shoulder and informed him of how hard he was smiling that EZ realized his cheeks ached. He couldn’t help it, he loved watching you dance more than anything.

As soon as you heard a melody you liked, you came alive to it, and stole everyone’s attention. You could find the beat on anything.

That wasn’t his sole reason for cheesing so hard though. Tonight had been the first night you brought your closest friends around the club, and he knew it took great trust in him, his brothers, and your relationship to do that. Your family was on the East Coast, so your friends filled that role for you. Coupled with EZ, they were your world and he thanked you everyday for letting him in.

“Gonna stop calling you boy scout if you keep enjoying the show this much.” Creeper took the seat across from him, half blocking his view.

“Oh you didn’t know how EZ gets down?” Angel’s lips formed that mischievous grin, his eyes taking on the same glint. “You should’ve seen him begging me for tales from Angel’s crib.”

“She and her girls look good out there. Might be too much for you junior.”

EZ rolled his eyes at the ribbing from his brothers, his grin still intact. “At some point I’m gonna be patched, I’m happy to make a cage date for that day. Pretty sure I can take both of you.

Creeper and Angel exchanged exaggerated incredulous expressions.

“See what happens when you go easy on the help?” Angel scoffed. “You sound like you’re hurtin’ for work prospect.”

“Could use some more water.” Creeper shook his water bottle at him, just barely missing splashing him.

EZ rose from his seat, empty beer bottle in hand. “Just remember that day is coming.”

Angel and Creeper laughed raucously at that.

“Don’t get your ass beat in front of your woman lil bro!”

EZ shook his head, choosing to ignore his dumbass older brother. and tossed his bottle in the trash. Slipping through the moving bodies until he was near you, he gently patted your friend who nodded and stepped from behind you.

You jumped, surprised at his sudden appearance, but settled back against him.

“Hey baby.” You gently encouraged him to follow the sway of your hips as he placed his head on your shoulder.

“Hey. I’m back on the slave clock, you want anything?”

You turned to him, his arms instinctively encircling your waist. “Hard tea please.”

“I gotta go to the trailer for that, and get the variety hour table over there a drink. I’ll try to be quick.”

“Don’t rush, but remember, you owe me a dance.” You cupped his cheeks and pressed a kiss to his lips.

He grinned goofily, his attention solely yours until he felt your girls draping themselves over him.

“Can you get us some too Zeke? Thanks.” “Preciate it Z.”

You giggled pushing them off him, but you knew he didn’t mind. You guys were a package deal and he’d take whatever you came with. At least their requests came with pleasantries.

“Sure ladies, not a problem. Don’t let anyone take her while I’m gone.”

They laughed, giving affirmative replies while you rolled your eyes pushed him towards the side door.

Once he began his drink fulfillment quest, it was like every brother wanted something from him. It was a full house that night and he should’ve known once he was no longer under Angel’s break protection, he was back to errand boy status.

Every task he completed was met with teasing about how his rushed pace clearly pointed to him wanting to get back to you. He didn’t argue the fact, just moved faster every time you were mentioned.

Finally, he was able to to focus on your request when he stopped being flagged down.

He was heading to the trailer when one of your friends stopped him.

“One of the other charter’s guys is annoying our girl. She doesn’t wanna make a fuss cause’..you know.” She gestured to his vest to signify his prospect status. “But I know she’s not feeling it.”

He could feel the the muscles in his jaw flex in anger, feet carrying him across the crowded yard. People moved before he could plow through them, which was just as well, because he wasn’t fully in control at that point, and didn’t think he could slow down enough to sidestep them.

The clubhouse had filled considerably since his absence. He scanned the room for you, finding you in a crowd of moving bodies. Your friend was right, you had a good poker face, but your man knew you.

He didn’t waste time physically separating you from the Yuma patch member. He gently put you behind his person, feeling your small hands press against his back through his vest.

“I’m good baby. He agreed this was the last dance.” Your voice belied your annoyance despite your words.

“I’m guessing he said that more than once.”

“I don’t mind, I know clu-“

Yuma interrupted you. “See, she doesn’t mind. Go find something to do with yourself prospect.”

“I’ve got a project in mind.” EZ pushed you back a little more to give himself room to work with.

“Be smart bare vest.” Yuma smirked, his eyes saying how much he’d love for EZ to make the mistake he was thinking about.

In the span of the next few seconds, Yuma’s vest and shirt was covered in beer and Coco had appeared at the same time. If the obvious way he was holding the bottle didn’t give away he did it on purpose, his dry “my bad” and shrug did.

Yuma swung on Coco who anticipated it and dodged it, before firing back with a successful punch of his own. A sea of Mayans of mixed charter filled the space and EZ quickly pushed you behind the bar before he lost you in the shuffle.

Understanding what Coco had done, he got in the middle to give the Yuma patch what he’d been asking for while he was covered by the chaos.

It didn’t last long before the presidents stepped in, but it didn’t have to. He was happy to take the few licks he’d received, because he was pretty sure he’d broken Yuma patch’s nose, and would get away with it.

His brother’s words against theirs, and the presidents didn’t feel the need to make it a drawn out issue. He pretended to have played bouncer instead of active participant, and it all ended with a basic chewing out.

His only thoughts were of you once his rage had subsided, and he could think clearly again. Had he scared off you and your friends? Embarrassed you?

He was happy to find that hadn’t. Your friends couldn’t help but fawn over him and how “perfect for you” he was. He especially enjoyed reveling in the jealousy of Coco, Angel, Gilly, and Creeper. Coco slightly less salty when he got praise for his efforts.

He got his admiration from you later when you patched him up in the trailer, soft voice telling him how sexy he looked to you, and how you appreciated him thinking of you in his position. You held his face and gently went over everything you could find, while he said on his makeshift bed content to let you.

He couldn’t stop grinning, the one that always got him mercilessly mocked because it was now associated with him thinking of you.

“Seriously EZ,” you dabbed at the final cut you hadn’t attended to. “Thank you.”

“I want you to feel safe with me, it’s only fair if you can accept all this shit.”

You grinned down at him, hair framing your face, and he had to remind himself to breathe at the sight. “I do, all the time.”

He cupped the side of your face, unwilling to fight the urge to kiss you any longer.

You laughed speaking between kisses. “I’m not done.”

“It’s ok, I’m good.” He chased your lips, unashamed to want you so badly.

“Ok,” you returned his kisses, your fingers dancing down the nape of his neck. “But I’d like to cash in that dance you owe me…you know, before we get too busy.”

He rose to full height, hands finding both of yours. “I can do that.”

AN:

I don’t speak Spanish, so if I made a mistake feel free to hop in my messages and let me know and how to fix it please. You’re more than welcome to.

1.) I remember seeing a meme vid about this years ago, and finding it hilarious. I could see this happening with these dudes and their personalities. That, and I just really wanted a lil southern culture in a Mayans drabble. 🤷🏾‍♀️

2.) I did a rewatch of the whole series (including the original), and I’m back on the obsession train. Just tryna to be happy before S4 kicks my shit in.

3.) I kept telling myself I wouldn’t end up writing for these fools and here I am in my Ringling Bros. best🤡.

[digitalta]

tw: Character death [hehe, enjoy @skitter-kitteruwu, @eggpires]

They decide to execute Dream on a Thursday. It was a collaborative decision, a democratic one- if not for the varying forms of governing styles and political preferences. They had discussed it in person, arguing with words or through the heavily encrypted lines each communicator used. Some people were more vocal than others, some listened and never spoke. Others argued back and forth until it became a personal feud and not one driven by the topic at hand.

They decided to execute Dream on a Thursday, because the reason they kept him alive was one driven out of selfish need and not respect that the dead should stay dead. Out of kindness or mercy, or a vague mimicry of compassion in a world with so little to spare- they allowed him to pick his poison. What method to his madness, what tempered steel to slay the dragon its final time?

They expected something violent and gruesome. Maybe the Axe of Peace in one last hurrah, maybe a small weapon unfit for killing as a last traumatic laugh. Maybe he’d request poison, breathing his last moments under a thick hazy illusion of peace in the end. They ask him, and he states, “I want a firing squad.”

There are 5 crossbows, one for each person he listed by name. There had been hours in between, long lapses of time as he shakily wrote each name in a jittering scrawl across an empty page. They gave him 24 hours to decide how they would kill him, and he took 24 hours to write the people he wanted to look at when he died.

Theres 5 crossbows, but only an undisclosed number of them have firework rockets packed with small iron nuggets to cause a lethal strike. The rockets themselves would hurt but lacked the sting unless loaded properly with explosives and molten metal. Tubbo wore the testament to their cruelty, painting his skin in a facsimile of art with every expression. Theres 5 crossbows loaded by an unknown person, shuffled by yet another person, and arranged indiscriminately to the point where it was impossible to identify which were lethal and which were not. There's 5 crossbows, and Bad can’t help but feel vile and sour as he selects one from the lineup.

Sapnap’s expression is firm and uncaring, but his hand shakes the slightest bit as he plucks one loaded weapon from the 4 remaining. There is something unfamiliar in his body and poise. In utter contrast to Sapnap, Punz wears his disguise of a mercenary well. For all his love of riches and disregard of others, there’s a reason he was selected by Dream to be here. Punz is indifferent, but there’s something strange in his eye and a scabbed line on his lip from where he tore it sometime in the past day.

Sam argued he had to attend, claiming his right as the Warden to stay on site in the case that they fail. Bad thinks the idea itself is ridiculous, a strike from five rockets would incapacitate someone even if they weren’t prepared to be lethal. There’s no reason for Sam to be here other than his own selfish need to see Dream die. Sam thankfully doesn’t interfere as Tommy steps forward, silent for the first time, as he plucks his crossbow daintily. He holds it in his arms like it’s precious, cradling it to his chest protectively as he skirts across the sheltered end of the firing range on the tips of his toes. He doesn’t look anyone in the eye, even Sam, and instead traces imagined patterns on the polished wood of the killing machine with his fingers.

There’s 5 crossbows, the last one staying on its table until Bad speaks roughly. When he does, it directs George to finally move, bones and joints mechanical as he holds it. There’s something disturbing about the absent expression on the man’s face- his goggles forgotten and his eyes red rimmed. He holds the weapon like this entire situation is a nightmare, and Bad horribly wishes it was.

Dream hadn’t removed his mask in years. It was a last act of kindness Sam provided in the hellscape that was Pandora’s Box. Dream’s body was unremarkable, but not at all like how they remembered it. He’s thin, limp and smaller under the clean new hoodie offered to him to die in- he laughed at it with a tinge of hysteria. It makes the situation worse, painful as the fabric billows around his smaller body and the tight confines of unnecessary chains.

He isn’t laughing, Bad didn’t know why he thought Dream would be. This isn’t funny, there isn’t some ulterior motive to this. There’s no reason why this should be funny. Dream looks at them from across the measurable distance, counting the five names he requested.

Dream requests his mask be removed. It feels fake, there has to be a reason for it. There must be a plan, a last manipulative effort. Tommy doesn’t protest, Sam doesn’t argue. George is the one to remove Dream’s mask, hands shaking as Dream states that the man should keep it.

Dream stares at them and everything feels wrong. Someone asks why- Bad can’t focus enough to identify who it is that spoke- and Dream says he doesn’t want to die alone. George chokes on a sound, Tommy turns away to avoid looking at Dream chained to a chair on a Thursday.

There’s a feeling of recoil that accompanies that of a loaded firework. There’s a specific kickback that only occurs when iron is propelled under gunpowder and paper. The feeling doesn’t come from a blank- they have 5 fireworks to disguise who it is that is the murderer. It’s to disguise their guilt, the blame for who did it. It’s a painful burn on Bad’s fingertips, the unexpected jolt that makes George inhale something of a sob. Blanks don’t have recoil; they don’t hurt the way Sapnap feels his chest tearing open. They don’t have the punch that Punz identifies, they don’t force your hands to tremble as Tommy lowers the empty weapon and stares at a corpse with a horrified expression.

There’s 5 fireworks, there’s 5 crossbows, and Dream dies on a Thursday.

[sasster]

alone for orfuse (:

One word prompt please specify muse

-

It was starting to feel like you were being punished, almost. The isolation, intended to keep you safe, was a heavy load to bear. You were a social creature through and through, everyone knew that. Thanat was doing his best, as flawed in his attempts to make things right the same way that you were. Perhaps you earned an end like this, some unknowable monster tearing you apart from the inside, as some form of karmic backlash for the life that you lived.

Don’t you love monsters?

You are ripped away from your pity party by the sound of jingling just outside of the room in the hallway. A visitor? You perk up in your bed, not noticing the way the binding of your journal warped in your grip. Anticipation lifts the burden of lonesomeness from your chest. Chamae doesn't always stop by your room, usually he is worrying after Thanat to get him to make sure he eats an actually solid food. You are thankful for that.

The limeblood pokes his head into the room, a shocked yet delighted expression taking hold of his feature when he notices that you’re awake.

“Orf! Fancy meeting you here!”

His voice chimes just as pleasantly as the bells on his outfit did. You can’t help but wonder if that was an intentional use of his mimicry power or not. Can one imitate an inanimate object and manipulate its features into their voice? You’ll look into it. You jot the question down in the journal very quickly. 

“Always writing something.” He tuts softly.

“Are you going to help me sneak out or not?” Your voice comes alive as you move to sit up better in the bed, like a wiggler about to sneak out of their hive without the permission of their lusus. Absolutely giddy at the thought of fresh air touching your skin.

Chamae glances over his shoulder and then back to you, grinning. That face was easy enough to read; No one else was home. It was just the two of you alone. “Hell yeah, I am!”

Then he holds up one chastising finger.

“But you won’t be convincing me to let you go see that very scary man.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You already knew that that would be the case. Chamae in particular was horrified of Harlan, as a limeblood he would have to do very little to take you off his small small hands.

You would do very little to stop him.

“Just some fresh air, I promise.”

“Just some fresh air, I promise.” He echoes, mimicking your voice perfectly. You can hear your sickness in his lungs, and while it makes you recoil you manage to smile through it as he helps you to your feet. Then he tosses a blanket over your shoulders.

“Lets go old timer, before Ole Embalmer skins me alive.”

“Hey, hey. There’s the chance he’ll feed you to Lycias instead!”

“Oh you better fucking hope not. I’m taking you with me if he does.”

“Sorry! I’m damaged goods. Nothing but the best for our fuchsia brother.”

Chamae scoffs and rolls his eyes, giving you a playful shove forward as he does. It feels so nice to have a normal interaction for once.

[one-boring-person]

i love your works sm!! do you still take terminator requests? if so, i had in mind one where the reader had like, a bad day and the T-800 comforts them c:

Thank you! I'm really glad you like my stuff!And I do take Terminator requests; you're my first!😅 I hope you like this!

No Problemo.

T-800 x reader

Warnings: none

Masterlist

The door slams loudly behind me as I enter the house, my bag colliding violently with the wall as I throw it there, a scowl etched into my features. My coat soon joins the bag, left behind as I stalk further into the house, heading towards the kitchen, intent on grabbing something to eat or drink before going upstairs to wallow in my room, shoulders aching from my tense posture, clenched jaw equally as painful from the hours of biting back sharp replies. There are low noises coming from the lounge, but I ignore them, not quite in the mood to interact with the other members of the household. 

Entering the kitchen, I flick on the light and go over to the fridge, yanking it open to check its contents. A groan of frustration leaves me as I realise we're low on food (again), the cool shelves deserted after a week of feeding the four of us living here. Mentally, I make a note in my head to go to the store tomorrow and pick up some more stuff, knowing full well neither Sarah nor John will go, and Bob is unlikely to take the initiative by himself. Sighing, I close the fridge again and go to the cupboard, opening it to find the shelves yet again void of any edible substance. In their place, I find a few loose scraps of metal and some empty containers, some old spices pushed to the back of the space, the sight of which makes me roll my eyes.

"You have returned." 

The monotone voice behind me makes me jump, the owner of said baritone having managed to sneak up on me despite his generally massive size. Spinning on my heel, I come to face Uncle Bob, the T-800 regarding me quietly, expression mostly blank. Swallowing to calm myself again, I reach for a cup and go to the tap, filling it with cool water as I go to reply.

"Yeah. Finally." I respond dryly, downing the glass of water with a sharp jerk of my head.

The cyborg's brow creases a little, the terminator still learning to express human emotion as others do, his head cocking to the side, evidently scanning me.

"Your stress levels are very high and your muscles are unnaturally tensed. What is wrong?" Bob questions, coming further into the room, watching as I refill the glass.

Pulling a face at his automated observance, I shoot him a look from my position by the sink.

"Bad day." I eventually answer, pushing off the counter and going to move past him, heading up to my room.

I frown as I hear him follow after me, his heavy boots thudding on the stairs behind me. Paying him no mind, I simply walk to my room, pushing open the door and going in, starting to pull at the smarter clothes I'm forced to wear for my job. My fingers fumble with the buttons of my shirt, frustration clouding my mind as I struggle to undo them. From the corner of my eye, I can see Bob loitering in the doorway, watching me carefully, before he suddenly pushes into the room, coming over to me. Confused, I stare at him, backing up a little until his eyes meet mine, somehow managing to reassure me with his carefully crafted mimicry of human reassurance.

Hesitantly, I let him come closer, tensing when he instantly goes to start unbuttoning my shirt, his passive gaze staying focused on the task, even as he starts to speak, his large frame hunched over me.

"What has solicited your negative assessment of the day?" The cyborg queries, easily loosening each button in turn.

Clenching my jaw again, I watch him work, feeling somewhat soothed by his calm actions, enjoying his closeness and unwavering stociness. 

"It's just been a long, difficult day. Nothing went right, my boss is making things harder for me, and none of the things I needed to get done actually got done." I sigh, trying to relax, "I have a ridiculous amount of work due tomorrow, and I've had no way of doing it today. I didn't eat lunch because I had no time, so now I'm hungry, and tired, and just want to go to bed."

Having told him these things, I start to feel a little better, but not by much, having been reminded of the exact reasons why I'm like this in the first place.

"I see." The T-800 recites one of his newly-learned phrases, glancing up at me, "It is recommended that you obtain food and take rest for optimum recovery."

His diagnostic advice comes quickly, a hard contrast to the more human way of speaking we've been trying to teach him, the sound of which almost brings a small smile to my face.

"I plan to do that." I mutter, batting his hands away as he finally finishes his task, turning away from him as I strip myself of my shirt and trousers, pulling on some more comfortable clothes.

"Good." He nods in approval, moving over to me again as I go to sit on my bed.

Quietly, he eyes me, seemingly running through some line of data on his HUD, before he leans down and easily scoops me into his arms. Squeaking in surprise, I wrap my arms around his neck, only to let go when he places me down against my pillows, taking care to make sure I'm comfortable, removing everything that may be considered uncomfortable from the bed.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, curiously, watching as he neatly folds a shirt and places it on my desk.

"Helping you recover." He states simply, glancing at me, "Stay where you are."

Frowning at his command, I stare after him as he leaves the room, unsure of what he is doing but not adverse to it. It feels nice to be looked after, for a change, instead of looking after others, even if it is by the surly cyborg sent to protect my best friend. He's always been stumped as to how John and I came to be friends, given the large age gap between us, somehow not quite understanding the concept that I had worked at the arcade the teen used to frequent and had come to know he and his friend very well. Eventually, I got roped into a situation that changed my life, and now here I am, living with the Connors, doing a terrible job to keep myself busy, trying to forget that the life I now lead is far from normal.

After a moment, the T-800 walks in again, a plate in one hand a mug in the other. As he comes closer, I realise there are a couple of slices of pizza on the plate, which confuses me.

"Where'd you get the pizza from? The fridge is empty." I ask him, sitting up to take the plate and mug from him as he offers them to me.

"Sarah and John ordered takeout. There was some spare." He fills me in, handing me the items.

Nodding, I place the plate in my lap, cupping the mug between my palms as I sniff it, glad to recognise a tea of some sorts, unaware that we had any. In doing so, I don't quite register that the T-800 has slipped onto the bed with me until his hands are suddenly on my waist, lifting me into his lap. Eyes widening in shock, I tense up, unused to the feeling of his huge, muscular body against mine, though he says nothing, only starting to rub my arms and legs gently.

"What're you doing?" I ask him again, still unsure, though I can slowly feel myself give in to his touch, the gentle sensations highly comforting to me.

"My files state that physical contact between two people can induce relaxation and a lessening of stress." Bob replies, pulling me back to lean against his chest, sitting back against the headboard as he does so.

"Right. Well, thank you." I say to him, hesitantly starting to relax into him, enjoying the feeling of his hands tracing my arms, the scent of motorcycle fuel, metal and the cheap cologne John bought him flooding my nostrils as I start to eat.

"No problemo." He replies, holding my mug still as I continue to eat.

Instantly, I feel my tensions starting to drain away, my hunger soon satiated, my exhaustion taking over as I settle back into Bob's chest, my eyelids starting to droop closed.

"It is recommended now that you sleep to regain your energy." The T-800 states, much quieter than usual, his arms wrapping around me properly after removing the plate and mug from the bed, keeping me against him as he gently manoeuvres himself to lie down with me on his chest.

Turning in his arms, I look up at him, smiling contentedly as I rest my head on his collarbone, nodding at the cyborg.

"Yeah, I will. Thank you." I murmur, closing my eyes properly, totally relaxed in his hold.

He doesn't reply, only tightening his grip on me, a kiss suddenly pressed to my forehead, leaving me smiling like an idiot in my sleep.

[love-and-monsters]

Vampire Commission

M vampire X F human, 8,300 words.

This story was very kindly commissioned by @demigoddessqueens. She requested a story where her OC, Hazel, falls in love with a sweet vampire, with some angst and hurt comfort. There is also an NSFW version on her blog, so go and check that out! I hope you enjoy, and I am very grateful for the commission.

The castle stood at the base of a mountain, surrounded by pines. It was only a short distance from the rest of the town, a little more thana twenty-minute walk, but Hazel had elected to take a cab. It may not have been a long walk, but it certainly was a steep one.

Up close, the castle was no less intimidating than it was from a distance. It was made of dark stone, with great spires reaching upwards, as if in mimicry of the mountain it sat beneath. Despite the clear sky, Hazel almost expected lightning to flash and thunder to rumble as she stepped out onto the grounds.

The interior of the castle was somewhat less intimidating. The owner had apparently seen fit to modernize, so the main foyer was bright with electric lighting. The furniture looked old, made of dark wood and lined with tasteful golden touches, but it was clearly well-cared-for. The rug in the entranceway was deep red, the color bright and appealing. There was a regal air to the decorating, but it was a warm sort of regal, not uninviting.

A few other people milled around the entranceway. Presumably, they were the other members of the tour. Hazel moved to join them.

“That looks like everyone!” Hazel looked around to see a middle-aged woman with brown hair in a tight bun and a formal uniform. “Welcome all. I’m glad you’ve all been able to make it here and I’m sure you’re all excited to spend the night in this wonderful piece of history. Before we begin, I have someone to introduce you to.”

Hazel blinked. The man standing next to the tour guide had apparently just melted out of the shadows, moving so swiftly and silently that he almost appeared to be gliding. He stepped into the light like he was half expecting it to burn him, tensing subtly underneath the glow.

He was pretty, was Hazel’s first though. Long, black hair, pale, flawless skin, fine features, and strikingly golden eyes. He glanced around the crowd and gave a small nod of greeting. “This is the owner of the castle, Asterius,” the tour guide said. “He’s going to be your host for the evening.”

Asterius cleared his throat. “I am pleased to welcome you into my home.” His voice was low and smooth. A tingle worked its way down Hazel’s spine.

“Wonderful,” the tour guide said. “Now, first stop on our tour is the parlor. If you’ll all follow me?”

The tour moved through room after room, each one draped in tasteful finery. There were similarities in the style in each room, dark furniture, gold accents, and bright red splashes of color. The tour guide spoke hurriedly about the history of each location and of a few specific pieces of furniture.

“As you can see, this room was once used for balls, where the ladies and gentlemen of the day would meet their potential suitors,” the tour guide said as she led the group through an enormous room with a high, arched ceiling. Hazel examined a large painting over the fireplace. It showed a great garden scene, a man with long black hair bending over a flower bush, back toward the viewer.

“This is a beautiful painting,” she said. “When is it from?”

The tour guide stumbled a little over her prepared notes. “Oh, er, I’m not sure. Quite old, I would say. It’s been in this castle for as long as I can remember.”

“Two hundred and seventy-four years old.” The low voice made Hazel turn. Asterius was gazing at the painting, apparently unaware that he had even spoken. He caught sight of Hazel’s gaze on him and he ducked his head. “The painting has been hanging in this room for two hundred and seventy-four years.”

The tour guide gave a bright smile. “Thank you, Asterius. There you go. Now, if we continue on to the dining room, we’ll see-”

Asterius didn’t follow the tour for a few minutes, staring up at the painting. Hazel lingered with him as well. His eyes flicked toward her, catching her gaze and he stared. She gave him a warm smile before following the tour into the next room.

The dining room was enormous, with a long wooden table in the center. Ornate chandeliers lit the length of it and illuminated the gilded carvings on the wall. The deep teakwood of the table groaned under the weight of the feast that had been set out onto it.

The other members of the tour hurried to find a seat. The tour guide seated herself at the far end of the table and Asterius settled at the head of the table. Oddly, most of the other tour members seemed to shy away from him, picking seats closer to the tour guide. His end of the table looked rather lonely. Hazel sat in one of the seats next to him. He was even prettier up close. His cheekbones were as sharp as broken glass and his eyes seemed luminous. He gave her an uncertain look, but didn’t ask her to move away.

Dinner was a spectacular feast. It was all old-fashioned food, each different plate explained by the tour guide. Roast pork, roasted potatoes, some sort of lamb stew- Hazel found herself eating all sorts of things that she never had before.

There was lively chatter at the tour guide’s end of the table, but Asterius’ end was quiet. Hazel took another bite of food, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t appear to be eating. There was a glass of wine in front of him, but he seemed more interested in swirling and sniffing at it than actually drinking from it.

“Not hungry?” Hazel asked. Asterius’ gaze shifted to her, apparently startled he’d even been spoken to.

“No,” he said. His voice was softer up close, and strangely shy. He didn’t seem fully capable of looking her in the eyes.

“It’s good food,” Hazel continued, trying to keep the conversation alive. “But I suppose you’re used to it, since you live here?”

An odd expression flicked over Asterius’ face. “Not really,” he said.

“Only for special occasions, then?” Hazel asked, gesturing to the feast.

“Something like that,” Asterius said. He’d turned his attention more fully toward her, golden eyes flicking over her body.

“It’s an amazing place to live,” Hazel continued. “You do live here, right?”

“For a long time,” Asterius said.

“A long time?” Hazel repeated, peering into his face. “You can’t possibly be older than mid-twenties. How old were you when you purchased the castle?”

Asterius’ mouth twitched like he was repressing a smile. “I’m older than I look,” he said, then laughed. It was surprisingly warm and gentle and something in the pit of Hazel’s stomach jumped. Asterius caught sight of her and his hand jumped up to cover his mouth. “What?” he said from behind his fingers.

“You look nice when you laugh,” Hazel said. Asterius ducked his head. His skin was as pale as ever, but Hazel wouldn’t have been surprised to see him blush.

“You’re not local,” Asterius said. “You’re not from this country, are you?”

Hazel shook her head. “French Canadian. I’m on vacation right now. Old European architecture is really interesting. There’s nothing like it back home.”

“I suppose it would be interesting to someone who’s never seen if before,” Asterius mused. “It’s quite normal to me. I would be interested to see what your home looks like. I’ve never left the country.”

 “You’ve never traveled?” Hazel asked. Asterius shook his head.

“The idea of traveling makes me a little nervous,” he said.

“Fear of flying?” Hazel asked. Asterius gave another quiet laugh and again, when he realized that he was laughing, he covered his mouth with a hand.

“Something like that.” Even with his hand over his mouth, Hazel could still see his eyes crinkling in a smile.

Dessert was served, and though Asterius didn’t partake in that either, he seemed at least more comfortable with the conversation. “Have you been enjoying your time here? I know that the castle does not always seem hospitable to guests.”

“It’s been nice here, actually,” Hazel said. “Very comfortable.”

“I’m glad,” Asterius said. He smiled again, eyes soft. “If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, let me know.”

Hazel beamed at him, which seemed to fluster him into another strange not-blush. “Thank you.”

After dinner, the tour guide led them up into one of the two castle towers. Hazel hung back, walking with Asterius. “It’s a nice tower,” he said. “Possibly the best one in the castle. Excepting mine, I suppose.”

“Maybe I could see it some time,” Hazel said, nudging him teasingly. He looked so startled to be touched that he seemed to completely skip over the innuendo. There was something unbearably adorable about how flustered he seemed to be. Hazel giggled as he focused on the stone steps.

“All of the towers were built well over three hundred years ago,” he said, apparently casting about for another subject. “They’re in quite good condition, despite that.”

“Everything in this castle seems well-maintained,” Hazel said. “It’s a beautiful place.”

It might have been a trick of the flickering light, but Asterius’ chest seemed to swell with pride. “Yes. It is.”

The tower was just as richly decorated as the rest of the house, and the bed Hazel was shown to was wonderfully comfortable. Asterius hovered for a bit until he was assured that she was comfortable, then he swept back out into the rest of the castle. Hazel watched him go.

Sleep came fitfully to he during the night. Asterius’ shy smile kept creeping into her mind, and the new location wasn’t helping with her sleep. She managed to catch a few hours before the tour group was roused again for breakfast.

Hazel had been looking forward to seeing Asterius at breakfast again, but he was conspicuously absent at the breakfast table. She kept an eye out for him, head popping up every time she heard the door open, but he never showed.

By the end of breakfast, a flutter of worry had started to form in Hazel’s stomach. The rest of the tour group headed for the castle grounds, for a tour of the outside, but Hazel slipped away from them.

She worked her way through the castle. Fortunately, she remembered most of the layout from the tour, and was able to navigate with relative ease. Hurriedly and carefully, she worked her way toward the other main tower of the castle, where Asterius lived.

Eventually, she managed to find her way to a small room with a laundry hamper and an old-fashioned washing machine. She was just about to move on when something it he shadows shifted. Hazel squinted at it. The shape seemed to melt into the shadows, but she could just make out its long black hair and tall, slender form. “Asterius?”

He whirled toward her. Now that he was out of the shadows, Hazel realized that he was completely shirtless. The skin of his chest was just as pale as the skin of his face and she could see the slight definition of his muscles shifting as he stared at her. “Hazel?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. A part of her thought it was indecent that she wasn’t removing her gaze, but she really didn’t want to. “I was looking for you. You weren’t at breakfast and I got worried.”

A strange, but pleased expression crossed Asterius’ face. “You were looking for me?”

“It was nice talking to you last night. I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye,” Hazel said. Asterius smiled, one of his hands moving up over his mouth again.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad to see you again, too.” He emerged more fully from the shadows. One of the lights on the wall flickered, casting a stronger beam of light over his face. For a moment, his eyes caught the light and Hazel froze. They reflected it, going solid white like an animal’s in headlights. Then the light shifted off his face and they returned to their normal gold. Asterius cocked his head at Hazel. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry. Thought I saw something strange. I’m all right.” Hazel brushed it off. She’d heard that human eyes could do it under certain conditions, right? It must have just been a weird trick of the light. “It was nice meeting you. I haven’t been in town long and I haven’t had a chance to meet anyone yet. I’m glad that I’ve seen at least one friendly face.”

“The entire town is friendly once you get to know it,” Asterius said. Hazel laughed.

“Maybe. I just haven’t been able to find my way around. Even the maps are unhelpful. It’s the old streets, I think. More modern cities have a grid pattern, but the roads here are winding.”

“If you’d like, I could show you around.” Asterius seemed slightly surprised at himself for speaking, but he continued regardless. “I’ve lived here for a long time- I know the town well. I could even show you some locations that aren’t usually placed on maps.”

“Really? As long as it’s not any trouble,” Hazel said.

“It’s not. It’s been a while since I’ve left this place, actually. It’s probably a good idea to get out for a little bit.” Asterius’ gaze moved toward the ground, his posture shy.

“Then I’d love to see the town with you,” Hazel said.

“I can pick you up tomorrow, around six,” Asterius said. “Don’t worry about money. I can pay. I’ve not had the opportunity to spend much recently, so it’s rather burning a hole in my pocket.”

Hazel beamed at him. “Then it’s a date.”

This time, she was surprised to see that his cheeks went bright pink. She’d almost thought him incapable of blushing. “I will see you then,” he said, then hurried out of the room.

He had already swept off by the time Hazel realized she had forgot to tell him where he was staying. Ah, well. It was a small town, wasn’t it? There was probably only one hotel in it. She turned to exit the room when a bright splash of color caught her eye, just at the edge of the light.

Hanging out of the wicker hamper was the sleeve of a white shirt. Presumably, it was the one Asterius had worn into the room. But that wasn’t what had drawn her attention. What had caught her gaze was the smear of red across the sleeve.

Feeling guilty, but unbearably curious, Hazel moved closer. With her pointer finger and thumb, she tugged on the shirt, revealing most of it.

There were bloodstains smeared all along the front of the shirt. They were fresh, too, still wet. Hazel dropped the shirt. Was it Asterius’ blood? No, it couldn’t be. If he’d had cuts bad enough to cause this much bleeding, she would have seen them. Then it was someone else’s?

For a moment, an image of a grim-looking Asterius, knife in hand, spattered in blood, rose to her mind. She banished it. No. He could barely look her in the eyes without getting flustered. There was no way he could hurt someone like that.

 An accident, then. And none of her business. If Asterius had wanted to tell her, he would have. Fixing that idea firmly in her head, Hazel turned and left the castle.

She was thinking about her tour with Asterius for the rest of the day, and for most of the next one as well. Excitement buzzed in her body, making it impossible to sit still. The clock moved unbearably slowly, no matter how much she mentally tried to urge it on.

Hazel stood outside her hotel at six. The sun was very nearly set, only a thin stripe of orange left at the horizon. A few lines of late sunlight stretched across the road, making Hazel squint even in the low light.

“You look nice.” Hazel jumped and whirled around. Asterius was standing right next to her. He was in the shadows, but he still held a dark parasol over his head. He was also wearing a set of darkly tinted sunglasses, which completely hid his golden eyes. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right,” Hazel said, giving him a broad smile. His returned smile was small and shy. “Though it seems a little late for a tour. I thought it would be easier to see the sights during the day.”

Asterius shook his head. “Trust me. You and I will have a much better time looking around at night. The sunlight can be a bit harsh.”

“I’ve found it pleasant,” Hazel said, but she didn’t push him. His skin was a lot paler than hers, after all. Perhaps he burned easily.

“Are you ready to go?” Asterius asked. Hazel nodded and linker her arm through his.

“Lead on.” He laughed quietly and started walking down the street. Even though there was only a little bit of weak sunlight left, he didn’t lower the parasol.

Asterius, as it turned out, had not been exaggerating when he said he knew the town well. Every brick in the street seemed to have a history that he knew about. “This corner,” he said, gesturing to a small chocolate shop, “used to be a bakery in the early eighteen hundreds. They used to put sawdust in bread, to try and make the flour last longer. When people found out, there was a bit of a riot and the shop got closed down. It burned to the ground a few days later. It was supposedly an accident, but there was a lot of suspicion of arson. People say the baker still haunts the area.”

The long river that trailed along the edge of town was another site that Asterius knew a lot about. “There used to be a festival where they made little boats and pushed them down the river. Supposedly, if your boat made it to the end, it signaled good luck in the coming year. They still do something similar, but it’s a lot more elaborate. There’s a contest for the nicest boat.”

The tour wound through town, and soon your mind was filled with interesting historical tidbits and cultural notes. Asterius lowered his parasol as the sun went down and removed his sunglasses. Every now and then, a passing shop window would make his eyes reflect oddly again. Hazel just put her mind to ignoring it.

Toward the edge of town, Asterius stopped next to an old building. It didn’t quite look derelict, but it was shuttered, and it didn’t to seem to have had anyone inside it recently. “There was a theater here,” Asterius said. “It closed only a year ago. Nothing’s replaced it yet, which is a shame. It’s a lovely old building.”

“It does look nice,” Hazel said.

“Would you like to go inside?” Asterius asked. Hazel looked at him in surprise, then back at the door, which had been secured by a heavy lock.

“You have a key?” she asked. She could almost hear Asterius’ grin.

“No. But I have another way in.” He guided her down the side of the building and down a small set of stairs. There was a door set into a recess of the building. Asterius jiggled the handle and the door creaked open.

Inside, the area was cramped, dusty, and smelled faintly of water damage. Hazel found herself pressed up against Asterius. “This leads to the dressing rooms,” Asterius said. “And this way goes toward the stage.” He pulled her into another cramped chamber. They were pressed awkwardly close to one another. Hazel felt her heart race speed up as his chest pressed against her back.

After a few moments of being pressed together, Asterius managed to wriggle into a larger space, stepping away from Hazel. The room around them opened up into the great expanse of the stage.

The wooden floor creaked under Hazel’s feet as she walked across the stage. It was deathly quiet, like the hush that fell right before a play started. It was dark beyond the bounds of the stage, but Hazel could just barely make out the seats of the auditorium.

 “I come here sometimes when I want peace.” Asterius walked across the stage and sat down on the edge. Hazel sat next to him. “I have a lot of good memories of this place. They used to have concerts here. Sometimes I would sneak in and listen up there.” He pointed up to a small alcove near the roof. It looked like it was just the right size for one person to sit in comfortably. It did look like it would be difficult to get up there, though. Hazel had the mental image of him crouching up there like a bat.

“It is a really beautiful place,” Hazel said. Even in the dark, there was a grandeur to the area. There was a quiet reverence in the air. It was just her and Asterius, alone in the room, together. No one was there to interrupt. There might have only been the two of them in the world.

Tentatively, Hazel leaned against Asterius’ shoulder. Her hand crept toward his, where it was resting on the edge of the stage. Their pinky fingers touched. His hand was cool against hers.

Asterius jolted, pulling his hand back close to his body. “Ah. Um. I suppose I sort of drifted off there. I apologize.” He scrambled to his feet. “We should probably be going. It is getting rather late.”

Disappointment kicked Hazel in the stomach. She tried not to let it overwhelm her. He did seem shy. Maybe all this was just a little overwhelming to him. “You’re right. It is a little late.”

They carefully made their way back out into the street. Hazel’s stomach gurgled, reminding her that she still hadn’t gotten any dinner. They’d been too preoccupied to even thing about food.

Asterius glanced at her, lips quirking into a small smile. “Hungry?”

Hazel felt her face burn. “You heard that?” Damn, she hadn’t thought her stomach was that loud.

“I can buy you something to eat,” he said. “There are a few places when we get further into town.” He set off at a quick pace, forcing Hazel to pick up her face in order to keep up.

After getting into the main part of town again, Asterius managed to find a small bakery that served a variety of delicious-looking breads and sandwiches and sweet buns. “I can buy you whatever you want,” he said. Hazel picked out a few things, unable to settle on just one. They all looked delicious. She started eating a sticky bun as they walked back to the hotel.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” she asked as they approached the doorway. “It’s really good.” She attempted to press a roll into his hands, but he pushed it away.

“I assure you, I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure? I’ve never seen you eat. I don’t want you to starve,” Hazel said. Asterius laughed.

“I assure you that I’m fine. I don’t eat in front of other people.” He stopped in front of the front door of the hotel and turned to Hazel. “I’m glad you allowed me to show you around. This has been a most pleasant evening.”

“I enjoyed myself too. It was really good to spend time with you.” Hazel squeezed one of his hands. He squeezed back. “Will I be able to see you again?”

“You can stop by any time you’d like,” Asterius said. “I look forward to seeing you again. But I think I should let you get some rest. It really is late.” He gave Hazel a small bow, then swept off into the night. Hazel watched him until he vanished into the dark before entering the hotel.

Hazel didn’t see Asterius for the next few days. She spent most of her time exploring the town, trying to find something for him. He had taken his time to show her around town. It felt only right that she should give him something in return.

It took days of searching to find the right thing, something that would be a token of her appreciation. Eventually, she found a tiny music box. The color scheme reminded her of the castle and the song that issued forth was gentle and soothing while still filled with the rich sounds of an orchestra.

She headed back up to the castle late in the evening. It seemed like an odd time to stop by but she figured that Asterius might have been busy with work during the day. Anyway, he had taken her out in the evening. It seemed only right to return the favor.

It was fully night by the time Hazel made it up to the castle, but there was a glow of warm light around the castle. She made her way up to the front door and hesitated. Hm. Would anyone even hear her if she knocked on the door? The castle was big and she wasn’t really expecting Asterius to hear her. Maybe she should-

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She turned her head toward it, squinting into the shadows. Someone tall and slender was making their way away from the castle and across the grounds.

Asterius! Her heart leapt. That was a stroke of good luck. She hurried after him as he crossed the grounds with long strides.

He was heading toward a pen, she noticed. There were a few sheep milling around in it. One of them raised its head as he approached. He hopped the fence in a smooth motion and approached it. Hazel stepped out of the shadows, mouth open to call out to him when she saw something that made her words die in her throat.

Asterius opened his mouth wider than she thought a human could open their mouth and plunged his teeth into the sheep’s neck.

The sheep squirmed for only a moment before falling still. Asterius buried his face into its neck. Hazel could see him gulping, see the heaving motions of his body as he drank the sheep’s blood out of his body.

She stared, forgetting that she was in full view of him. A strangled squeaking noise escaped her throat.

Asterius’s head snapped up, his mouth tearing away from the sheep’s throat. Blood dripped down from the bite wound, spattering across his shirt. His fangs, enormous and sharp, glistened in the light streaming from the castle.

His eyes locked onto her and she saw his expression change. In one moment, he went from fearsome predator to an uncertain, horrified man. “Hazel,” he said, and even though his voice was quiet, it carried all the way across the field.

Hazel didn’t run. Now that she was over her shock, her brain was starting to put the pieces together. He didn’t like the sunlight. He didn’t eat. The bloodstained shirt. Obviously. A vampire.

 Intellectually, she knew she should probably be stunned, even scared. But she wasn’t. He’d been a vampire the entire time she’d known him and he’d never attempted to hurt her. He was still Asterius, still the sweet, shy man Hazel knew. Just because he had some extra-pointy canines and some unusual dietary needs didn’t make him evil or scary.

Asterius was looking at her like he was waiting for her to start screaming. He was tensed, poised to start running. “I can explain,” he said. “I- I-”

“It’s okay.” He looked so distressed and anxious that Hazel couldn’t suppress her need to comfort him. She strode toward him and he scrambled back. She froze. “It’s okay! I don’t want to hurt you. Are you okay?”

Asterius blinked, then seemed to register her soothing tone of voice and non-threatening posture. “You’re not scared of me?”

“Why would I be?” Hazel asked.

“Because I’m a vampire,” he said. “And I’m covered in blood.”

“It’s a little gross. But not scary,” Hazel said. “You’re still the same person. I’m not afraid of you, Asterius.”

He processed that for a moment. The sheep he’d been sucking on stumbled to its hooves and staggered off into the meadow. “Come inside,” he finally said. “It’s cold out here and I need to change. Then we can talk.”

They entered the castle through a narrow passage that opened up into a small sitting room. Hazel guessed, based on the direction that they’d been moving, that it was close to Asterius’ tower. “Sit,” he said, nudging her toward one of the opulent chairs. “Do you want anything to eat or drink? I don’t have much, but I’m sure I can find something.” He hurried off into the next room. Hazel could hear him rattling with ceramic items, presumably so that she knew he wasn’t bolting. She had no doubt he could move as silently as a shadow.

He returned after about fifteen minutes in a clean shirt and with a small cup of tea. “Here,” he said, passing it to Hazel. He settled in a seat across from her. “I imagine you have some questions?”

Hazel took a sip of the tea. It was faintly spiced, warming her throat and stomach. “You’re a vampire,” she said.

He nodded. “I was turned… oh, quite a while ago. Over two hundred years, I think. I keep it pretty well under wraps. I try not to let too many people see me about and I fake my own death every once in a while and lie low.” He fidgeted, toying with a few strands of his hair. “You are the first person to discover me.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Hazel promised.

Asterius smiled faintly. “You’re truly not afraid of me? I figured my discovery would come with more screaming and general terror.”

“You didn’t frighten me before. I don’t see why you should frighten me now.”

“I could kill you,” Asterius said.

“So could any human. I trust that you won’t. You seem far too kind.” An odd expression flickered over Asterius’ face, eventually resolving itself into a small, tentative smile.

“You flatter me,” he said. “Thank you.” You sipped your tea as Asterius gazed at you fondly. After a moment, he seemed to startle and looked down. “Ah, what were you doing here, anyway? I wouldn’t have been hunting if I was expecting company.”

You hurriedly patted your pockets, sighing in relief when you pulled out the present. “I got you a gift, as a thank you for showing me around the other day.” You held out the small, wrapped box to him. He took it delicately in his long fingers and pulled off the wrapping paper.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, opening the box. Soft music filled the room. “Thank you,” Asterius said in a low voice. “I haven’t received a gift in a very long time.”

There was several moments of silence as Asterius listened to the music. His expression was soft and open, strikingly beautiful in the soft light of the room. You couldn’t stop staring at him.

Eventually, Asterius cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll walk you back to your hotel,” he said. He led Hazel back through the passageway and into the castle courtyard. Together, they headed down the street to her hotel.

The walk was done in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. Hazel got the impression Asterius was still digesting that she knew and hadn’t run screaming for the hills. He kept looking at her like he was afraid she was going to suddenly vanish into thin air.

They stopped outside Hazel’s hotel. “Thank you,” Asterius said. “For the gift and for… accepting me.”

“It wasn’t difficult. You’re a good person.” Asterius looked unconvinced, so Hazel reached out and placed a hand on his arm. He stiffened. “I’d like to see you again.”

“I would like to see you again too,” Asterius said in a quiet, shy voice. “Perhaps we can go out again tomorrow evening?” He spoke quickly, like he was afraid he would stop himself if he didn’t get the words out in time.

Hazel beamed. “I would like that. I’ll see you then.” She squeezed his hand. He blushed again, gave her a slight bow, then swept off again Hazel saw him glance at her over his shoulder as he headed away.

Asterius picked her up again the next evening, and the evening after that, and the evening after that. He took her to places all over town, showing off his knowledge for her. The nights grew longer and longer, until they were arriving back at Hazel’s hotel at nearly four in the morning. After a few days of that, Hazel had practically become nocturnal, sleeping during the day and waking up in time for her dates with Asterius.

A little over a week after their first date when Asterius took Hazel back to his castle. “You seemed interested during the tour. I can show you a few things that they don’t usually show people.”

Hazel grinned at him. She was close enough that her shoulder was brushing against his, though she was a little nervous to get any closer. There were times when Asterius moved a little bit like a skittish horse. She needed to be slow and gentle with him. “I would love that.”

They returned through the castle through the secret passageway Asterius had shown her when she had learned he was a vampire. “There are a few passageways like this,” he said. “They’re all over the castle. I think I’m the only person who knows about all of them.”

Most of the passageways were small and dusty and led almost nowhere, but Asterius still showed them all off with the sort of pride one would expect from a proud parent.

“You see this one?” he said, waving his arm into a spiraling passage that led down into a basement. “It was built only a little bit before I purchased the castle. It’s supposed to be an escape passage, but it was never fully finished. It only leads down to a small room. I mostly just use it for storage.”

Another room had a storage area that was filled with paintings. “I had a period where I went a little crazy commissioning artists and buying paintings. I was in a bit of a spiral and I had quite a bit of money.”

The room that Hazel found the most interesting was a tiny room hidden behind a wall. It was small and cozy, with only a small lamp for light, a cozy-looking chair, and a small bookshelf overflowing with dog-eared volumes. “What’s this place for?” Hazel asked.

Asterius smiled, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s just somewhere to go when I want to get away from it all. No one can find me here, so I just need to go inside, close the door, and I can spend some time by myself, with my thoughts.”

His body was close to Hazel’s very nearly touching. Attraction coiled through Hazel’s body. His face was soft and distant and there was something unbearably sweet in his expression. Tentatively, Hazel reached up and lay a hand on the side of his face. He looked at her in confusion, but didn’t pull away. Before he could reconsider, Hazel leaned up and pressed her mouth to his.

For a long moment, Hazel could taste his mouth against hers. The sweet, gentle press of his lips. The way his long, silken hair tangled under her fingers. The way her heart pounded and her stomach trembled and goosebumps erupted all over her skin.

And then Asterius pushed her away, stumbling back, and the moment was over.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Kissing you!” Hazel said. “I thought- I mean, you said you wanted to get to know me better-”

Asterius didn’t seem to be listening. There was something distant and horrified in his eyes, like he wasn’t even seeing her anymore. “I can’t,” he whispered, and Hazel didn’t really think he was talking to her. “No, not again, I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Hazel said. “It was only a kiss. We don’t have to-”

She took a step closer to him and Asterius hissed, scrambling back from her. “Don’t touch me! It’s not safe! I’m not safe!”

Hazel held up her hands. Asterius seemed to be spiraling. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I trust you, remember?”

“You shouldn’t!” Asterius bared his fangs. “Stay away! Keep away from me!”

“I’m not going to let you go on some kind of self-sacrificial mission because you think you’re dangerous!” Hazel said. “I told you, I trust you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Asterius gave her a wild-eyed look, then darted for her. Hazel stood her ground, but Asterius simply slipped past her, melting through the doorway without touching her. She turned as he ran through the room, fleeing her.

“Asterius!” Hazel fled after him, but he was able to easily keep ahead of her. He slipped into a room and the door slammed shut behind him. There was the distinct noise of a lock clicking.

“Asterius!” Hazel slammed her fist on the door. “Let me in!”

“Leave!” Asterius bellowed. “Hazel, go! You can’t be around me!”

“Please, Asterius, just let me talk to you. We can discuss this!”

“Just go!” Asterius’ voice broke and Hazel heard the ragged breaths of someone breaking down into tears.

She stepped back from the door. Asterius was still crying, weak and quiet. There was no way she was going to get through the door, and even if she did, Asterius wasn’t going to talk to her. “Fine,” she said. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. But I’m not going to leave you alone.” With a final, reluctant glance at the door, Hazel headed out of the castle.

She could barely sleep when she returned to the hotel. She spent most of the day wandering around the town, thoughts full of Asterius. Was he okay? Why had he panicked like that? He had seemed so convinced that he was going to hurt you, even though he had never done anything even slightly aggressive. How could he think that?

When the sun set again, Hazel slipped back to the castle. “Asterius!” she called, pacing the grounds around the castle. She could see something shifting in the windows of his tower. “Asterius! Please! Just talk to me!” She yelled until her voice went hoarse, until the sun was peeking over the horizon again. Defeated, Hazel returned to her Hotel.

Every night, Hazel returned to the castle. She could see Asterius in his tower, but he never came down, never acknowledged her presence. Still, she didn’t let up. If he wasn’t going to talk to her, she was at least going to make sure he couldn’t ignore her.

She kept going to his castle every night for a week. As much as she was determined to keep doing it, she was starting to feel desperate. Her vacation would be ending soon. How could she go back home without seeing him again?

“Asterius!” she yelled up at his tower. She hadn’t seen anything moving in his window like she usually did. Was he out hunting? She felt a little silly, possibly yelling up to no one, but she didn’t want to just leave. “Asterius! I want to talk to you!”

“Don’t you know how to leave well enough alone?”

Hazel whirled around. Asterius was standing behind her. He looked somewhat rumpled, hair tossed carelessly over his shoulders, expression weary. “I would have thought you could take a hint,” he said. “Apparently, you can’t tell you’re not wanted.”

His words stung, but Hazel stiffened her back and stared back at him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

 Asterius bared his teeth. “Obviously.” He stalked closer to her. “Unfortunately, you seem completely incapable of doing the same.”

Hazel glared. “Of course I’m not going to avoid you. I can tell when something’s wrong. We were having a good time and all of a sudden, you just freaked out and ran off. If you didn’t want to kiss or you don’t think of me that way, you can at least be a man and tell me to my face.”

“It wasn’t about the kiss,” Asterius said, then looked pissed at himself.

“Then what was it about?” Hazel asked, softening her tone. “I’m not going to go away until you tell me.”

Asterius glared at her for a moment, then the fight visibly went out of him. His shoulders slumped and his expression tightened, like he was on the verge of tears. “It was wrong of me to get so close to you. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m dangerous. It’s dangerous for you to be around me.”

Hazel frowned. “I told you already. I trust y-”

“You shouldn’t!” The words burst from Asterius and he grimaced, clenching his jaw shut. “You shouldn’t,” he repeated more quietly.

“Why not?” Hazel demanded. Asterius gave her a mournful look and took a deep breath.

“It was a long time ago. Not too long after I was changed. There was a woman I loved. She knew what I was and she didn’t care either. We were happy. But then… I hadn’t hunted. I ate humans, back then. I didn’t kill, but I needed to be more careful, so I wouldn’t be discovered. I was so hungry. It’s not like hunger for humans. You can’t think of anything else when you’re like that. My love- one of her brothers came home from a hunting trip and he smelled like blood and I couldn’t think anymore. When I came back to myself, I had half-drained him. I tried to save him, but it was too late. My love came home and saw me covered in blood, crouched over her brother, and she knew what I had done. I fled. It was the last time I ever saw her.”

Asterius fell silent. He was staring at the ground, unable to look Hazel in the eye. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to start sobbing. Then he spoke again. “I started hunting animals after that. I avoid humans when I can. I just- I can’t risk doing that again.” He glanced at Hazel. “You should go. Please. If I hurt you- I’ve already done enough.”

Hazel looked at him for a moment. Then she strode toward him. He looked up at her, surprise written all over his face. “Hazel, you-”

She cut him off by pressing his mouth to his. He kissed back for a moment before regaining control of himself and pulling her off him. “What- Hazel, I told you to leave! Aren’t you… aren’t you horrified?”

“Asterius,” Hazel said. “It was terrible, what happened. But it wasn’t your fault. You already said you weren’t in control of your actions. You didn’t mean to and you’ve done everything in your power to stop yourself from doing it again.”

He made a quiet whimpering noise. “But if it happens again- if I lose control and you’re there- Hazel, I couldn’t stand it!”

“You won’t,” Hazel said. “I trust you. You’re more aware of it, you’re careful, you’ve been nothing but sweet and kind. Please. You’re not evil because you made a mistake once. Let yourself be happy.”

Asterius stared at her. His breathing was quick and trembling, but his eyes were filled with something like wonder. “You want to stay with me?” he whispered.

Hazel grinned. “I want to do more than that.”

She pressed her lips to his and this time, Asterius leaned into the kiss wholeheartedly. His hands splayed across Hazel’s back, lifting her off the ground. The kisses were heated, open-mouthed. Hazel’s tongue traced over his fangs, which were elongated with his excitement.

“Should we-” Asterius gasped between kisses. “Should we go inside?”

Hazel broke apart from him. “Inside. Outside. I don’t care.” She pressed her mouth back to his.

Asterius lifted Hazel up into his arms, lips still pressed against hers. Despite being completely involved in the kiss, he managed to carry Hazel back inside and up into his room.

The night melted into pleasure, their bodies pressed together. The separation between them felt thin, barely there. For several long moments, they were only aware of each other, huddled close in Asterius’ bed.

They lay there for a while, until Hazel’s stomach started growling and Asterius insisted on getting her something to eat. “I keep food around here for the staff,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t mind if you eat it.”

As it turned out, Asterius wasn’t a half-bad cook, as long as he was making something simple. “I can follow a recipe,” he explained. “I can’t taste anything, though, so I can’t get very experimental.”

The two of you sat together, half-dressed in his kitchen. You ate slowly, picking through the eggs he’d made for you. “You’re all right?” Asterius asked. “You’re sure?”

Hazel laughed. “Of course, I’m fine. I’m great. It was… It was incredible, Asterius.” He smiled at that, but there was still some tension around his eyes. Hazel leaned across the table to swat at his hand. “Out with it. I can see that something’s bothering you.”

Asterius chuckled. “I can’t hide anything from you,” he said. “I was thinking…” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve been worrying, really.”

Hazel focused her attention fully on him. “About what?”

Asterius sighed. “I’m immortal. You’re not.” He fidgeted, twisting his fingers together. “You’ll die.”

“Eventually,” Hazel said. “Is that what you’re worrying about?”

“Yes! Of course it is! I’ve already had one relationship end badly. I don’t want you to get old and or sick or even worse, you die in some kind of accident.” Asterius choked off, staring down at the table. He blinked rapidly. “Perhaps it would be better if… if we didn’t do this.”

“Hey,” Hazel said, setting her fork down. “Don’t talk like that. That’s idiotic. You’re not going to do the whole self-sacrifice thing again, are you? Where you lock yourself away, convinced it’s for my own good or something?” Asterius looked ashamed. “That’s ridiculous. You’re not helping anyone. You’re just making yourself feel worse.”    

“But I can’t stop worrying about it! I don’t want you to die, I don’t want you to get sick, and even if I turn you, I don’t want you to have to go through what I did-”

“Asterius!” Hazel said, lifting her hands. “Hey, hey, hey, stop talking! Shh! Listen to me!” She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Look. You can’t control what’s going to happen. Maybe something will happen to me and it’ll hurt. But if you let yourself succumb to this worry, you’re going to guarantee that you’ll be miserable. Let yourself be happy. Let yourself be with me.”

Asterius’ shoulders lowered as the tension went out of him. “I can’t stop worrying,” he said.

“You don’t have to. But you can’t let it control your life.” Hazel lowered her hands. “I want to be with you. Do you want to be with me?”

Asterius gave a small nod. “I do.”

“Then let’s be together.” Hazel leaned across the table and pressed a kiss to his lips. Asterius leaned into her touch.

“Stay,” he said when she leaned back. “Stay with me. I know it’s only a vacation and you need to go home eventually, but just stay with me for a little longer.”

Hazel smiled. “Of course I will.” Asterius gave a relieved smile and leaned across the table to press his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he whispered. Hazel smiled.

“I love you too.”

[firstginger]

daemon roundup

NILGAI, Boselaphus tragocamelus Bio: The nilgai is the only member of the genus Boselaphus and the largest antelope in Asia. They are typically found in small groups and are generalist grazers; they will fluctuate between plants available and are seasonal migrators. Notoriously a quiet species that utilizes a latrine-based boundary system, they’re also known for their roaring noise when startled and will flee great distances away. Their demeanor is docile and timid, and they are easily domesticated. Traits: The nilgai soul is going to show hallmark traits of many antelope species: they’re hierarchical, defensive, socially dependent, and alert. The fluidity between social groups these animals show may demonstrate an individual who finds security being with others, though may be less loyal and more detached. They’re likely prone to being self-focused and willing to branch out within their niche; nilgai individuals have their preferences and are very aware of them, but have no issue with select adaptation, particularly if given the opportunity to plan ahead. They’re unassuming in a way — it’s likely they have a richer internal life than external one, and they do not have ease of emotional expression. Likely straight to the point when they do speak up, nilgai excel at developing personal boundaries, and don’t take well to spontaneity or disrupting the status quo. What’s theirs is theirs, and what’s yours is yours. Naturally cautious, a nilgai individual looks before they leap. Their fleeing behavior combined with their territorial natural may indicate a person who picks their battles, or someone quiet who will suddenly dig in their heels and display stubborn, defensive behavior when someone encroaches on their boundaries or possessions, or when an issue truly matters to them. Their ease of handling also suggests they’d rather not rock the boat and prefer a steady, collaborative environment, but have a tendency towards wariness around new individuals.

SQUIRREL GLIDER, Petaurus norfolcensis Bio: The squirrel glider lives in regions of southeast Australia in small groups of up to two or three adults. They're nocturnal marsupials that nest in tree hollows and make their nests out of leaves. Their diet is omnivorous and flexible, though they primarily feed on nectar and pollen. They aren't particularly noisy, but they communicate to one another through a variety of grunts and gurgles, including a loud yip to warn others when they're threatened. It forages in a very deliberate pattern. Their ranges are linear and they move between trees by gliding using their flying membrane. While typically shy and unobtrusive, they can be territorial as a family unit. Traits: The squirrel glider soul is going to show similar traits to other gliders in the Petaurus genus; they’re perceptive, dedicated, and value a sense of habit and stability. These individuals come across as reserved and introverted to most. They don’t thrive in large social situations and prefer to keep their life private from those they don’t know well, and can be naturally a wary and suspicious type of person. However these people are also going to bond closely with their loved ones; squirrel glider individuals enjoy communal environments, and are dedicated to the support of those in their group. Their independence emerges when they’re focused on a project and in that regard they do prefer to work in isolation, but ultimately the squirrel glider individual is someone who’s going to need to fall back on their friends. It’s likely that they’re more anxious and less confident without a group. However particularly within their comfort zone, a squirrel glider will show a degree of stubbornness when something rubs them the wrong way. They prefer a method of conflict-avoidance and not treading on anyone’s feelings to attract negative attention their way, but if they’re stressed enough, they will lash out. Their preference is an environment that is predictable and organized. When they feel in control of their surroundings, squirrel glider individuals are extraordinarily capable and efficient. They’re specialized: they naturally seek out their niche, and appreciate consistency in their companions and workplace.

RED-BACKED SHRIKE, Lanius collurio Bio: Also known as the butcher bird, is a carnivorous passerine native to eastern Africa. It (and other shrike species) gets its reputation by the way it will impale the bodies of its prey on thorns or barbed wire to eat more easily. It hunts from a perch and will drop on prey from above; interestingly, it always uses a mimicry of impaling prey in order to intimidation males and attract females during breeding season. Their migrations are straight and slow making them easy targets, and they’re also territorial and competitive over breeding and feeding space. Traits: The red-backed shrike soul is an incredibly shrewd individual who is incredibly adaptive to their surroundings. They're ambitious at their core: a red-backed shrike is naturally competitive, and this deep-seated desire to be respected drives them to continue to succeed. Contrary to birds of prey souls, however, this individual is far more communal and social. They thrive on external stimuli and have no issues socializing with a wide range of people, from large groups to small. Like the shrike itself, they are communicative individuals who openly express themselves and do not care to be anything but straightforward. This person does not mince words and does not particularly mind the fallout; they’re very self-assured, and have a thick skin regarding others’ opinions of them. At the same time they’re always extremely patient. While being opportunistic, certainly, they also have high standards and know what is worth their time. They are much more likely to drop a project (or person) that’s not working for them than to see things through to the bitter end. However this headstrong behavior also can trip them up. Red-backed shrikes are inclined to have strong faith in their own instincts and it can blind them to other opinions. While adaptable on their own terms, they’re stubborn when it comes to something they hold dear. It’s typical for them to be rather possessive over what’s theirs and bold over defending it. This isn’t to say they’re unpleasant: on the contrary, red-backed shrikes are known to be vibrant, playful, and close-bonding, though they do not have much sympathy for those who disappoint them.

PYRENEAN MASTIFF, Canis lupus familiaris Bio: The Pyrenean Mastiff is a beautiful Spanish breed of domestic dog that originated in the Middle Ages to herd and protect flocks of sheep in the mountains of Pyrenees. It is exceptionally large and can weigh between 130 and 200 pounds when full grown. They are a low energy and companionable breed among humans and other dogs alike. For a livestock guardian breed, Pyrenean Mastiffs are more tolerant of strangers. This gives them a rather gentle giant reputation — though at the same time, they're courageous and indomitable when it comes to genuine threats. Traits: The Pyrenean Mastiff soul will display the hallmark traits of any individual with a dog daemon: close-bonding, generous, empathetic, and expressive. Livestock guardian breeds are most typically dutiful, protective, and wary, and while the Pyrenean Mastiff soul is far more approachable than other LSDs. This individual is someone absolutely more reserved but definitely amiable; though they take a while to warm up to people, they’re polite in conversation and don’t have a defensive demeanor. For the most part, they’re rather easy-going. This is the definition of a person who enjoys their own work and their own lane, and enjoys that comfort of routine and doesn’t seek to involve themselves in matters outside of their business. Those who know someone with a Pyrenean Mastiff daemon would likely describe them as devoted without being overly emotional, and a dependable friend who likes to ensure their loved ones are taken care of. When it comes to matters that are important to this individual, they’re surprisingly confident and bold. They excel within their comfort zone and have a strong presence that makes them good leaders and followers both wherever they go. While this is a person who does best when they have work to do and a place to devote their energy, they need boundaries and enjoy their downtime. The best environment for them is one that displays clear communication, emotional stability, and appreciation for their work.

[herinsectreflection]

Top 5 buffy quotes?

Assuming this is Buffy the show, not the character, and not in order:

1) A joint venture of two related Spike quotes:

“Love isn't brains, children, it's blood... blood screaming inside you to work its will.” (3x08 Lover’s Walk)

“Blood is life, lackbrain. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead. Course it's her blood.” (5x22 The Gift)

On top if these just being nicely rythmic, well-delivered lines, they expose so much about Spike and how he thinks. Blood is life, and sex, and warmth/love. The multitudes of blood are the multitudes of Spike - affection and murder and hunger and sex all rolled up together.

2)  “Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they're too busy with their own. The beautiful ones. The popular ones. The guys that pick on you. Everyone. If you could hear what they were feeling. The loneliness. The confusion. It looks quiet down there. It's not. It's deafening.” (3x18 Earshot)

I cannot state enough how important this was to hear as a suicidal and lonely teenager, this sentiment of not downplaying Jonathan’s pain, but bringing it into this larger perspective, this shared human experience, this gestalt trauma. It’s still something I turn to a decade later, when I need reminding that every single person is their own main character, with their own unique story and perspective. And it’s so important that Buffy, so isolated herself, recognises that and appreciates that her struggles and trauma might be unique, but they’re not singular. We are all united in suffering, and that is both tragic and consoling.

3) “I don't understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's, there's just a body, and I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead anymore. It's stupid. It's mortal and stupid. And, and Xander's crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well, Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why." (5x16 The Body)

I just talked about this scene in another ask, but it’s worth reiterating how perfectly devastating this monologue is. There’s no grandiosity, no flowery prose, just blunt frustration. It’s about the absurd mundanity of existence, and how death is not different. The Body is very much an episode about the mundanity of death - how it is so small and everyday and universal. It feels completely overwhelming and cataclysmic when it happens to us, but to the world, it’s just Tuesday. It’s expressed throughout the episode with little details, like Buffy using too much kitchen roll to mop up her vomit, struggling to dial a number, going out and hearing children playing, Willow fretting over her outfit, Xander getting a parking ticket. This speech expresses all of that and more, expressing how stupid and absurd it it that death is so common, almost dull, and yet we cannot overcome it. Every part of Joyce’ body, her physical existence, is there, and how stupid and absurd is it that she can’t just not be dead any more. We as humans are certain to know death, and yet we know nothing about death - we cannot tell Anya why this happens because we don’t know.

4)  “I know I should go / But I follow you like a man possessed / There's a traitor here beneath my breast / And it hurts me more than you've ever guessed / If my heart could beat, it would break my chest”

"I touch the fire and it freezes me / I look into it and it's black / Why can't I feel? /My skin should crack and peel / I want the fire back" (6x07 Once More With Feeling)

I had to have a lyric from OMWF and couldn't choose between these two. They're both such powerful expressions of pure yearning. You can feel the pain and want viscerally when you hear them. They're great inverse echoes of each other too. Spike is a dead creature, cursed with feelings of love, a mimicry of life with his unbeating yet unignorable heart. Buffy is now living, but cursed with feeling dead, her body responding to stimuli as a living body does, but her emotional state being so totally deadened that she is unable to feel it.

5) "I walk. I talk. I shop, I sneeze. I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back. There's trees in the desert since you moved out. And I don't sleep on a bed of bones." (4x22 Restless)

This is my number one quote. It's everything about the show, a perfect summation of how Buffy forges out her own identity in a harsh world, captured in this surreal little poem. Like the Anya quote above, it describes life by noting it's bizarre mundanities ("I shop. I sneeze."). It expresses Buffy's heroism and adaptability, how she's constantly facing and dealing with new challenges. And it faces down her greatest fear at this moment - that she is a creature of death and loneliness. The "bed of bones" is such an evocative image, the inverse of this ideal that Buffy wants - to be able to go home at the end of the day to her friends, her family, her lover. To be able to live and experience lives comforts A bed of bones means a monotonous, everyday, repeated return to death and decay. That's the paradigm she is rejecting.

[cherrywoes]

inferno.

𝘼𝘾𝙏 𝙊𝙉𝙀:

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢. 𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙.

— a person who strolls the city in order to experience it. “deliberately aimless.”

THE MORTAL WORLD was as he recalled it to be; wild, lush, and potent with life. The grass beneath his feet was cool and damp, as if there had been a light rain just seconds before he stepped out of the portal, and real. He could touch it with his fingers, feel the sunlight and energy coursing through its very veins, could feel the way the earth beneath him trembled at his touch, bowed against his power and immensity. He could pinpoint every human being on the planet down to their heartbeats, their individual thoughts and emotions, to a degree where he was certain his powers could rival even Lucifer’s, as glorious as his former brother had been.

He twisted a blade of grass between his fingertips, watching the pieces split and tear apart under the force, much like his soul and the darkness rolling like a thundercloud within him. His wings grew a steady black the longer he stood apart from his angelic soul, each feather turning more jagged, more rough, the sharpened edges growing dangerously serrated. His wings were no longer the slate gray he had sported all his life, proud of the line he toed when forever opposed both heaven and hell; they were now black as pitch, sparkling like oil in a field of water. He could even feel horns beginning to rise from the top of his skull, long, delicate things that curled around the back of his head and ended in points just above his eyes in a mimicry of a diadem.

The Nameless One was no longer an archangel, or any sort of being that existed previously. He was new; he was fresh from hell, born out of both light and dark, without a shred of divinity left within him—except maybe there was. A small spark, barely there, fighting against the evil within with all of its might, bent on surviving, existing in a world where it was unwanted.

“Who are you?” A man stepped out of the treeline. He crushed poppies and baby’s breath as he walked, uncaring of the tiny lives he had snuffed out. His hair was cropped short to his head in a style that the Nameless One had never seen before, and he wore clothing made of mixed fabrics, even shoes of bizarre color that sparked no memory within him. He was foreign, and yet he was not, for the Nameless One could smell the divinity on him, could smell Hell on him like a second natural scent, an odor of sharp citrus and brimstone. He was no more powerful than any other Second Sphere angel but could easily sit within the top of those ranks, for certain. “Answer me, Fallen One.”

Here was an angel the Nameless One did not recognize, but knew had participated in Lucifer’s crusade against God besides. He allowed the grass strands to flutter to the ground at his feet, wings—all six pairs of them—rolling in circular motions to ease the ache of centuries of torture from his shoulders and spine. While the scars on his body were forever healed, the pain within continued to linger, dragging down his coil of flesh and bone until he was almost mindless. The gravity of this world pulled upon him like chains, made him ache, made him hurt, made him feel heavy in many ways that he could not put a name to but knew existed.

“You’re an archangel,” the man continued when the angel offered no answer to him. His expression appeared almost permanently angry, or stern, and he took a step closer to him, eyes flickering over his wings and features. “But you’re not Lucifer, and all of the others are already here. So... you can only be the Nameless One. Am I right?”

“Congratulations.” The Nameless One’s voice was a multi dimensional purr, shaking the atoms around them and causing the air to physically vibrate. The flowers wilted near his bare feet, succumbing to the raw power that filtered off of his skin in harsh waves; the trees bowed towards him; the mountains trembled. “Your assumption is correct…” He paused, flicking through the other angel’s memories with razor sharp metaphysical claws until he found the right one. “Iraphel.”

“It’s Iwaizumi now.” Iraphel, or Iwaizumi, crossed his arms. At the Nameless One’s questioning look, he added,”To exist here, we must have human names. You’ll have to choose one if you’re going to stay here.”

The archangel turned his head back to the portal, sealed off and permanently closed. No other would be going through it if he had the choice; keeping Lucifer in Hell was the best opportunity he would have at being free of his beliefs and doctrine before armageddon. And Lucifer would be loathe to part with his divinity, besides, he assumed, still too caught up in heaven, in their Father, who he so desperately loved and despised in the same breath. He would not be going back to that, to an angel who regretted his decision and affirmed it by the very existence of Hell—no, he was too proud, and he had already betrayed his friend once. A second time would be unforgivable.

“I have no intention of returning to Hell.” The Nameless One rubbed his wrists where he could still feel the imprints of the cuffs used to bind him in Cocytus. He would likely never get rid of the phantom pains, but it was a small price to pay for such freedom, where God had turned a blind eye and relied on humanity’s sense of morality to provide the right path for them. “No, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Right… Well, you’ll still need a name.” Iwaizumi’s eyes darted up and down his physical form, still covered in the inhuman toga given to him in hell. “And normal clothes—”

In a brief moment, the Nameless One was clothed. He had mimicked the outfit of a human nearby, had chosen him at random, and altered the outfit to fit his human body as he pleased. It was strange to wear so many layers; a pair of undergarments, pants, a shirt, and brown overcoat that ended just at his knees. Even the shoes would take getting used to, flat and close toed and restricting. He had learned much from that human just by browsing through his mind, but it was such a small part of a vast world, he was beginning to learn. “Is this acceptable?”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Yeah, but… I guess it’s fine. Now you just need a name.”

Another facet of humanity plucked from an unknowing human; he paired one with another that seemed reasonable, disliking several of the meanings that came from some of them, and came up with one he liked, to a degree, and felt he could live with for some time if needed. “Oikawa Tooru.”

“Did you get that from someone else?” Iwaizumi inquired. At Oikawa’s nod, he shook his head and grumbled under his breath. “Just how powerful are you?”

“I am unsure.” Oikawa shrugged and knelt down to pluck a dead flower from the ground. It dissolved in his hand at the touch, crumbling into a fine black powder that smelled just like Cocytus—icy and unforgiving. He allowed it to fall to the ground with the strand of grass in a mimicry of snow, each individual flake following its own path just as he would. “Separating from my divine soul has amplified my powers. It will be some time yet until I am able to control them properly.”

“Well… Shit.” Iwaizumi exhaled a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. He rocked back on his heels, tilted his head to the sky, and groaned. “Right, huh, okay—let’s get you out of here. We can deal with the rest when it comes up.”

Oikawa held out a hand towards where he knew the city was. “Lead the way, Iwaizumi.”

For the next several years, Oikawa—his identity as the Nameless One shed from his mind like an old skin—roamed the city of Tokyo and the entirety of Japan in search of knowledge. From farming to technology, he wanted to know it all, to learn about this world his Father coveted so much, to know if he could learn to love it as strongly too—but instead, he found something else. Something equally as precious, a diamond among moissanite.

A human girl.

“Oikawa, look!” Tiny hands reached up to shine a reflective piece of multicolored glass up to the sun. Rays of blue, red, pink, and yellow reflected upon soft flesh, the corner of a [color] eye, and fewest strands of [color] hair shining underneath the light. “Look what I made today! Isn’t it pretty?!”

“Of course it is!” The archangel peered over her shoulder to look up through the glass with her. It was a depiction of an angel, ironically enough, dressed in a white gown and a golden halo hovering above its head. Interestingly, it looked much like Lucifer, with dark hair and blue eyes, though that had to have been an artistic choice and not because the child knew what the Morningstar truly looked like. “Can I keep it, [Name]-chan?”

Over the years, he had picked up on the language, dialect, and social mannerisms. It had allowed him to form a personality that was more acceptable among humans, most of them unused to the formality that angels had ingrained into their very existence. Iwaizumi had helped him along in that regard, forcing him to use casual slang, contractions, even made him learn other languages, although any language other than Japanese or Spanish was difficult for him.

Suspicious [color] eyes flickered up to regard him. “You promise you’ll keep it safe?”

“I promise.” As an afterthought, he held out his hand and stuck out his pinkie. “Pinkie promise! I’ll keep it safe, or you can hit me if I haven’t.”

In that time, he had come across her—[Name] [Surname]. A little orphan girl with no parents, no home, not even a penny to her name. It had been an accident that he met her in the first place, injured from a fight with an angel that had left him grounded for some time. She had tended to him as best as she could, but his wings just weren’t safe enough for childish hands to heal, and since then, he had a fond spot for her despite Iwaizumi advising otherwise. Human connections were dangerous, he’d told him, especially ones that came from the heart.

But, Oikawa mused, every time his best friend shook his head at him when he returned from the orphanage, what Iwaizumi didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

“How will I know if you haven’t though?” [Name]’s nose scrunched cutely in thought. “I’m at the orphanage all the time and you don’t live here.”

Oikawa hummed in thought. [Name]’s orphanage, centered in the middle of Eden, the safe realm that the first Fallen to crawl out of Hell had created to hide them from the world, was only a few blocks away from Oikawa’s apartment. While humans were allowed to enter Eden, they could never leave once they learned of their existence, and if they still wanted to, then their memories would be wiped clean. It was likely that was what would happen to [Name] one day, if she was adopted.

“You’re right.” He nodded his head in agreement. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he produced a brilliant white light in his palm—bright, but also dim, and full of color. [Name] gasped at its beauty, reaching for it with greedy hands. “No, no! This is part of my soul. You can’t just grab it like that, it’s too fragile.”

She frowned at the scolding, but dropped her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. Just be more careful,” Oikawa advised.

He had been waiting for the right moment to do this. Iwaizumi had often told him he needed to find a safe place to put the remnants of his divine soul, and what better place than a human he was fond of?

“Here.” The bright light floated above his hand for a moment before shooting into [Name]’s chest. Her hands flew to her collarbone, patting the area, and she showed no sign of pain; but Oikawa could sense her like a beacon now, a human with a hint of divinity within her. “You can keep this; as long as you never break it, I’ll make sure to never break your glass.”

The smile that erupted upon her face was both heartbreaking and beautiful.

“Thanks, Oikawa!”

one | masterlist | three

taglist: open.

[annoyedfanfiction]

@groovyfluxie​ requested: romantic/fluffy TOS Spock x Genderqueer!Reader (she/they pronouns) x TOS Dr. McCoy polyamorous relationship while on the Enterprise

I’m so sorry this took so long!!! I hope you enjoy it.

Set in TOS “Arena” (1x19)

“What do you mean we can’t beam them up?” Leonard’s voice was rough and anxious in the background of the comm line. “It’s alright, Len.” “How is this–“ “We’ll look after each other,” you assured him, voice soothing even as you crouched behind a pile of rubble. “We’re together. You just better be there when we beam back up.” “I’m not going anywhere,” he rumbled, and you smiled, though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Love you, Len.” “If you two are quite done,” Jim teased, snatching his comm back, “Sulu, notify us when it is possible to beam back up.”

“Lang!” You leapt for cover as their fire rained around you, side stinging with a shot, but your companion wasn’t so lucky. “(L/N), what’s going on?” Your communicator buzzed to life. “Lang’s down, Captain.” You hissed as your hand traced over the burn of something that wasn’t quite a phaser. “Are you hit, Lieutenant?” Spock’s voice, now, low and level, but concerned. “Nothing serious,” you assured him, though it was rather unconvincing when followed immediately by a sharp scream. One of the large, lizard-like creatures loomed over you, phaser in hand. “Lieutenant?” You rolled to the side as it aimed for you, taking its legs out with you. It crashed to the ground, strong and fierce but not agile. Its weapon skidded from its hand and you bolted, snatching up the fallen weapon and plunging behind a further pile as the fire started up again. Someone yelled an order and the barrage stopped for a moment. You peaked out just in time to see your attacker return back to the high ground and you took off, weapons whirring back to life as you skidded out of range.

“It’s fine, Len. We’re together, Len. Stop worrying, Len,” Leonard muttered the mimicry under his breath as Chapel finished taking samples from your seared flesh and bandaged you up. You rolled your eyes, used to the frustration with which he expressed concern. It wasn’t ideal but you’d known him for long enough not to take it personally. “I’m fine, aren’t I?” “Define “fine”,” he retorted, pulling the curtain shut behind Chapel. “You were shot – twice – with an unknown weapon.” “And you’ve fixed me.” You made grabby hands at him and he sighed, but moved into range. You immediately pulled him to you, hands going up to cup his face. He wouldn’t look at you. “Come on, darling. Look at me.” His eyes finally flicked to yours, swirling with fear and relief and love. “I’m sorry for worrying you.” He glared down at you for a moment longer, but you could feel him melting, before he finally brought his lips down to meet yours. “Just don’t do it again.” The words were mumbled against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. “It is highly unlikely they would intend for this to happen.” You smiled up at Spock as Leonard grumbled. “Are you well, th’y’la?” “They’ve been shot, of course they’re not–“ “Len fixed me right up, ashayam,” you assured him, cutting Leonard off, thumb brushing over the graze on Spock’s cheek. “You’re hurt too!” Instantly, Spock was shoved onto the bed beside you. “Stay there. I’ll get the regen.” He huffed out, curtains swishing around him, and you just leaned into Spock, both of you knowing better than to argue. “I believe we ought to be more careful, ashayam,” Spock mused, as Leonard buzzed about with the regenerator. “If only to preserve the good doctor’s mental fitness.” “Why you green-blooded bastard–“

“What are you going to do, Mr Spock?” Bones demanded, coming up to the Captain’s chair. You sighed, preparing for yet another argument. “I'm going to wait, Doctor. There's little else I can do.” That was not the answer Bones wanted and both you and Spock knew it. “What about the Captain?” He ignored you murmuring his name. “If I could help him, I would.” Spock’s voice was heavy in a way that only those who knew him truly would recognise. Unfortunately for him, the Bridge crew was loaded with those who knew him. “I cannot.” “Now, you're the one that's always talking about logic!” “Bones,” you warned, sliding to your feet. “What about some logic now? Where's the Captain, Mister Spock?” There was no true vitriol in Bones’ voice. Just worry, fear. “He's out there, Doctor. Out there somewhere in a thousand cubic parsecs of space, and there's absolutely nothing we can do to help him.” Silence fell heavily and you wanted nothing more than to gather Spock into your arms, let him know that you were there. But that wasn’t Spock. So you laid a firm hand on his shoulder, feeling Bones lean into your side, weary and scared and hopeful, but still holding you up more than you were him. You locked one hand in the doctor’s hair, letting your fingers trail patterns along his scalp. Spock glanced up at you, eyes warm in his impassive face, then looked back to the screen.

“This is the U.S.S. Enterprise calling the Metrons. Our channels are open. Come in, please. We urgently desire a conference. Please answer.” “The ship, our engines, our weapons. It's just inconceivable that we are immobilised,” Bones was trying to be hopeful, frustration brimming through his voice. “But it has happened, Doctor.” The room dimmed, screen swirling to life in a blaze of colour. “We are the Metrons. Your Captain is losing his battle.” Your heart dropped in your chest. “We would suggest you make whatever memorial arrangements, if any, which are customary in your culture. We believe you have very little time left.” “We appeal to you in the name of civilisation. Put a stop to this!” Bones demanded, and this time neither of you noticed the tired look Spock offered him. “Your violent intent and actions demonstrate that you are not civilised. However, we are not without compassion. It is possible you may have feelings toward your Captain.” Bones spluttered, and you squeezed his hand tightly. “So that you will be able to prepare yourself, we will allow you to see and hear what is now transpiring.” “Not without compassion?” You snarled, and the image that was appearing paused, flickering back into the whirlwind of colour that had spoken. “You speak of compassion and civilisation but if this is your sick idea of entertainment what does that say about you?” You heard Spock’s warning tone, but you were going to finish this if it killed you. “Both of those beings down there are people. They have crews to care for. Friends. Family. And you’re forcing them to kill one another? Just so that you can kill the losing crew?” The light snapped an angry red. “If you’re powerful enough to immobilise our ship, to send them to a world where they can create weapons, then you are powerful enough to prevent negotiations from becoming violent. So put an end to this and let us negotiate.” “You cannot negotiate! You are violent and uncivilised!” “No! We are hurting!” Silence echoed. The screen flashed into blackness, then an image of Jim and the Gorn appeared. Jim stuck his finger into the powdery substance encrusting the rock and brought it to his lips, screwing his face up and immediately spitting it out. But there was realisation in his eyes. “If only there was some way we could contact him,” Bones lamented, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you to him. He pressed a kiss to your head, kind enough not to acknowledge the tears gathering in your eyes. “Yes, indeed, Doctor, if only there were,” Spock agreed, for the first time. “Notice the substance encrusting that rock. Yes. Unless I'm mistaken, it's potassium nitrate.” “So?” “Perhaps nothing, Doctor.” He paused, eyes fixed to the screen. “Perhaps everything.” “Gunpowder.” You rolled your eyes at Spock’s riddled musing, fondly exasperated. His lips twitched into a slight smirk, almost invisible except that you knew what to look for. Bones huffed beside you and you grinned up at him, despite yourself.

“I take it back. I don’t want to negotiate anymore,” you whined, as Spock carefully fixed the collar of your uniform. A half-smile. “You were adamant earlier, Ambassador.” The door to your chambers slid open. “Human error, Commander.” You smirked up at him. “You wouldn’t know such a thing.” “Stop flirting,” Bones scolded, leaning against the doorframe. “Jealous, Len?” you teased, letting him sweep you into his arms. He rolled his eyes, planting a gentle kiss to your lips anyway. “It is highly illogical to be jealous of one’s own partners, Leonard.” Spock watched you, eyebrow raised and hands tucked behind his back. “Green’s your colour anyway,” Bones muttered, tugging you with him to pull Spock into a kiss. “You’re going to mess up my hair,” you warned, as Spock’s deft fingers traced up your cheek, tangling around the back of your neck. The door slid open again and you jumped, guiltily, only to be met by Jim’s laughter. “Come on, lovebirds. I need to borrow the Ambassador.” Your cheeks must have been as hot as Spock’s were flushed green as Jim laughed. Bones, unruffled by the intrusion, just rolled his eyes, scoffing about washing his eyes out after walking in on Jim that many goddamn times– You smoothed your uniform down and linked your arm with Jim’s. Behind you, Spock fixed Bones’ collar before they followed you to the transporter bay.

[bibliocratic]

Ooo jonmartin prompts ya say? 👀 If you're still taking requests, I'm really feeling some Supportive Monster Boyfriends angst rn. Either jon being Very Eye and martin calming him down, or martin being Very Lonely and Jon pulling him back, whichever....😁 --@screaming-introvertedly

Here you are! Supportive Martin and the Eye-based horror his boyfriend sometimes turns into like some sort of shitty superpower

(some content warnings for violent imagery and graphic hurt/comfort, I’ll add more detail to the tags. 

Jon rocks him awake violently, his nails leaving reddened half-moons in the skin of Martin’s arm, clamping his other hand vice-tight over his mouth. He is panicked and panicking and Martin’s pulling his beaten, aching body up out of muddy awakening, dredging together the scraps of energy he has left.

Jon releases him, and makes sloppy gestures, their meaning imperfectly delivered with how rushed he’s being; Up. Leave. Corruption. Now. Leave. Now. Now.

His mouth and hands make a terrified picture of desperation, and Martin’s staggering to standing, steadying himself on the rust-mossed bannister of the car park stairwell they’ve been sheltering in, trying to shuck exhaustion from his limbs to paw around for his backpack.

It’s too late anyway.

Martin can hear the skittering, scraping tumult approaching up the floors below, and Jon must know something he doesn’t, because he’s grabbing Martin’s hand and tugging him manically up, pushing him when he thinks Martin’s going too slow, and their feet are tripping on the concrete stairwell and still Jon is trying to pull them both upwards with nothing but his will and shaky legs. Their thumping, irregular steps echo in the boxy space, and still they aren’t fast enough.

They come as a mass. A roiling, compacted sea of matted, boil-plagued fur and knotted tails. Mouths frothing rapid cry out a hideous rending song that scampers and squeals, and they pour up the steps like a wave and break against them as they run.

Martin fights hard as they’re blocked in at a higher landing. He’s getting good at fighting these days. He scythes with a home-made weapon of brute force and nails while Jon burrows into their backpack, and then he’s being handed a flare as Jon casts down a glugging spill of petrol, and that when illuminates in a fetid barbecue stench takes out a good few of them. Yet they are legion and there are only two of them, and they were shattered and wasting before even this assault, and Martin is not fast enough.

He remembers hearing Jon holler in agony, his body turning in a pirouette of violent motion and intended impact and private terror, and he doesn’t even manage to complete his turn. A rat-king, made of up dozens of writhing furry bodies latches into his leg, using the leverage to claw savagely at his chest with a dozen back legs, a mauling amalgamation of impossible, flesh-rot limbs.

Something chomps into the meat of his arm and dangles there. He screams himself, the sound too big in the stairwell, a return cry of a dozen distant howling Martins, and his body shudders felled as he’s pulled down, and he keeps on screaming. He’s lost sight of Jon. There’s blood and matted fur over his eyes. His lungs expanding with a breathless terror, he tries to batter them away like midges in a summer heat as they swarm over him and take him for food.

The patter of their nailed feet over his cheeks, the paper-cut, dig-drag sensation of the onslaught, the decisive and brutal splitting bite and rip of the skin of his throat.

“Stop.”

The rats stop. So does Martin. The scream bubbles un-made and unvoiced in his chest and he can’t blink the blood out of his eyes. He can’t see Jon, but he doesn’t expect to. It’s not Jon that’s here with them any more.

“Tell me,” whisper-demands-croons-sings the thing that is no longer Jon, voice crashing on the rocks of them with with a wave-foam aftertaste of static and Martin’s mouth fills with the saliva of every shameful story he’s ever kept secret, every unkind thought, every mistake, every evidence of his fragile humanity laid bare.

“Tell me your story, Tangled Hoarde of Many Claws,” compells the voice of the Archive. “Let me rip your song from your spines.”

Martin pays hideous witnessing to the rats’ screaming. He sees when they start rocking their mismatched, desecrated bodies, moaning and keening, when they start dying with all the violent grace that was probably afforded to Peter Lukas. The infected bodies that survive turn delirious, wailing in confusion, lost from their hive, dragging their broken-backed, broken-brained bodies from the battleground, and the Watcher drinks it all in.

Martin feels the compulsion flicker and falter like a loss of pressure. His mouth remembers the agony of his body.

The thing that is not Jon watches him for a steady moment. The edging of its eyes stretches, retracts like the bodies of jellyfish, and pupils bloom into existence like opening flowers with a sucking, popping sound. Still the thing stares and Martin wails at the torn places of his skin, and the flayed torn places in his head that the thing is calmly perusing through as his movements get weaker.

He wants Jon here. He is trembling, and blood-loss woozy and he wants Jon to tell him it’ll be ok.

It is a body in all the ways something can be technically a body, and it moves in all the ways something can mechanically move. The hands that touch him are not the thin-spindle fingers that are deceptively calloused, they are not hands he knows, hands that have held him with a cherishing softness. There is nothing soft in this gaze, like being the only thing in the sights of some predator on a desolate, wind-scoured moor, nothing soft in its hold as it observes the violence done to Martin’s body.

Martin gasps and thrashes faintly, gargles blood through the weeping gash in his throat, and the thing makes a sound like a snarl of tape being wound back.

“Breathe,” his body is commanded. It doesn’t even have a mouth any more. It sounds its demand in the fibres of his skin, in the tendrils of his slipping-away consciousness, and Martin almost weeps at the meat-hook immoveable yank of it as he’s made to persist.

It is unendurable to continue. And the thing, that flexes the outline of a face that could have been Jon’s, whose eyes have lost all colour, replaced by the shock-wide black of pupils like the unblinking gaze of owls, will not permit him to drop into unconsciousness. Martin is instructed to live and breathe and survive in this blood-soaked, echoing stairwell, and his abused body does as instructed. It is efficient, this brutality of meatball surgery, but there is nothing human in it, and Martin’s throat gags on a wail as a tourniquet is applied to his leg.

Finally, eyes that could be eyes he knows boil down to the front of the thing’s face.

“Sleep. Long and dreamless,” comes the final command. Martin has no choice in the matter.

He awakes in a different place. There was a multi-level shopping centre running off one of the floors of the car park, and he opens his eyes in the plush-carpeted, desolate foyer of a multiscreen cinema. His body an anguish, aching and bruised to the bones of him. He blearily looks at the patch on his arm, the neatly sewn stitches and tape marking his skin, manages to move his arm with a pained wince to touch at the padding of gauze at his throat, his upper leg.

Around him like the elements of a summoning circle; medical gear, antiseptic and needle driver, tissue forceps, blood-heavy bindings discarded along with make-shift compressions. Martin wonders how much of his body needed mending. How much of it was commanded to.

Jon is there. His face ashen and smeared with Martin’s blood, the horrifying vista of his face returned to almost normal. Martin watches an eyeball roll back and into the scar tissue of Jon’s throat. He has his back against a circular plinth, body collapsed and folded uncomfortably like he’s lying where he fell.

He’s not looking at Martin. His eyes – his own dark pupils returned to him – staring off at a distance Martin cannot reach, a horizon he cannot venture to.

There are the drying trails of tears down Jon’s cheeks. His mouth is moving but it is not his voice that spools out but a testament of horror bestowed by some other poor soul using a mimicry of their voice.

Jon has the expression on his face of a man who has spent a long time drowning.

Martin wonders if he’s too late to bring him back to shore.  

Martin reaches out, fumbling, his motions jerky, imprecise. His reach limited by the bindings of his wounds, he flails his hand to touch Jon’s leg, the bare skin revealed below the line of the trouser leg, the only part of him he can reach.

“Jon, come back,” he pleads hoarsely, and stares at him as if hoping to snag his gaze away.  “Come on, you can do it, come back to me.”

Jon’s eyes blink slowly, like a lizard. His mouth doesn’t stop moving. His body has started shivering, though it’s warm enough here.

Martin wets his lips and wishes for water.

“I broke my wrist when I was six,” he says, the words scraping up the side of his throat. Jon’s eyes flick to him, and there are still the embers of a hungry light there. He has stopped talking. He is paying attention.  “I used to play rugby, though I was never any good at it. There was a fight in the changing rooms when I was thirteen, and I stopped playing after that.” Martin sucks in more air and Jon’s gaze doesn’t leave him. He’s stopped shivering.

The Eye likes the tales of minor tragedies, of fears and hurts and heartaches and so Martin feeds it like a praying man might light votive candles to try and lead his loved ones home.

“The first boy I loved, it-it was, we were at uni, but he was so ashamed of who he was he kept me a secret too,” he continues. “I am frightened that one day I’ll become my dad. I miss Tim and Sasha. I knew I had a crush on you when you told me I could stay in the Archives, and even then, I wished it gone because I didn’t want to be hurt again and I thought you’d be the sort of man who’d tear me down to build himself up.” He clenches his fingers around Jon’s ankle. “I am scared that one day you’ll drown. Come back, Jon. It can’t have you, come back to me.”

Jon sways and blinks woozy. He looks at Martin, seeing again, and his gaze is thready and human and terrified.

He’s stumbling, crawling on hands and knees to Martin’s side. Stuffed in his mouth are all the sorries and regrets and pains Martin can see writ large over his face; his hands span bird-flighty over Martin’s healing, shattered places.

“Jon, I’m ok, you saved me, Jon, we’re alive.”

Martin uses his arm to pull him close. Jon’s hands are beginning to scatter in explanation, in apology, but Martin shushes him with a croaky, relieved sound and holds him, a known quantity cradled in his hands, rocking his creaking, bruised painfully human body as tight as his battered limbs can bear.

[kiranatrix]

Names and Distant Things

Collaboration by @kiranatrix​ (fic) and @ikathemadhatter​ (art)

Characters: Beyond Birthday & L Lawliet

Rating: mild T for a dash of angst and a stolen kiss

For @wammyweek [Secret crush and/or Secrets]

Beyond always knew when L was planning to visit Wammy’s House because a padlock would appear on the second refrigerator in the kitchen (not that the kids were supposed to be rummaging in either of them). A day or so later, a green Aston Martin would roll up the long, oak-lined driveway in the dead of night, headlights off and practically invisible. Not to Beyond, though; his strange eyes had always seen more than others could, even when he didn’t want to see it. Names and distant things; an antique car in the darkness or the date someone will die.

He hadn’t made the connection at first, that the padlock and the car were because of L and not one of the other guests they occasionally received. They would have professors or groundskeepers interviewing for positions, people making various deliveries of food and supplies for the school, repair crews for the old church whose old plaster was in a perpetual state of falling down. Wammy’s House was always full of activity and new faces weren’t uncommon. It wasn’t until he’d accidentally caught sight of a young man he didn’t know about opening up a door in the bare wall that he definitely didn’t know about, that things clicked. The name hovering above black mussed hair and too-bright eyes was L Lawliet, and it then disappeared into the wall with its owner.

It was a revelation, a lightning strike-- that L himself had been secretly visiting the school, staying out of sight by using secret passages none of them had ever noticed before. After that, Beyond had made it his mission to find out how to open that secret door. He knew to keep his mouth shut, and not just because he’d been out of bed and sneaking around Wammy’s at 4 am. L’s pale face and angular features, his stance and posture, how he moved-- Beyond filed it away in his mind with exquisite, rehearsed detail, and told no one but the mirror. It reflected back an ever-improving version painted on the imperfect canvas of his body, as if perhaps if he became L, he too could open that door.

Beyond loved nothing so much as a sneaky puzzle, but sneaking was the easy part. Because although he could make out the faint, well-hidden outline in the wood paneling, he saw no keyhole or any other mechanism to open it. The mystery stumped and plagued him, and many more frustrating months passed before he got another opportunity to watch the door open. In the in-between time, Beyond scoured the library for schematics of Wammy’s House, but those he found had nothing detailing any secret passages. Of course Mr. Wammy wouldn’t be so careless.

It was nearly a year before the padlock on the refrigerator appeared again, and it made Beyond so giddy he could hardly focus on his work that day. He’ll be here soon and I have to make an impression! Beyond wasn’t sure if it was possible to fall in love with a mystery, but that was the nearest thing he could describe his feelings about L as. The students had been told story after story about L’s cases and thinking but next to nothing about the man himself. It made Beyond feel privileged to be in possession of L’s real name and face, like they had a connection despite L not knowing about it. Something about L belonged to him and him alone, and that was like a treasure in his otherwise depressing and anxious days in this place.

The next night, Beyond hid behind a bureau that was close but not too close to the secret door; he didn’t know if L would use it again but he was willing to sit here all night for just the chance. He got lucky, which was rare enough for him. Around 3:15 am, Beyond heard the soft padding of bare feet, and peeked out as much as he dared to verify. It’s HIM! L! He held his breath as L rapidly tapped a spot on the paneling three times and slipped into the passage after the door creaked open. Ah...so that’s how it’s done.

Beyond dashed forward as soon as L was inside and counted to 100 before tapping the same spot L had. He grinned as the door opened a crack, enough for him to wedge his black-painted nails into and pry open. The inside was softly illuminated by electric wall sconces and he followed the twisting narrow passage, up some spiraling stairs, until he emerged in what he guessed was the converted attic of the chapel. Across the dark room and framed by the soft, flickering blue light of a dozen monitors, was L. He was crouched in a tall-backed desk chair, facing away from the doorway and rapidly clacking on his keyboard.

Beyond snuck forward silently, step by step getting closer. His heart was hammering and all the words he’d rehearsed in the mirror to prepare himself for this ever happening had flown from his head and out the stained-glass windows.

“I know you’re there.” L continued to type with one hand as he picked up a cookie from a plate on his desk and nibbled it. “Just introduce yourself already.”

Beyond slid into the shadows, hissing a curse before saying, “I’m, uh...one of the kids who lives here. Beyond.” One of your successors. Do you know about me?

L mumbled, deadpan, “Your boots are very noisy, Beyond.” He stuffed the rest of the cookie in his mouth and swung his chair around. He knew who Beyond Birthday was, mostly by reputation as a troublemaker and from his high test scores meriting him a place in the line of successorship. “If you’re going to sneak around, go barefoot.” He wiggled his toes perched on the edge of the chair and focused on a dark corner when he heard a soft giggle emanating form there. “Mind telling me how you got in here?”

“Followed you.” Beyond was paying extremely close attention to L’s voice, modulating his own to match its pitch and timbre. Softly, “I wanted to meet you.”

L’s eyes widened-- it was almost as if he’d heard his own voice, but the implication surprised him more. Has he guessed who I am? He slowly unfolded from his chair and slouched to the center of the room, now able to see a vague outline of a young man in the shadows. “Come into the light and meet me then.”

Beyond’s heart fluttered as he slowly stepped from the shadows, eyes meeting L’s nervously. He’d spent hours perfecting his makeup to mimic L’s facial features, flat-ironing and then styling his black hair to the similar mussed chaos of L’s. This was his best work yet, but still only a prototype. He only just now noticed that L had no eyebrows, and the details of his clothes had been obscured in the darkness before. I’ll improve.

L stayed silent as he circled Beyond, pressing a thumb against his bottom lip as he took it all in. Other than the clothes, it was almost like looking in a mirror. He came to a stop again in front of Beyond and breathed out, “That’s quite remarkable.”

He’s impressed. Beyond briefly smirked to himself before assuming L’s same posture and inquisitive expression, pressing his thumb to his lip, tilting his head and widening his eyes. In a mimicry of L’s voice, “You think so?”

“Mmmhmm.” L’s mouth twisted as he tried not to smile, unsure if he was disturbed or flattered by this mimicry. His ego being what it was, he leaned more towards flattered and would give some rare praise in return. “You have a talent for disguises.” With an edge. Drily, “And for rooting people out who’d rather stay anonymous. You shouldn’t be here.”

Beyond’s confidence wavered, eyes narrowing as he continued to parrot L’s every movement. But he had something he wanted to say and wouldn’t leave until he had. “I want harder work. More interesting cases.” He could see the spark of interest in L’s eyes and imprinted that the man appreciated initiative, directness.

“And what makes you think Wammy isn’t giving you cases that already challenge your abilities?” L took a step closer, bringing their faces quite close. What kind of puzzle are you? “In any event, the education of the students here is his concern, not mine.” Almost eighteen. He remembered from reading Beyond’s file that they were almost the same age. It was alarming and attractive, that sneaking in here to sate curiosity was something he too might do.

“I am your concern.” Beyond’s voice changed back to his own, and nearly a growl as his frustration bled through. “Aren’t I meant to succeed you one day?”

L smiled behind his finger. “That’s assuming I intend to die. I don’t.” And if I push, will you push back?

“No one lives forever.” Beyond’s gaze flickered above L’s head momentarily before meeting the man’s eyes again. No, you won’t even live to old age. “Not even you.”

L’s breathing sped slightly as he whispered, half-hoping and half-dreading, “And who am I?” There was no way Beyond could really know, even Wammy didn’t know. Hell, L barely remembered. He grasped Beyond’s chin and turned his face when the man tried to look away. “Who?!”

They stood there staring at one another, the authentic and the copy, the original and the backup. Beyond knew he shouldn’t say it, speak it. That doing so would give something away best kept quiet, might give L a thread to follow to the secret room inside himself where so many open graves had been dug. L’s touch made him tremble all over and he jerked his chin away from L’s grasp. “You’re L.”

“That’s only a good guess.”

Beyond’s lip curled at the challenge. No. He couldn’t help but say, “L Lawliet,” before pressing a kiss to L’s astounded face and fleeing the room, running as fast as he could out of Wammy’s. I kissed L! He didn’t bother being quiet as he flew down the hall and flung open the front doors, grinning as he sprinted down the oak-lined drive to the cliffs by the sea. He couldn’t stop giggling as he pulled off his boots and hurled them into the ocean far below, one and then the other. He yelled down to the rocks, “Better to go barefoot!,” and collapsed on the pebbly ground to look up at the stars. 

The sea crashed against the rocks like a predictable laugh track, on his side for now, and the stars flashed like smiles. “I stumped him.” I hooked him. He’d see that padlock again, that green Aston Martin. He’d see L and be oh-so-apologetic for his terrible manners. 

The template would improve. The draft would become perfect.

[staarchildren]

religious playlists

I went to catholic school when I was little so basically I'm a massive slut for religious themes and theology (even though I'm basically agnostic)

sacrilege based on the quote “godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed” (kristin chang), because I’m obsessed with the idea of analyzing godhood through the lens of the experience of the teenage girl, thereby removing much of the power, agency, and capacity for violence that we associate with a male god (particularly in the old testament), and with men in general, and instead viewing god as a helpless, hysterical victim of fate the way we view teen girls, which then allows us to see the additional deeper layer of the pent-up, unexpressed female rage that often afflicts teen girls

*note: sacrilege feels a little incomplete, so if anyone has any suggestions or songs they think would fit feel free to tell me!

casual blasphemy songs with religious themes or outright discussion of religion, especially in ways that equate divinity with humanity (an idea that I find extremely interesting; I think religion is often people looking at humanity in its purest and strongest form and becoming so overwhelmed by it that they feel the need to remove it from themselves, elevating it and calling it “holy”)

holy sometimes when I listen to these songs I think I understand what people feel when they kneel with a rosary: god, not as a tyrant or an angry righteous father (those are commonplace and wholly human), but instead as protection and love and attention (description is from john 10:14, my favorite bible verse)

BONUS: 

fragmented supernatural-inspired, although it’s subtle (similar to sacrilege in that it relates divinity and teen girls, because i’m in love with the idea of castiel beginning to understand his own humanity by relating to the experience of the teen girl... fragmented, unsure of his identity, struggling with independence and the rejection of his family, lost and unseen, and with a relentless feeling of being misunderstood). also, cas’ biggest influences in the “human” front are dean and sam, who have never dealt with their own trauma in their lives and aren’t exactly great role models of emotional honesty, so I think the emotional rawness and honest anger that’s present in the music that teen girls resonate with would also resonate with him, especially since it’s all so different from anything dean and sam would listen to or allow themselves to openly engage with; therefore, it would allow him a space for emotional expression that is entirely his own and not a mimicry of the brothers. cas’ gender (or his lack of it, considering that he is technically a divine being in a male vessel) is another aspect of his identity that I feel he could grow to understand better through interaction with female artists and the female experience. on god somebody get these boys some mitski

links to my other playlists posts:

science concept playlists (julian bashir as dr. frankenstein au, mad science, and david from the alien movies aesthetics)

fandom playlists pt 1 (it’s always sunny in philadelphia, bryan fuller’s hannibal, and supernatural)

playlists about sex (an abandoned burlesque club, pegging the devil, and violence v. love)

horror or horror-ish-movie inspired (nina forever, the lost boys, and venom)

fandom playlists pt 2 (good omens, welcome to night vale, and the lighthouse)