#smoke pine needles every day

[mbhfphotos]

Me every morning Federation Forest State Park, Washington, April 22 2023 Photo Mary Howerton

[justporo]

The Push and the Pull (There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin)

I'm so deep in my feelings today, just sitting on the sofa being sick. So this is what you get: an angsty, fluffy, deeply corny fic of Astarion and Tav having a heart to heart. (Fueled by Taylor Swift and underlined by a Hozier lyric in the title, we really out here using all the clichés today)

And I'd really like to dedicate this to all my friendly and lovely and caring mutuals and friends here today - those I talk to almost every day now, those who created lovely art for me and those who are just all around so so lovely to me.

Summary: Since Astarion's confession, Tav and the vampire have spent every single possible moment together, getting closer, but guilt weighs on her and so she speaks her mind - about more than one thing apparently.

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

Warnings: Talk about sex and past trauma

Wordcount: 2,4k

Song: This is me trying - Taylor Swift

~~~

You laid with Astarion in his tent, all entangled: your arms around his upper body, one leg hooked around his and the other mushed between his as well. And Astarion held you just as desperately. His arms always seemed to drag you in closer as to not allow just the tiniest piece of space between you. His hands were roaming your back, softly caressing it and his face burrowed in your hair, softly nuzzling you with his nose.

Your face was buried in his chest, breathing in his scent: camp fire smoke, forest pine needles and some of the scent he liked to put on with bergamot and brandy.

You wanted to hold him as closely as possible. Wanting to give him as much of this comfort as possible.

Since his confession at Moonrise Towers you had spent every single night together. At first Astarion had seemed a bit surprised when you had come over and told him you wanted to spend the evening and the night with him. Seemingly he hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the fact that you actually wanted to spend time with him – with both your clothes on. Despite you assuring him after his confession that you cared deeply for him and were more than prepared to aid him in figuring out what he needed. And waiting, waiting until he was comfortable again for other stuff – or even finding new ways altogether if that was what was required.

But soon he’d been awaiting you every evening to come over, seeming like a kid that was desperate to be allowed to finally leave the dinner table to go play whenever you and the rest set up camp for the night. And so usually during the evening when the whole party retired you spent your nights with the vampire. Talking, detangling his hair, kissing, him massaging your tensed back, joking around until you both almost cried, worrying about what the next day or battle would bring, reading, playing cards with a deck you had pickpocketed somewhere, just getting to know each other better.

At this point you both really enjoyed that your elven nature allowed you to stay up way longer than most other party members – grateful for the extra time to spend with each other.

But the thing you probably spent most of your time with was: holding each other. Laying like this, feeling each other’s bodies, delighting in the comfort to know the other one was alive and just as eager to be held.

Astarion could seemingly  never get enough of having you in his arms. Always pulling you back into his arms in the morning when you tried to crawl out of his tent to start the day. Always groaning and hugging you harder when you started to protest until you gave in – if only for five more minutes. And how could you deny him anyway – this was the bare minimum he deserved after two hundred years of torment and being stripped of the most basic needs.

And also you wanted to imprint the feeling of his arms around you and his body against yours on your mind, wanting to memorise his smell – so to be able to always conjure this sensation and the feelings that came with it: warmth, joy, love.

You hadn’t quite put that last thing in words yet, but you’d known you felt like that for some time now. Your heart swelled achingly whenever you thought about Astarion. Your dearest wish being to keep him safe, help him heal and hold him close for as long as you were able to.

But tonight, you couldn’t shake a feeling of sadness. With all the positive developments in your relationship with the vampire there was this one thing that kept gnawing on your thoughts and lay heavy on your mind. And you felt you had to get it out now.

You pushed up from your cuddling position, Astarion immediately making a displeased noise and face while you leant on your arms to hover above him and look directly into his eyes. And you saw how his facial expression changed from mocking annoyance to worry, his brows drawing together, as he looked at you and obviously saw in your face that something was the matter.

He softly cupped your face with one hand: “What is it, my love? Is something wrong? Have I done something wro-“ “I’m-I’m sorry, Astarion”, you blurted out.

Immediately Astarion’s eyes filled with shock, his lips parted slightly – he obviously immediately thought that he had messed up in some kind of way. So you quickly continued to rip him out of his spiralling negative thoughts.

“I feel like… No… I took advantage of you and for that I feel terrible, Astarion, I’m so sorry. I know this does not changed what happened, but I wanted you to know that. And I hope you can forgive me for that”, you said and sat up, suddenly feeling you needed to be in an upright position to have this conversation.

Astarion sat up as well, leaning back on his hands and looking utterly confused. His eyes weren’t full of fear anymore but now filled with worry: “Love, could you please clarify because it seems I can’t catch up with what you mean.”

“The nights we slept with each other”, you replied immediately, feeling how the words and the feelings in you were desperate to get out. Tears started to well up in your eyes which you angrily started to rub away with your hands. “I treated you just as everyone else did. I don’t want that, I don’t want to use you, you deserve better”, you continued as the tears really started flowing in hot streams over your cheeks.

Astarion sat up further until he was in a cross-legged position and could lean to you to grab your hands that kept wiping away tears you felt you weren’t allowed to shed in this moment.

“Love, you feel like you took advantage of me when I told you I manipulated you into falling for me and now feel bad that you did exactly what I wanted you to do?”, he replied with sorrow on his face and you realised he had heaps of his own guilt.

You didn’t know how to reply so you just kept looking at him. “Tav, I understand what you mean but… How were you even supposed to know at that point?” You started to shrug, trying to say something like you would have had to know better but Astarion shushed you. He moved to cup your cheek.

“My sweet, please, I can’t even say how much I appreciate you saying this but please – leave it in the past, alright? I understand you feel bad for that and so do I for seducing you with ulterior motives in mind.”

You wanted to immediately reassure him that you were over this, but again he made you stay silent with softly lifting his free hand to silence you.

“Let us just agree to leave this behind us, alright? We are here now. Let’s not burden yourself with more than we already have going on, my love. This is a hard lesson I had to learn in life: you can’t undo what has happened, so sometimes it’s better to not let your mind be consumed by it.”

You softly nodded when he looked at you with raised eyebrows awaiting your approval. The tears had slowly subsided, but Astarion’s fingers were still softly brushing over your cheeks.

“And if it’s any reconciliation: it’s been different with you, from the very beginning.” He angled his head and his crimson gaze drifted away softly as he remembered.

 “You were so eager to be held, to open your heart and give yourself to me. And more so, so eager to give back”, he whispered and absent-mindedly a warm smile crept onto his face before his brows drew together again. “And now you are with me. Every single free second you have you spend with me although I can’t… It’s…”, his words trailed off, his hand dropped from your face.

Astarion sighed and lifted his face to the ceiling of the tent. “I know you said you were willing to wait and… not have sex with me until I was ready for it. And the next time I want to fall into your arms, I want to be sure it's without fear, without a slither of doubt, with nothing on my mind but having you, but…” His words trailed off again, his gaze dropping to the floor. You cautiously reached for one of his hands, starting to softly knead it with yours.

After a few moments, Astarion sighed and looked directly at you, red eyes piercing: “The truth is… I want you, desperately. I can’t stop thinking about how your naked body felt against mine. Hells, I get aroused basically every time you’re even remotely close to me. I feel like a giddy adolescent around you at the best of times. Sometimes I can't stop thinking about burying my face between your legs, slobbering at you like a godsdamned dog until you forget anything but my name. Or about wanting to immerse myself in you, lose myself under your hands for I know I would not have to fear drowning. But it all feels so rotten. It’s so frustrating.” He withdrew his hand from yours and pressed both of them against his eyes with a sigh of frustration.

You could only sit there and listen to his speech, your cheeks heating slightly at his confession. And you realised that he was walking around with so much worry and pain and desperation.

“Would you rather I keep more of a dista-“ “NO!”, Astarion immediately exclaimed and stared at you. “Unless…”, he continued more calmly and with a tinge of worry in his voice, “I mean unless it makes you uncomfortable that I’m like a needy youth around you.” You immediately shook your head eagerly. Astarion went back to pressing his hands to his eyes.

“Astarion, I’m…” – you wanted to apologise again but Astarion shortly lifted his hands and gave you a stare that dared you to utter the words, so you just sighed and went on – “If I can do anything to help you, please tell me. But other than that: firstly, I want you too – more than is probably healthy, I’m sure you know that. But - look at me” – you grabbed his hands this time, forced him to look at you for the next words – “I love spending time with you like this. These are the best parts of my day. You’re a delight to be around, Astarion, you’re so smart and witty. I could listen to you talk for hours. If we could just stay here, laying in each other’s arms forever, you can bet your sweet ass, I would!”

You had almost shouted the last words, riling yourself up so much with your feelings for the vampire spawn. And you felt your feelings almost boil over in your chest, so you proceeded with the thought racing through your mind before you got too shy and wouldn’t put it out there:

“I love you, Astarion!”

It came out almost a little forceful and you pressed your lips together after the words had left your mouth. But you immediately were sure that it had been the right thing to do.

Astarion’s eyes widened at you, his mouth hanging open. His eyes jumped all over you, from your one eye to the other, to your lips and back again.

The silence drew out and you started to become uneasy, awkwardly starting to shift around in your sitting position as you waited for Astarion to react with something more than surprise.

“Sorry, I shouted”, you said and bit your lip “and you don’t have to say it back.” “Gods, stop apologising already, you idiot”, Astarion immediately replied and swung over to grab your face and kiss you – forcefully and passionately.

After some long moments he broke the kiss shortly: “Also I love you too, Tav.” And then he kissed you again, pulling you over until you sat in his lap. “I love you more than I ever loved anything”, he whispered in between kisses.

Somewhen, you leaned back until you were laying there again just like at the beginning of the night. Still kissing. And you stayed like this for a long time.

Much later you broke away, both your lips swollen from kissing, and just looked into each other’s eyes. You pressed your hand against Astarion’s with spread fingers – observing the differences between your hand and his.

“Astarion?”

“Hm?”, he simply hummed and kept staring at you.

“You said I didn’t have to apologise.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll have you know the same goes for you, okay? Because don’t think I didn’t realise you only spoke about me and left yourself out! I mean, yes, you manipulated you, but you fell for me in the end, you clown, and look where all that got you”, you said and couldn’t help grinning. You closed your fingers around Astarion’s hand.

Astarion grinned back: “Right in the best kind of mess I could have ever imagined. And now you’re stuck with this clown.” He moved his free hand to motion towards himself. “And I would argue a much more attractive clown than the average jester.”

You laughed softly at that and moved in to press another kiss to his lips. Then you buried your face against his chest again while he wrapped his arms around you closer.

“Would you mind saying it again?”, Astarion whispered softly.

For a moment, you were confused but then caught on. You lifted your head again to look directly into his open and shining red eyes: “I love you, Astarion.”

His eyes started to shine even more: “I love you, Tav.”

And you grinned at each other giddily until you had to press your head against his shirt and let out a little squeal of happiness and kick your feet while you heard and felt Astarion’s soft laugh rumbling through his chest.

Then you snuggled up against each other until you both lay comfortably and you both drifted off into your trance – while your hearts had yet moved a bit closer together.

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 4

Astarion x gn!reader (Upcoming NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: As you and Astarion travel together, you come across someone unexpected. You discover more of his past.

Warnings: Blood-drinking, as well as descriptions of killing/death. Astarion's Gur racism. Mentions of past abuse.

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: We're starting to get into the thick of it! I'm so excited for you all to see what's to come 👀 I love seeing all of your comments and I appreciate you all so much for reading!

The clean, sweet smell of pine is making you ache for home.

Climbing trees was your favorite pastime as a child, and even though it’s been years, your muscle memory is still intact. Your hands know where to hold, where to find purchase on the branches, where to trail along the needles so the smell bleeds into your fingertips. You’ll smell like pine all day, and you certainly don’t think that’s a bad thing.

“You know,” Astarion calls up to you, his arms folded across his chest, “I do hope you aren’t expecting me to catch you if you fall.”

You roll your eyes, even though he probably can’t see it. “Of course not,” you call back. “We wouldn’t want you to break a nail, now would we?”

You might be less confident in a different tree, but this one is sturdy. The branches are steady and hold you well, and you won’t be falling any time soon. Still, his words bring you back to the point of your climb, and you turn your gaze to the view around you. 

A forest. Trees sprawling out to the horizon in every direction, the thin blue curve of two nearby streams, and a distant trail of thick, dark smoke. No cities in view, which make it impossible to know which direction you’d come from. Nowhere clean or comfortable to spend the night; not from what you can see. Astarion will have to survive a day or two in the dirt.

After a moment longer of studying, you begin your climb down, careful not to slip, until you’re just a few feet off the ground.

“Well?” Astarion asks impatiently. “Was anything there? What did you see?”

You hit the ground with a gentle thump and sling your pack over your shoulder. “No villages.” 

He scowls. “None?”

“None. Over there, though,” you say, pointing out the direction, “I saw some form of camp, from the look of it. Whatever it is, they have a large fire going - I could see the smoke. There’s a stream that way, too.” 

You glance at him in an attempt to read his expression, but it’s futile. His mask is locked tight. If your information is concerning him, you can’t tell. 

“I say we head there,” you finally suggest. “We can stock up on water and see what that camp is. If they aren’t friendly, we can go somewhere else.”

His brows pinch, and his scowl deepens. He hesitates for a moment, but seems to think better of what he was going to tell you. “Fine,” he relents, throwing his arms into the air, sounding like the word pains him.

“Unless you have a better idea?” you offer, grinning. “I’m all ears.”

The withering look he gives you says enough. 

It’s strange, being in each other’s company like this. You’re married. You’re strangers. You know something incredibly secret about him, but you also know next to nothing about what he’s really like. He knows nothing at all about you - except, perhaps, that you can kill if needed and that you’ll let him have some of your blood. Nothing meaningful, really.

He could drain you dry tonight and waltz off to his mother, claiming you’d been torn apart by some beast, and no one would ever know. It would be seen as an accident. You don’t think he will, but he could.

He needs you, doesn’t he? He wouldn’t have stayed otherwise, especially if you’re not going back to his mother. Just like Erelin, he has a need for you, and whatever he considers that to be - a food source, a protector, a pawn in a necessary political ploy - it almost certainly requires you to be alive.

You’d rather be wanted than needed, but you’ll take being needed over being alone. This forest is thick enough to hide any number of things that aren’t friendly, and you aren’t keen to meet any of them.

Complain as he might, Astarion also seems used to all of this. Not the woods, that is - he’s been far too whiny about the biting midges to have ever been in a place like this before - but used to running. The way he glances over his shoulder is ingrained, almost natural. The way his eyes dart back and forth, alert and constantly searching, tells you something his careful, blithe mask won’t.

You don’t know what to think of him. He’d killed the Zhentarim in a way that only someone with experience could have. He’d brushed their lives off like they were nothing. Erelin is awful, and you see more than enough of her presence in him, but this… this is something else. Something else has made him this way.

You’re not sure if you want to know what it is.

Night falls before you know it. Your weary body is feeling the full brunt of the day’s events, and you’re keen to get some rest. The two of you trudge on for a while until you’ve found a decent place to camp for the night, you do some light hunting for your dinner, and Astarion slinks off to the nearby woods to find himself a meal before rejoining you, taking a seat on a nearby log. 

He watches as you skin and gut the rabbit you’d caught, deftly working through the actions you’ve done hundreds of times. You set it up to cook over the fire, breathing in the warmth and the smell of cooking meat and trying to ignore the ache of hunger deep in your belly. 

“You really are a resourceful little thing, aren’t you?” Astarion remarks. 

His eyes are dark with something you can’t pinpoint, but his voice is light and casual. You lean closer and find that it’s hunger in his gaze. Whatever he’d eaten hadn’t satisfied him.

“Why didn’t you bite that bandit?” you ask. You don’t mean to be so forward, but the words come out that way, tumbling from your lips before you can think of better phrasing. “I mean - he was already going to die. There was no one else around. You could have bitten him.”

A flash of surprise crosses over Astarion’s face. He shakes his head, momentarily breaking your gaze, then attempts a smile. “Well. I suppose I’m… not quite used to drinking - thinking creatures.” He clears his throat, and for just a moment, he almost looks sheepish. “Truth be told, you were my first.”

The vulnerability to his words takes you aback. It’s so rare that you hear something real from him. Everything true you know about Astarion has come from silent observation and being in places you weren’t supposed to be. Him being so direct with you has you speechless.

No wonder, you think, piecing this new information in with your memory. His reluctance to ask for what he’d so desperately needed on your honeymoon. His nearly giddy state after he drank from you. Erelin, locking him away in a forbidden wing of the castle. Him, sneaking out to the woods at night to feed.

“Oh!” you finally say, somewhat pathetically. You shake yourself out of your shock and rummage through your things, digging through your pack until you find what you’re looking for - a certain flask of whiskey. Then, you pass it over to him.

“What’s this?” he asks, inspecting the flask like it’s filled with poison.

“Whiskey,” you reply. “Cal, my - um. The man who raised me, I mean. He used to do toasts for every new experience. You should toast to it.”

Astarion relaxes a little, but he still eyes the flask with disdain. “You wouldn’t happen to have wine?” he asks hopefully.

“I’m afraid not.”

He sighs. “Then whiskey will have to do.” He takes a swig, grimacing, then shudders. “Your turn,” he says, passing the flask back to you.

“Mine?”

“Darling, surely you aren’t asking me to drink alone?” he asks. “If I had to taste that swill, so do you.”

So you press the flask to your lips and take a gulp of it. It’s rancid and smoky and burns going down, but it’s a drink nonetheless - and a potent one at that. “Gods. That’s terrible.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But it does the job, I suppose.”

He looks at you a moment longer, his eyes trailing over your neck before he catches himself, and you give a sigh. “You can ask me, Astarion.”

He blinks in surprise, leaning back a little. “What?”

“I can tell you’re hungry. I can give you blood. And you can ask me for it when you need it.”

He hesitates, seeming to debate a dozen different sentences before he finally chooses one. “I didn’t think you were up for it today,” he says. “You… look exhausted, my sweet.”

For the first time since you’d met, rather than coming out spiteful or affectionate, the pet name sounds unnatural on his tongue. Forced. You must have shaken him with your offer. And, truthfully, you are exhausted, but a little bit of blood loss isn’t going to kill you. 

“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “We need you strong if we’re going to be journeying through the woods. Besides - I don’t like seeing you hungry.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and he stiffens. “Well, dearest. I can assure you - there’s nothing to worry about. I won’t be taking a bite out of you without permission.”

You gawk at him. “Gods, Astarion, I’m not afraid of you!” you exclaim. Your tone is incredulous, but you can’t help it. The notion of being scared of him seems ridiculous to you, but he seems to expect it. Whatever’s drilled that expectation into him makes you incredibly angry - and most likely because it’s almost certainly Erelin’s doing. “I don’t like seeing you hungry because I don’t like seeing you suffer.” 

You suck in a breath, suddenly keenly aware of how tight you’re gripping the flask, and let out the air in a slow exhale. Turning your gaze to your feet, you force the tension out of your jaw and shoulders and set the flask back in your things.

“How… sweet,” Astarion finally replies. 

His words are a strange mix of caution and condescension, but somewhere at the base of them there’s something genuine - as if he’s not quite used to actually being cared about.

You meet his eyes and find quizzicality there - wariness, a defense that’s ready to rise at any moment. He’s trying to find your motive, just as you’d recently been trying to find his, but that’s the difference between the two of you: he has one, and you don’t. Whatever he’s searching for, it isn’t there. 

“Well?” you ask. “Would you like some blood?”

He gives up on searching your expression and drapes his arms over his knees. “I suppose I would.”

You get to your feet and walk over to him, taking a seat at his side, then shifting away so he can easily get to your neck. You thought it would be less nerve-wracking now that you know what it’s like, but the quiet solitude of the night is doing absolutely nothing to curb the inherent intimacy of him drinking from you. 

You feel him at your back and instinctively tilt your head so he has access, and he lets out a hum of approval. He rests a hand on your shoulder, and, not a moment later, there’s the icy sting of his teeth sinking into your skin.

You’re keenly aware of your own breathing, and the smell of whiskey intertwined with the smell of him - herbal and spiced, musky and alluring. Whatever fragrance he’s using hasn’t faded yet, which is honestly impressive after the day you two have had. More time in the woods will almost certainly whisk it away. 

You’re not sure whether to keep your eyes open or close them, but Astarion can’t see your face, so does it really matter? You stare at the bark of a nearby tree, intent on keeping your breathing normal and relaxed, and when he pulls away from you, you can’t tell if what you’re feeling is disappointment or relief.

“Gods,” Astarion murmurs darkly, finally dropping his hand from your shoulder. 

You turn to look at him and find him just as he was the last time he drank - flushed, euphoric, and breathless. Is your blood really so different from an animal’s? Is it really that much more satisfying? 

The sudden, pungent odor of something burning hits your nose and, with a jolt of horror, you remember the cooking rabbit. 

“Oh - shit!” 

You’re instantly on your feet, pulling the spit off the fire and setting it on a nearby rock. Blood trickles down your neck, but you pay it no mind - the meat is somewhat charred, but it’s salvageable. But, with the smell of food wafting in the air, the strain of the day’s events, and your empty stomach and recent loss of blood, you find yourself swaying on your feet. 

Your vision cuts out. The world spins. Something presses on your shoulders and eases you down to the ground, gently placing your head between your knees.

“Easy, now, darling,” comes Astarion’s voice, right behind you. “We wouldn’t want you to faint, now would we?”

You can’t even respond; you barely hear him. Your ears are ringing and your head is throbbing something fierce, and sleep is calling to you like a siren. You focus on the slow rhythm of your inhale and exhale until the dizziness recedes, and find yourself violently trembling.

“Here,” Astarion says, shoving something into your hand. He’s pulled some of the meat off the rabbit, and it’s warm and fragrant.

You automatically take a bite, and about halfway in, start scarfing it down like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. And honestly? With the way you’re eating it, it might be. 

“Slow down or you’ll choke,” Astarion says. “Gods. Next time you ask me to bite you, eat something beforehand, will you?”

You swallow down the food, reaching for a bottle of water in your pack. “You were hungry.” 

He flashes you a look. “Clearly, so were you, dearest. If I’m going to be drinking from you, then keeping you fed benefits the both of us. Having you faint won’t do us any good.”

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were, but you’re famished. Had it really been this morning that the carriage lay at your feet, smoldering and broken on the road? Gods. How can Astarion ever mean to go back to his mother when freedom tastes so sweet?

Maybe a few days out in the woods will convince him. Or, perhaps, it’ll have the opposite effect and send him rushing home to a warm bed. You’re certainly missing one tonight, but you wouldn’t trade that for chains even if you were sleeping on coals.

After you’ve eaten your fair share, you store the rest of the meat in your pack and rinse the grease off your hands. What you wouldn’t give for a bath. Still, the two of you should come across that stream tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be able to jump in, get yourself cleaned up.

Astarion is watching you, but his eyes are a million miles away. “You should get some rest,” he says. “I’ll take watch.”

And for once, you’re too tired to argue with him. You lay out your bedroll, rest your head on your pack as a makeshift pillow, and find yourself asleep before you can even think to be worried.

Freedom feels like a dull ache in your head and a dry mouth. You wake to no small amount of discomfort in your limbs, the dent of your pack in your cheek, and the barest amount of light in the dark sky, and yet - somehow, it’s the best you’ve felt in months.

Erelin’s chains on you have loosened. An optimistic bubble is rising in your chest, floating to the top of your thoughts - that maybe, just maybe, she won’t find you. After all, it hadn’t even been your plan that led you here, and, for some reason, that’s what makes you believe you might actually get away.

Astarion is alert when you rise, seemingly lost in thought until he notices you stirring beside him. “Good morning,” he greets. ”Well-rested, I hope?”

You prop yourself up on your elbow and rub your eyes, grimacing. “If you want to call it that.”

“Yes, darling - there’s the downside of freedom for you. Sleeping in the woods.” 

You ignore his words and head for your stash, gulping down water and grabbing out some food for your breakfast. When you’re sufficiently awake, you take a seat on a nearby log and give Astarion an expectant look. “Your turn. You need to rest.”

He raises a brow, then settles himself on the bedroll. “Do try not to get us killed, darling,” he says. “I’d prefer not to die again.”

You flash him a grin. “I’ll give it my best effort.”

He sprawls out on the bedroll to trance, and you lose yourself in your thoughts as relative silence spreads over your makeshift camp.

Erelin will have noticed your absence by now, no doubt, and will be searching for you. If you’d jumped out of the carriage like you’d wanted to, it would have been one thing - Astarion and the guards would have been witnesses to where you’d gone off, and a search area could have been formed. 

But the carriage simply hadn’t arrived. The guards are dead, as well as the Zhentarim, and you and Astarion are in the middle of who knows where. No witnesses. Erelin will have no way of knowing where the two of you are, which makes searching for you much more difficult. 

You can’t help but wonder about that camp in the distance. It could very well be an Ancunín outpost, which would mean you’re walking straight into the last place you’d want to go. Then again, it could be Calthirian rebels, or a makeshift village, or a pile of burning corpses, even. You won’t know until you arrive.

If it turns out to be Ancunín soldiers, would Astarion turn you in? His goal is to get back to his mother, and you can’t very well talk him out of that, but you’re not sure if he’d just… let you go. Then again, you can’t imagine him taking the effort to stop you. It’ll probably be the way it was in the carriage. He’ll tell you not to go, but he won’t take the time to do anything further than that.

You have so many questions about him, but you don’t dare to ask them. If he wants to tell you, he’ll tell you. Otherwise, it’s better to keep your curiosities tucked away for now.

The sun is beginning to fully rise. It’s still early, only a blooming rosy-orange against the dark, and the air is crisp and cool. Dew drops have sprung up on the nearby grass, and the woods are soft and peaceful. 

In the midst of your thinking, your gaze turns back to Astarion, trancing next to you, his breathing even and soft. Your mind turns back to what he’d said just before he’d tranced. I’d prefer not to die again. You can’t help but wonder - what was dying like for him? 

Painful, your mind provides. Almost certainly painful. It’s funny; you’ve always imagined death like a long, dreamless sleep. Something restful, something to lay your weary body down once your form has worn itself away as much as it can. 

But, if dying is anything like it had been in the midst of the carriage crashing, then you’re terrified of it ever coming back. The void of feeling… that’s no rest. That’s no sleep. It’s nothing at all.

Very slowly, the morning stretches on, lighting up the fading night with warm rays of golden sun that stream through the overhead canopy of leaves, and before you know it, Astarion is sitting up, reaching for his things.

“Well,” he says. “Shall we?”

You already knew that traveling the forest alone would have been miserable, but the longer the two of you are in it, the more grateful you are to have Astarion at your side. The seemingly never-ending spread of trees is beginning to feel isolating, and you’re more than anxious to get back to civilization. Who knows how much worse it would be to tread this path alone.

Which makes it that much more of a shock when the two of you come across someone else. A tall, bearded man dressed in casual clothing. Your first instinct is to be wary - maybe he’d been sent by Erelin - but his demeanor makes that idea fade away. The jovial, twinkling eyes, groomed mustache and beard, and the way he nods when he sees you: all of that is enough to have you relaxing. A little, at least. 

But he carries a foul, sickly-sweet stench that hits you with such force that you take an instinctive step back. When you glance at Astarion, you find him similarly grimacing.

“Ah, fellow wanderers,” the man says brightly, raising a hand in salutation. “Forgive the… aroma. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance; my name is Gandrel.”

You try to give him a smile, but the smell really is potent. Astarion coughs, clearly indicating that he has no intention of taking over this conversation, and you bite back the urge to sigh.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to be rude,” you start, “but what is that?”

“Powdered iron vine,” Gandrel answers. “An old hunter’s trick. If you can’t mask your scent, spoil it.”

A monster hunter. Well - you suppose that explains his presence in the deep woods. Still, you hadn’t fully considered the fact that monsters might be hiding between these trees, and it’s making this forest even more disconcerting. 

Then again, there’s technically a monster standing right next to you, and you aren’t the least bit afraid of him.

“You’re a monster hunter?” Astarion asks, suddenly looking very interested. “I’m surprised - I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats.”

You balk at him, attempting to shoot daggers at him in your gaze, but he doesn’t even look at you. What in the hells? 

But Gandrel simply smiles. “Ah, well. The queen certainly seems to think so.”

The statement is clearly meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but it has the exact opposite effect. Both you and Astarion go tense. 

“Alas,” Gandrel continues, seeming not to notice. “Despite what you may have heard, I’m no witch doctor or cutthroat. I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer and monster hunter.”

The tension fades a bit, but you’re still on edge. “What are you hunting all the way out here?”

“Something terrifying, no doubt,” Astarion remarks. “Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?"

“Nothing so dramatic,” Gandrel answers. “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn.”

As if a rope has been tied around your spine, your entire body pulls tight. You see Astarion flinch out of your periphery, his hand subconsciously drifting toward the dagger at his side.

Seemingly not noticing your reaction, Gandrel proceeds, “I fear he’s gone to ground. I’ve been hoping to flush him out, but have had no such luck.”

“A vampire spawn?” Astarion asks. His voice suddenly seems strained. “Really? It seems unlikely you’d find one around these parts.”

“Perhaps,” Gandrel answers, “but I’ve been tasked to come here all the same. His name is Astarion, and if what I hear is to be believed, he’s been roaming these woods. If you two plan to linger in this area for long, you should be very, very careful.”

Something like white-hot shock hits you at an almost physical level. You actually have to fight the urge to take another step back. Astarion? This man is looking for Astarion? But how could he know Astarion would be here? How could he know that he’s a vampire? And what in the hells does he want with him? 

Astarion is silent, but you catch the slightest shaking of his hands as he shifts in place. 

You attempt to clear your throat. “So. This Astarion. What happens when you catch him?” you ask softly, trying with all your might to keep your expression level. “You’ll kill him?”

Gandrel gives a shake of his head. “Not this time. My orders are to capture him.”

“Oh,” Astarion says, barely maintaining the casual air of his tone. “And bring him where, exactly?”

“Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.”

The Gur. You’ve never come across them yourself, but this man seems friendly enough - aside from the fact that he’s planning to abduct Astarion, that is. Still, whatever they want Astarion for, it’s clearly nothing good.

“That’s strange,” you say. “I thought vampires can’t be out in the sunlight.”

“They can’t,” Gandrel confirms. “Relatively speaking, we’re safe for the time being. It’s when the sun sets that you should be worried.”

You glance at Astarion and find him clearly thinking the same thing - even with red eyes and fangs, the fact that Astarion is standing in direct sunlight is giving him near-immunity to being suspected - just as you had never suspected the truth of what he was until the undeniable proof of it was in front of you.

With this revelation, the tension dissipates completely and leaves something else behind. A high ground, so to speak. 

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging lightly. “I’ve heard that vampire spawn aren’t actually very dangerous. Should we really be that afraid?”

“Is that so?” Gandrel remarks, folding his arms across his chest and raising his brows. “And where, might I ask, did you hear that?”

“Somewhere ridiculous, no doubt,” Astarion cuts in, voice laced in barely-concealed venom. “You should watch out, darling - if you aren’t careful, you may wake up without a throat.”

“Your friend is right,” Gandrel agrees. “Vampire spawn are only weak in comparison to their masters. Once the night comes, you won’t find a deadlier quarry.”

“Interesting,” you reply. Out of your eye, you see Astarion rest his hand on your dagger, and you know immediately how this conversation will turn out. “Astarion, what do you think?”

Gandrel blanches, glancing between the two of you. “That’s Astarion?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Impossible.”

Astarion is every inch a gloating predator as he steps forward, stretching out his arms. “These days, I’m making the impossible look easy.” Then, to your complete and utter surprise, he halts. “May I?” he asks.

Astarion, asking for permission? Your first instinct is to say yes, of course - to please him - but your conscience tugs somewhere deep in your gut. This man is innocent and has been nothing but amiable. You really shouldn’t be agreeing to murder for the sake of a pretty elf with a penchant for murder.

“No,” you say firmly. “We’re going to leave in peace.” 

As you speak, you shoot a pointed glance at Gandrel. A stand-off. If he lets the two of you go, he’ll live. A smart man would know what to do, especially one that supposedly knows how dangerous vampire spawn really are.

“Please do,” Gandrel says. “But the vampire spawn is staying with me.”

And that’s about as far as your conscience stretches. “Well, I tried,” you sigh. “Astarion? Do what you will.”

“Excellent,” Astarion purrs, flicking his dagger out of his sheath with ease. Without any further delay, it’s shoved through Gandrel’s eye, and the monster hunter is no more.

“Alright,” you remark. “I suppose that’s that.”

To stop the churning of your stomach, you step over the corpse and continue on your way, not daring to look back. A thousand questions are swimming through your mind, but you don’t dwell on any of them. You’d rather not dwell on anything at all, but you’re not so lucky in that respect.

Is it fear that’s possessing you? The knowledge that Erelin is so close to your location, and it’s barely been a day since your escape? But why would she send a monster hunter after her son? Unless Gandrel was somehow involved with the Zhentarim instead…

You hear Astarion sidle up beside you, and you try to avoid his gaze, but even his presence is distracting. Your internal battle for silence quickly loses out.

“You really weren’t lying about your mother,” you start, folding your arms across your chest.

“Me? Lie? Darling, I’d never.” He pauses. “Why?”

“Erelin sent him, didn’t she? Gandrel wasn’t going to kill you. He wanted you at Baldur’s Gate. It has to be her work.”

You glance over at him and find his expression sour.

“No,” he says. “Trust me, dearest, that was most certainly not the work of my mother.” He hesitates. “Still, on that note, we should - perhaps - have a discussion. Nothing major, of course, just… a tiny little detail that you should know.”

That stops you in your tracks. “Alright. What is it?”

“Well,” Astarion starts, laughing nervously, “how shall I put this? Hm. My mother isn’t the only one who’ll be coming after me. There’s another, er - prominent person hunting me.”

You stare at him. He clears his throat, then goes on. 

“Cazador Szarr. My old… master.” 

Master. He spits out the word like it’s poisonous. 

“My mother’s advisor, then,” he continues. “She trusted him. Unfortunately, I was stupid enough to trust him, too. He led me out of the castle, lured me into an ambush with the Gur, and - once I was sufficiently on the verge of death - offered to turn me into his spawn.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “I didn’t… realize that it was his doing. I thought he - was helping me. So I accepted.”

He takes in a soft, ragged breath. “What the bastard had neglected to mention then was an eternity as his slave.” When he speaks again, his voice is dark and bitter, the words low and seeping through the air. “For two hundred years, he tormented me. And I was helpless to stop it. No spawn can disobey their master.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if trying to ward off an ill memory. “A little over six months ago, my mother found me - managed to rescue me. She put that thing in my mind to stop his compulsions, to protect me from the sun, but…” 

He finally turns to look at you, giving you a cold smile. “Well, I suppose that’s something the two of them have in common: neither of them like having something of theirs taken away.” He makes a loose, half-hearted gesture. “Cazador has never stopped searching for me.”

Your voice is thick when you speak. “Astarion-”

“Don’t look at me that way,” he says, turning away from you. “I’m not looking for your pity. We’re traveling together and I thought you should know. That’s all.”

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. “So… you think that this Cazador sent Gandrel?”

“Of course I do,” Astarion snaps. “Who else? My mother would never send one of the Gur. It’s too early for her to have found us.”

You shake your head, deep in thought. “Then the Zhentarim…”

“Yes. He sent them too, I’m sure.”

It takes a moment to swallow down all that information. You can see the tension set in his shoulders, see the defenses in full, waiting for you to respond. Is he expecting to leave, now that you know that his presence brings more danger?

“Thank you,” you finally respond. “For telling me.”

He turns back to face you, but his expression is still bitter. “All I’m saying is… we should be vigilant, from now on,” he says. “We’ll watch out for any other monster hunters, and… gods, I don’t know. Get back to safety as quickly as possible.”

“Alright,” you say, even though you know what safety means for him and for you. Something pulls in your chest, deep under your ribs. Safety. Prison.

“And now you see why I want to get back to my mother,” he says sourly. 

Gods. Of course he’d prefer Erelin. All this time, you thought he was naïve. A fool for so willingly being under her spell. You’d been so very wrong about him.

“I’m so sorry, Astarion,” you murmur. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he says sharply. He exhales deeply, then composes himself, slipping effortlessly back into that fake, overconfident persona. “Well then, darling. Now that that’s out of the way - the woods await. Shall we?”

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind

[patchworkgargoyle]

i'll miss you more than anyone

Time for some Steddie yearning hours!

1.9k words, rated T for language. Angsty pining with a happy, fluffy ending. Basically unedited because I'm posing this at 1am. Forgive any wonky tenses. Now on ao3!

Title from Something About Us by Daft Punk.

🌒

It took considerable force, but Eddie managed to wedge open the only window in his tiny, shitty apartment with a grunt and a sigh. No matter how much WD-40 he forced into it, the damn thing's determined to stick and squeal. If he didn't know any better Eddie would swear it did this just to annoy him. Stubborn piece of shit. Takes one to know one, he figured.

He let out another sigh. Leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter, he flicked his zippo open and lit a smoke, relishing that first warm draw of acridness with his eyes closed. Robin would snark at him about the fact that his lease specified no smoking, but fuck the landlord. He needed this. Eddie tilted his head back and exhaled, watching the smoke curl out and away into the darkened alley between the buildings.

The day had been… hard, to put it lightly. It was the last day of Steve's visit. He'd come to see Eddie, to explore Seattle, for a whole week. Just the two of them. It'd been so good, even if Eddie's backstabbing heart wouldn't stop hoping that the visit would end up as something more. It was stupid, a useless hope. Stubborn.

They'd meandered around Capitol Hill so Eddie could show off the first place he'd ever felt safe enough to be queer and loud about it, unable to look too long at Steve's expression of relieved pride in him. He let Eddie drag him to a few bars, introduced him to some new friends who welcomed him with open arms and pointed, knowing stares in Eddie's direction. They'd walked along the pier, doing the touristy shit, ate greasy fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and watched seals play and beg for food in the harbour. 

Hell, Eddie even let Steve drag him up to the Space Needle. It was something Eddie had refused to do when he first moved, not wanting to do something so mundane and cliché when he was trying to become a local. But of course as soon as Steve insisted he folded like wet tissue.

Now Eddie knew he'd be cursed with the image of Steve, his hair windswept, gazing out at the city with wide-eyed wonder at the sparkling sprawl of buildings as the sunset painted him in pink and golden hues.

Eddie didn't even bother looking at the city, the ocean. They couldn't ever compare.

Not for the first time that night, Eddie hung his head and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm, wishing the image would stop fucking tormenting him. He was so fucking hopeless.

Raising his head again, he took another drag and stared up at the moon. Light pollution blotted out everything but the moon and Venus. It was the one thing he missed about Hawkins (that was a lie, always a lie), seeing the stars appear in the deep, dark blue above like all the gods took a needle to the fabric of the sky. Here, Eddie's only two stellar companions danced around each other every night. Sometimes closer, nearly touching it seemed, other times further away, locked in an eternal game of will-they-won't-they.

Tonight he only saw the lonely moon through the gap in the buildings. A waning crescent that shone bright enough that it lit up the darkness of Eddie's silent kitchen with a silvery glow. It was silly, but he held a tiny wish that Venus wouldn't be too far behind so at least Eddie would be the only lonely sad sack tonight. At least the thought made him chuckle at himself slightly.

Seeing Steve off at the airport that morning felt like Eddie was about to rip himself in two. If it weren't so public, if it weren't so risky, he might've confessed to Steve right then and there in some desperate attempt to get him to stay just a few days, hours, seconds longer. He'd dig his own heart out of his chest and offer it up on a silver platter; anything for the man that carried him out of hell. But Eddie was nothing if not a coward. They'd hugged each other tightly, just shy of too long, and Steve waved goodbye with a bittersweet smile and something shining in his eyes.

Eddie'd had to wait an hour in the airport parking lot before he was stable enough to drive back home.

Thing was, he was so fucking lonely out here. He'd moved to get away from the pitchfork-wielding, grudge-carrying people that never bought the government's cover story, to stop the vitriolic graffiti that had kept getting sprayed on Wayne's new trailer. The kids would get caught up in it too if they were caught hanging around The Freak. Eddie couldn't fucking go anywhere without keeping his head on a swivel, and it was so exhausting. He'd needed to leave. Even if it meant having to leave his family, the only people who knew the real story behind his scars and nightmares–even if it meant leaving Steve. So, it was hard, having Steve–a piece of his home, maybe even his heart–come visit and then leave after just a handful of days. Great days, but still. 

Choking out a bitter laugh, Eddie scrubbed at the tears starting to trail down his cheeks. Stupid, he was so stupid. His throat closed up around another laugh, turning it into a silent sob, a frustrated growl as he begged his stupid heart to just let it fucking go, to stop hurting, stop tantruming pathetically inside his ribcage about a man he could never have.

Just as another sob threatened to claw its way out of his chest, the phone rang. The shrill sound made him jump, nearly dropping his cigarette out the window. Swearing, he reached and pulled it over, answering.

"H'lo?" he rasped.

"Jesus, Munson, you sound rough," Steve's tinny voice replied, amused, "did I wake you up?"

The tightness in Eddie's chest burst into butterflies and he couldn't help but laugh around a sniffle. "Nah man, I was up. Shouldn't you be asleep, though? Isn't it 3am there or something?"

"Yeah, or something. Just got home though."

"Wait, what? The fuck are you calling me for, then?"

Steve chuckled. Christ, it was a great sound, filtered through endless miles of telephone lines though it was. "You told me to call when I got home safe, remember?"

"After you'd slept or something, dude, jesus christ. You didn't have to call at the ass crack of dawn."

"Well I wanted to."

Eddie mentally started stomping out the fresh butterfly swarm fluttering around in his guts. Unfortunately, he couldn't hold back the smile on his lips, wide enough that he knew Steve could hear it in his voice. So he teased, "Wow, Harrington, it's almost like you miss me or something." There was a pause.

"I do."

Sincerity weighed down Steve's words, two syllables dropping into the well of silence left in their wake. Eddie felt the ripples through his whole body, leaving stillness behind.

"Really?" Eddie whispered. He heard Steve inhale shakily and ached to be beside him again, to have him near, pull him close, feel him again.

"Yeah, Eddie. I miss you so much, it– god, it hurts," Steve said with a tiny, heartbreaking laugh.

"Fuck. I– same, Steve, I've been bawling my eyes out since this morning." His words were thick with even more tears threatening to spill but he blinked them back.

"I'm sorry."

Eddie snorted, though regretted it immediately and swiped at his nose with his sleeve. "Why're you apologising?"

"Hate knowing you're hurting too."

"Can't be helped, I'm afraid," Eddie sighed, then added quietly, nervously, "not like you could stay."

Speaking just as quietly, Steve said, "Maybe… maybe I could."

"Huh?"

"I've just, I've been thinking," Steve started, gathering steam, "for a while now but also on the flights home. It sucks that you're out there by yourself. And the kids are all graduated and leaving, and Robin and Nancy are planning on moving, and-"

Eddie's unable to help it, interrupting Steve's rambling that he definitely picked up from Robin, but he can't hold it back, hope forcing the words out. "Stevie, are you saying–?"

"UW accepted my application," Steve said. "I could move out there, get my teaching degree."

"Why?" 

The question hung in the air, all of Eddie's breathless wishes clinging to it. Steve took a steadying breath on the other end of the line.

"I have feelings for you Eddie. Might be kind of in love with you, and I really don't think it's one-sided. Should've told you at the airport."

"How did you know?" 

Chuckling, Steve said, "You're not subtle, but when I said the view from the Space Needle was beautiful, you agreed even though you never took your eyes off me."

"I wanted to tell you," Eddie said in a rush, heart in his throat, "all fucking week. I'm kind of in love with you too."

Steve laughed, full and warm, and Eddie might've collapsed with relief if he weren't leaning on the counter still. "We're idiots, huh?" Steve asked.

"Massive idiots. Complete morons. Absolute buffoons. You're telling me that we could've been kissing all week if one of us had just gotten the balls to confess?"

"Well, maybe more than just kissing." Steve's voice dropped suggestively and Eddie grinned at the bloom of desire that grew in his chest.

"A gentleman never assumes, big boy, but good to know."

A yawn echoed through the phone and the heat Eddie felt morphed into depthless fondness. "You should go sleep, Stevie."

"Probably. Gonna be wrecked for my shift tomorrow." He sighed softly. "Worth it, though."

"Worth having to pry your eyelids open while Marge berates you for letting her kid watch movies her husband rented?"

Steve snorted. "Yeah. Worth packing my bags and running off to the coast, too."

"Christ." Shaking a little, Eddie asked, "Are you sure?"

"Never been more sure of anything." He yawned again, hard enough Eddie could hear the receiver shudder in his hand. "I wanna keep talking to you but I'm dead on my feet. Can I call you tomorrow? Please?"

"You don't have to ask, sweetheart," Eddie said, pouring his fondness into every word to make up for the fact that he couldn't be there to see Steve's gorgeous, sleepy face, to fall into bed with him and wrap him in his arms. "Hell, call me when you wake up, before you go to work. You gotta tell me how your flights went anyway."

"Uhg, right. Ask me about the lady who scoffed at me reading The Hobbit."

He scoffed. "She dares to look down upon one of the great works of literature? I don't know her but she has made a mortal enemy on this day." The tired giggle Eddie heard made him smile so wide it almost hurt.

"You're so dramatic."

"You love it."

With a contented sigh, Steve said, "Yeah, I do." Another yawn, loud this time, and Steve continued, "Good night, Eddie. I'll call tomorrow. I miss you."

"Can't wait. Miss you too, Stevie."

Eddie hung up, the receiver settling in with a click. It felt like his body was made of bubbles, or fireworks. He almost couldn't believe it, that his hopes actually came true. Steve loves him, wants to move to Seattle for him. What!?

He let out a long, loud whoop that echoed in the alleyway. A distant neighbour yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but Eddie couldn't care less. He loved Steve, who loved him back.

Grinning, he looked up at the sky again. The moon had moved on, but there, creeping over the roof of the apartments next door, Venus finally made an appearance. Laye, but still there, still following. A beautiful, shining pinprick of light, trailing in the moon's wake.

Welcome to my new tag list! @steves-strapcollection, @ghost--enthusiast, @inairbinad, @rhaenyyras, @chocolate-fishy, @lovelyscot, @little-trash-ghost

Feel free to ask to be added/taken off!

[legoflowrs]

HEADCANNONS

c/w: drinking, drugs, addiction, abuse, slight nsfw

AGED UP TO 18 MY PEOPLE!!!!

A/N: ok so in the headcannons he’s with Stan cause Style is very dear to my heart but in the relationship headcannons he’s with reader xx

Kyle Broflovski

- Massive fucking NERD!! (pls i love nerds).

- Got straight A’s throughout high school.

- Was on the honour roll and was on student council.

- Firm believer in basketball Kyle supremacy.

- Came out as Demisexual and Bisexual (male leaning).

- Stopped being super strict on Kosher throughout high school but kept that a secret from Sheila.

- Never stopped being insecure about his nose. Literally at one point started saving for a nose job till Stan talked him out of it.

- Drinks almond milk.

- Thinks thrifting is gross cause he’s a germaphobe. Washes his hands like 50 times a day.

- When I hear the song Basic Instinct it reminds me of Kyle.

- The Smiths > The Cure.

- Style: Stan fell first, Kyle fell harder (bro i love these dweebs lol).

- Was legit so in denial about being in love with Stan for the longest time.

- His Dad pushed him to study law but he ended up studying psychology to become a child psychologist because he saw the effects of unchecked mental health in children while he grew up.

- Got really drunk once and Kenny pierced his septum. He has it flipped up most of the time.

- Hates glasses so wears contacts.

- Such a fkn mummas boy lol it honestly was a problem at one point.

- Didn’t do his own laundry till he moved out. Did not know how to put sheets on a bed 👍

- Such a good relationship with Ike, he would die for his little brother.

- Did someone say abandonment issues!!!! Could not keep a partner to save his life during high school.

- Smoked weed with Kenny twice and then freaked out after he greened out.

- Got addicted to nicotine during college and used it as an outlet because he put so much pressure on himself to be perfect. Spoke to his doctor and he’s trying to quit.

- Defs listens to Phoebe Bridgers because he has a strange relationship with his dad.

- His dad pushed him to be perfect all the time until Kyle had a massive breakdown in junior year that burnt him out for a long time.

- A family man!!! Wants kids pretty early on into his life.

- A god at poker.

- Hates taking photos of himself.

- Still pretty insecure about his hair but Kenny and Stan helped himself to accept it and even start taking good care of it.

- Really struggled with anger issues.

- Stopped speaking to Cartman completely.

- Forest green is his favourite colour.

- Writes poems and makes people cry with how nice his birthday card messages are.

- First out his friends to get a license. His parents paid for his car.

- Such a damn backseat driver.

- Didn’t really work until he moved out.

- I think he’d help Heidi out at the community gardens.

- After Heidi finally ended things with Cartman, her and Kyle became really close friends.

- Had a friendly academic rivalry with Wendy through high school.

- Him and Wendy study together in college often.

- Has a record player.

- Grew closer to Craig’s gang in senior year of high school. Goes record shopping with Tolkien.

- Very accident prone.

- Has diabetes.

- Loves picnics and simple activities like stargazing.

- Smells like pine needles and the ocean.

- Actually a fantastic swimmer.

- Did drama in sophomore year.

- A massive library in his house. Had to instil a book ban on himself because he was spending all his money on it.

- Really nice eyelashes.

- Comes home to celebrate Hanukkah with his family every year.

- Did long distance with Stan during college. They almost broke up a few times but pulled through.

- Enjoys taking pictures of nature.

- Takes Ike to the movies very often.

- Has the nicest knitted sweaters.

- His guilty pleasure is Taylor Swift.

- HE IS SO MIRRORBALL CODED.

- When he’s in a good mood he loves baking and often bakes for his friends.

- Kenny, Kyle and Stan do day trips together super often. In my world these three never grew apart they are inseparable 🤞🤞

Kyle in a relationship

- An absolute gentleman. Refuses to let you get out of his car without him opening the door for you. Holds doors and pulls out seats. Always gives you his jacket.

- Was very insecure about his sexual inexperience. But y’all guided each other through it. I think there’s something so sweet and special about that.

- Touch tank by quinnie is all I have to say 😼.

- Loves kissing your neck and ears. He kisses your knuckles as well it’s very tender.

- Combusts when he sees you getting along with his family. Especially his Mum and Ike.

- Let’s you touch his hair, it relaxes him a lot.

- Opens up to you about his struggle with his Dad and nicotine. You are his biggest supporter through it all.

- Even though he hates photos, he’ll have a polaroid of y’all in his phone and wallet. Plus a photo booth strip in his car.

- Y’all will bake at midnight together.

- You go on fancy dinner dates together and rate the restaurants in the car together.

- Avid Letterboxed users lol! Give each other show and movie recommendations all the time.

- Kyle always had trouble sleeping but there was something very comforting about your presence so he’ll spend a lot of time at your dorm.

- Writes poems for you.

- Brings you flowers every time the old bouquet dies (ugh what a man).

- BUYS YOU LEGO FLOWERS!!!

- His love languages are gift giving and quality time.

- Keeps a list of all the dates you’ve been on.

- Will take such good photos of you fr! Your biggest hype man.

- I think his short temper would be a problem for you guys but he loves you so much he works on it so hard.

- Your praise means the absolute world to him.

- You guys always go to carnival together and share a caramel apple, it’s like tradition now.

- Couples costume for halloween always.

- Asks for your Dads/Mums/Guardians blessing before he proposes to you.

- Loves the smell of your perfume/cologne. Like it’s seriously intoxicating.

- Proposes to you with his Grandmas ring.

a/n: guys i love kyle so much i’m gonna make his mood board now <3

also if any of these are ooc in ur opinion it’s just for funsies and my opinion hehe

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[witch-and-her-witcher]

feysand | e | first hybern war AU, human feyre, amnesia rhys

Feyre owes this male for her life - and Rhys is going to squeeze every drop out of that life debt as he can, whether he can remember accruing it or not.

(spin off of CYLMWIHM, can be read alone)

Thank you to the beta crew: @popjunkie42 and @wilde-knight!!!

Chapter Two | ao3

~*~

A cool draft works along Rhys’s warmed-through body, stirring his worn down muscles and weary bones.

That damn window he swears he’ll fix every trip home.

His skin sticks against the sheets like he either overindulged the night before in booze and fried meat or he’d sparred late with one of his brothers and hadn’t fully cooled down even after a scrub down and dropping in bed from exhaustion.

Ouch.

A prickle of sensation runs down his spine like he brought some pine needles into bed with him.

But his body is so heavy with the lull of sleep, he can’t be bothered to shift away from it. Not yet.

“... ginigiliw kitang tunay; panaginip gabi't araw ….”

Mother’s silky deep voice curls along the smells of breakfast cooking. 

Bacon?

There’s crackling, like the stove is right beside his bed.

“You will not leave my house hungry, my son. You run yourself ragged as it is.” He can already hear her words, what she’ll say as she loads up his plate and pokes his ribs in passing. As if he’s still that gangly adolescent with limbs too long, hands and feet too big, who could never get his fill of food between his studies and his training.

Rhys’s lips curl in a sleepy smile. Eyelids hot and muzzy with sleep, the effort feels too great to lift them. Even the ripple of cold, the flash of heat along his spine can’t disturb him.

He wants to stay suspended in this half-awake state as long as possible.

Mother will reprimand him for that as well.

“Will you sleep the day away, yeobo?” She’ll tut, beautiful face scrunching into a look of consternation. “You act as if this is the only place you get any sleep.”

It is.

She knows it.

Rhys can’t relax anywhere else the same way he can here. No amount of drinking or fighting or fucking or warding or politicking can wrap him in the secure embrace of the familiar scent of this Windhaven house. 

Cedar, wool, smoke from the hearth. 

Always something cooking or brewing.

The deep sleep that finds him here is normally enough to soothe the aches and pains from his weary body.

But there’s never enough time at his mother’s.

At home.

A pinch of something in his shoulder blooms from a twinge of discomfort to something downright painful.

That damn draft hangs around him, heavy with moisture. 

Has it rained recently?

Damn it, he’s doing it right away this morning. Fixing that window so his sleep won’t be abruptly ended again, so he can remain in this moment —

A hissing jolt of pain shoots down his back like a lightning strike, forking out to his wing joints. 

Rhys bites back a sharp intake of breath. 

This sets off an inferno in his lungs, a crackling tear down a too-dry throat.

Fuck, that’s not —

Normally he wakes with temporary reprieve here. What has he done to ruin that?

His brow furrows as Rhys tries to recall what the hell he could have done. The fog of sleep is still sitting like wooly insulation around his thoughts, too dense to cut through and recall …

Like several claps of thunder, just the effort to remember what the hell he did to himself erupts like a series of blows directly to his skull.

“Nanay,” he calls out to his mother. Whether he’s ready to wake up or not, he’ll need her special tea —

He tries to open his eyes, to assess what in the hell he’s done to himself, but it’s as if the weight of time has settled into the delicate skin there.

The dampness in the air becomes oppressive.

The draft is biting, sending chills along his clammy, too-tight skin —

When did he become so clammy?

There’s still the crackling of the fire, the scent of cooking meat in the air, but everything hurts.

Something is wrong with his wings.

Something is wrong.

“Nanay,” he calls more urgently.

The lightning in his spine unleashes as if all of the old gods' fury is being released as one. Bolt after agonizing bolt striking sweat slick skin, too hot too hot, and suddenly Rhys wonders if what he smells cooking is his own flesh.

The contents of his stomach revolt at the amount of pain, his abdomen clenching and jerking him —

Painpainpain

Hot, barbed.

A cry like a wounded animal rips from somewhere deep within him.

His lips move despite their jagged, chapped landscape. His voice is raspy and weak, as if he’s been screaming for days.

Rhys clenches his bed sheets with another anguished cry of pain. The material is harsh, uncomfortable, nothing like his bedding at home. Straw pokes up through the rough fabric.

Panic surges through him.

Where is he?

Why can’t he hear his mother’s singing voice any longer?

Rhys’s teeth begin to chatter and all he wants, needs, is to open his Cauldron-damned eyes.

“Easy,” a female voice floats over him like the damp cloth that swipes at his brow, the feeling there yet not quite …

It’s not his mother’s voice any longer.

It’s not Illyrian words, but Common.

Was he dreaming of being home…? Very rarely does he lose the fight against homesickness, but maybe he’s been injured —

“You have to stay still, you prick,” the stranger’s voice snaps, wearied and strung out, “I just re-wrapped after the last time you woke. The bandages are running low and I can’t leave long enough to make it to the village … Godsdamnit, I’m a terrible nursemaid and you’re a terrible patient.”

‘Prick’?

Who the hell —

Rhys’s stomach seizes with roiling pain once more.

He bites down on his tongue with the force he tries to clamp his mouth shut with, to cut off the guttural cry that tears through him.

“Shit, shit, shit … I thought we were through the worst of it.”

Small, rough fingers start probing his neck, jabbing into his pulse point.

Oh gods, is this stranger going to kill him?

Open! He commands his eyes, but the traitorous things refuse his call.

How much time has passed since waking? Since sleeping? Is he conscious or unconscious? How long has he been suspended in these waves of pain too immense to face without quivering like a child in the sparring arena for the first time?

“You can’t die, please, I take back what I said earlier. I was just tired … Fuck!”

read more

[cherrywhipped]

Hunter x Hunter character scent hcs 🌬️

This is kinda for laughs but also I tried to make it reasonable, hope you enjoy♡

XX Gon: maple syrup or a chuck-e-cheese playhouse. no in between

XX Killua: some fresh expensive laundry smell 🙄 (gain fireworks beads), or sweat + campfire/burning smoke⚡️

XX Kurapika: faint pine needles & vanilla (😀??) hard to tell but whatever it is always smells the strongest right below his ear towards the back of his neck kiss

XX Leorio: hot cologne I just KNOW bro smells MMMM (more specifically maybe a mahogany teakwood type of delicious 👏)

XX Kite: my beloved. His smell is so comforting, it’s like wrapping yourself up in a blanket of honeysuckle and dewy grass.

XX Morel: yes obvi smoke but tbh… a hot whiff of that rich & refreshing incense smell that makes your head all cloudy 😵‍💫 [China rain, anyone?]

XX Knov: defeat. Probably wouldn’t have a defining smell, maybe something really light like mint

XX Knuckle: manly, gotta be like sweat and old spice deodorant 🔥

XX Shoot: absolutely nothing. It is bizarre how scentless he is

XX Palm: an unsettling dark berry candle

XX Biscuit: marshmallow fluff

XX Melody: smells like a friend. A friend that smells of citrus fruit.

XX Illumi: I bet he smells intoxicating but it’s eerie, similar to how some people like to sniff gasoline. This is so specific but y’know the heat residue smell when you flat iron your hair or iron clothes? That plus a deep forest musk or red wine note idk it smells good but gives u the creeps

XX Hisoka: I can’t imagine him not smelling like blood or at least somewhat metallic underneath. But he covers it up with some flower bomb type of perfume 💀

XX Chrollo: god he smells sexy. Sandalwood, rose water, maybe some vanilla bean or cinnamon or other deep spice in there? It’s the perfect blend of sexy musk and spicy with a little sweet on top. scent will put u on ur knees

XX Feitan: straight up smells like Hot Topic. musky & musty <3

XX Nobunaga: smells cool tbh, reminiscent of stormy weather, or how hot asphalt smells when it starts pouring rain (I rlly like that smell)

XX Machi: very clean like white tea, lemon, or lavender. You have to be super close to her to actually catch a whiff

XX Uvo: weird. Not good or bad necessarily, just the combo he has going on isn’t working with him like ginger or black pepper and salty ocean body wash

XX Shalnark: kinda basic but at least it isn’t bad, smells like clean linen tbh

XX Paku: a refined, strong scent. Amber or black cherry balsamic vinegar (trust me) something unique and a lil sensual

XX Phinks: icyhot. The icy hot muscle pain reliever stuff. (Peppermint, menthol) and honestly… it smells pretty good

XX Shizuku: grape jelly. That’s it. Idk how she smells like she spilled the whole jar on herself every day but somehow she does.

XX Ging: ……… literally dust. I feel like he smells like whatever the hell he was around that day, (a swamp, animals, fish, the sewer 🗿) never smells the same two days in a row, even his sweat smell doesn’t repeat 😖

XX Pariston: Irish spring soap bc the best liars and manipulators I knew always used that shit LMAO but yeah pariston would smell clean + good as to not offend any nostrils unlike ging

[kiatheinsomniac]

Hello, when you can I’d like a little something for Altair, Connor, Edward, Jacob, Arno and Ezio. I was watching Harry Potter and when Hermione smells the potion which clarifies who/what shes attracted to. So that gave me an idea for an ask. What is each characters ^^ signature scent like do they smell like mangos random I know but an example. I don’t necessarily mean perfume though I mean by natural scents.

☾ ⋆ﾟ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: ooooo it's always interesting to get headcanon requests about the characters themselves and not ones that involve the reader. I feel like I could talk ab these boys for so long after how much time I've put into playing the games and reading the books lol

𝐂𝐇𝐀��𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Connor, Arno, Jacob

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: none

｡･:*˚:✧｡ altaïr ibn-la'ahad

♡ his own scent and frankincense.

♡ Altaïr's clothes have captured the labours of his occupation and the smoke of the incense burning in the bureau. It's a lingering but subtle smell.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ezio auditore

♡ musk and amber.

♡ these were both popular scents during the renaissance and he smells quite strongly of it. During the renaissance, people believed that miasma carried disease and so they would try to ward off illness with more pleasant scents (think of the lyrics to Ring Around the Rosie). Though, he's still an assassin so it's not too string that you can smell it unless you're very, very close to him, that is.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ edward kenway

♡ the sea breeze.

♡ the salt in the air has made its way into nearly every part of Edward after so many years at sea, notably his clothes and sun-bleached hair. He always smells like the seas that have become like a second home to him.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ratonhnhaké:ton | connor kenway

♡ fresh rainfall or sage.

♡ Connor spends a lot of his time outdoors so I think that would show in how his clothes and hair smell. He would smell of the fresh rainfall that he just got back from being caught in, of ferns and pine needles. Also, I think Connor would keep up with some of his cultural practices, even after what happened to his village. Perhaps burning white sage and inviting in better energy in the place of what it's cleared out is one of them? He would smell like the smoke after.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ arno dorian

♡ coffee and old books.

♡ the guy lives above a café and has stacks upon stacks of books and papers around him. They've permeated the air of his whole living space and, consequently, him. On worse days, he might smell more like the wine he downed to forget his troubles the night before but his entire wardrobe has been filled with the scent of coffee and he doesn't even realise at this point that his home smells like a library.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ jacob frye

♡ soot and violets.

♡ Victorian London had a definite issue with the smog everywhere as a consequence of industrialisation and he lives on a train so the smell of soot has, without a doubt, embedded itself in his clothes. Cologne wasn't a very big thing at the time and Victorians had moved on from believing in miasma, germ theory having been popularised. Perfume was no longer practical but aesthetic and wasn't very popular among men in the late 1860's. However, Evie once bought a violet perfume that she quickly grew sick of but Jacob quite liked. He doesn't wear a lot but it's enough for a few people to pick up on and he uses it as an opportunity to get close and flirt.

☾ ⋆ﾟlike my work? why not: 

∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ join my taglist ∘ consider following/reblogging

🏷️@gojohater101 @ayameiris4 @veryfancydoilies @asuni921  @writing-noah @danielle-marie@havatnah @aarnodoriann @asianbutnotjapanese @daddyadler @b3k1720

[perexcri]

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - [byler week - day 4]

title from: fourth of july by fall out boy

dedicated to: the lake i lived next to in rural [STATE REDACTED] for 3/4 of my college years

It’s something that haunts him, of course.

It’s the colorful bursts of light he sees when he blinks too fast, the popping in his ears once the pressure builds up, a cool sluice of water against his ankles, and the slickness of forearms beneath his fingers. It comes to him in waves like the ones that lapped against the shore, cuts into the soles of his feet like the juts of limestone buried beneath the mud, invades his sinuses like the scent of dry, overgrown grass and burnt-orange pine needles blanketing the land.

Summer is usually the time of freedom, when the sun stays out far past when it should have gone to sleep and coaxes people out of their homes and into hazy, smoke-filled nights. The world is burning with color, the earth warm beneath his feet, and the hours trickle away in untamed drops of afternoon showers and the lingering blue wash of dusk. When he was younger, summer seemed the season of possibilities: for adventures, for discoveries, for reading new books and seeing new sights, for slipping from the cloak of shadows the rest of the year seemed draped in to finally embrace the warmth of life reignited in his chest.

Once, it had even felt like the possibility of something more.

Mike’s mouth drops into a scowl as he stares at the face of the lake. The book between his ribs and arm presses into his side just a little harder, his hands are shaking, and even after twelve years, he thought he’d be done with these pitiful twists of hope he feels every summer he returns here. He can make it down the main street of the town without worries, even if he does double-takes at every brunette he sees pass by in his car’s smudged windows, and he can make the winding trail down to the lakeside just fine. He can unlock his family’s summer home and breathe in its scent of musty sheets, stale coffee, and woodsmoke of vacations past. Hell, he can even toss his pile of books onto the kitchen table and listen to it groan under the strain of his literature Ph.D. program’s third year, a further reminder that time has passed and his life, for better or worse, has changed.

He’s always fine until he sees the ever-shifting face of the lake, how it mischievously gleams under both sun and moon. That’s when his heart convulses into these ugly, gut-mashing twists and his body gets forcibly wrenched back in time. 1999 dissolves around him like pixels on the screen of a video game being shut off, and suddenly, 1987 burns against his skin. His parents are in the lakehouse, there’s fireworks popping colors all across the sky, and the boy he’d seen around town the past few summers has his fingers tangled with Mike’s, and he’s tugging him towards the lake, his mouth flush with moonlight as he says, What’s the worst that can happen?

A lot, actually. Sometimes, you turn over a stone and discover something either wonderful or frightening, and it slips from your fingers before you have a chance to decide which one it is. Sometimes, the summer fades into the new school year, and there’s no way to contact the only person you’ve ever felt like this for, and when you come back the next year, he’s nowhere to be seen.

And now, he’s got nothing to show for it but the way his heart twists and turns inside the empty cavity of his chest, and the images that haunt the poetry he submits to the campus literary magazine: lakes frosted with moonlight, summer humidity pressing hot between chests and mouths, fingers curled into the damp fringes of hair, distant sparks of light that could be stars or fireflies, though the narrator is always too preoccupied to tell the difference.

He glowers at the lake and how it sucks all the light from the sun, steals its colors to shade water’s surface instead. The sky is growing dimly bruised with purples and magentas and oranges, the water burns scarlet from the light, and the navy cloth of night is quickly overtaking it all.

The book presses more forcefully into his side; it shakes. He’s twenty-eight, and he should be over this by now, but he can’t help that every time he sees the water, he thinks of how it tasted pressed between their mouths, or how slick it felt against the other boy’s skin, or the way they’d forcefully embraced after clambering back onto the shore, the other boy’s back crinkling into the reedy grasses of the shore, Mike sprawled on top of him, alternating between pressing his ear to the other boy’s warm chest to hear the racing pulse of his heart, or else tilting his head up to admire how the colors of light burst against the other boy’s skin and eyes. They rained on him in showers of colors Mike thinks couldn’t exist except for that summer, and how they shaded every single other moment they spent glued to each other’s sides after that. He’s twenty-eight, and he should be over this by now, but nothing beats the feeling of weightlessness that comes from falling, falling, falling down into love when you’re sixteen.

“This is stupid,” he mutters, which is something he tells himself a lot, but it’s mostly to remind himself that twelve years of a pitiful crush on a boy he knew for one summer are, in fact, a little ridiculous, and he’d been ridiculous to decide to do his summer research at his family’s old lakeside home. He’d been studying the Romantics the past three years, and for some reason, he thought this was his last chance at letting their wayward paths cross once more. At this point, it isn’t even about his own wish fulfillment–he simply needs peace, to press his fingers into the other person’s wrist and know he’s alive so they can say their goodbyes and part in peace.

The water laps against the shore, just a little closer to his battered sneakers.

“Stupid,” he repeats before forcefully tucking a chunk of his hair behind his ears, turning on his heels, and storming back to the comforting recesses of the lake house.

  Summer is the liquidity of time: he passes through the barriers of day and night, today and tomorrow with ease, sleeping at odd hours, poring over dusty volumes of poetry and diaries he’d checked out in haste from his university’s library. There’s more coffee than blood running through his veins, and when he goes outside, it’s only ever to drive into town to buy groceries or refill his car’s tank. He doesn’t look out the back windows at the lake, and he sure as hell doesn’t try to breathe in more of the musk of pine trees than he has to.

He’s safe, cocooned in his family’s old home, huddled under blankets against the frigid wash of AC he keeps steadily pumping through the vents. He hunches at the table, sprawls on the couch, curls up on the bed in languid fits of sleep, and the taste of undercooked pasta or frozen dinners becomes the all-too familiar fuel to his days of research, note-taking, and thesis writing.

When he does pull out his old weathered notebook of poetry, it’s only ever to scratch down a few lines in tired replication of the old greats: John Keats, Lord Byron, Pushkin. He used to go outside for hours and try to capture the endless summer delights in shoddy, amateur lyrics, but he knows better than to let his pens fall into those familiar strokes now, and he’s fine in the dusty corners and wilting walls inside, anyway.

All dependent variables are removed from the equation, and his summer becomes one of controlled focus: he will get this research done, and he will focus on the next stage of his life, and he will not, for any reason whatsoever, follow the pitiful tugs of his heart towards some vain hope that the other boy will remember, that he’ll show up again, that he’ll even want to come back to this lonely corner of the country on some vague inclination that Mike might be here, too.

  Except for one day in early July, when there’s a faint knock at the door that makes his head jerk up from the volume of Coleridge’s poetry he’s been mindlessly thumbing through. It’s as soft as a breeze off the face of the lake, and for a moment, he can almost convince himself he’d only misheard the breath of life around him.

Until there’s another, slightly louder, unmistakable staccato: knock knock knock.

He wrenches open the door and is met with hazel eyes he’d only ever had the courage to admire under the colors of fireworks, moonlight, and the last dying rays of summer sunsets. His hair’s been trimmed from the shaggy bangs he’d once worn, and it’s strange for it to be mid-summer and him to be clad in jeans and not shorts, a collared shirt and not a polo.

The volume of poetry slips out of Mike’s hand and falls, painfully, on the arch of his left foot.

“Is it really you?” he asks through a wince of pain.

Will grins, his face alight. “Yeah, it’s me.” There’s a beat, then, with a quirked eyebrow, he asks, “You remember?”

How could I not? Mike thinks, drinking in the matured features of the boy he only knew for a summer, now grown-up and full and alive.

Once more, summer becomes a time of possibility, and the love kept captive in Mike’s chest feels a little less small and derisive. He feels whole and electric, like he could dissolve into the brief flares of light and color of those fireworks from long ago.

For the first time in twelve years, the world seems blossoming, full of possibility, and when Mike reaches out, he’s greeted by that feeling of life beneath his fingers, a chance to know that this is real.

With a grin, he realizes that the possibilities are endless.

---

the lake in question:

[dizzybevvie]

If i lived on Berk i would collect rocks to give to people. I would pick absently at the grass. I would think about how everything on the island towers over me. i would bury little keepsakes knowing no one would ever find them. I would feed terrors like crows. I would look at the blue moon over the ocean. I would look at the stars with no air or light pollution. I would listen for all the birds i could find. I would collect pine needles. I would listen to the noise of shoes on wood. I would climb as high as I could. I would throw rocks into the cove. I would see shapes in the clouds. I would hear rain on a wooden roof every night. I would have a helmet with horns and a shield. I would try to string together no-one had ever said before. I would get headaches from the smell of ash and smoke. I would give people presents made of anything I could find. I would smell the sea and farmland and rain every day. I would be so so happy.

[loserboyrobinwrites]

Chapter One: Wild Child

welcome welcome welcome this is the first draft of the first chapter of my novel!! it has NOT been edited. There WILL be mistakes. Apologies for the formatting, it's a little different on here than it is in word. Uhhh tw for the f slur!

This chapter is approximately 3k words! Enjoy!

Atticus

The first things I knew were wild. Wild grass under my feet, rivers gushing though the wild forests, the animals scurrying and hiding about my bare feet. 

   The moss cushioned me as I fell while learning to walk. 

   I knew it then and I know it now that the wild had something to say and something to teach.      My childhood home was in the middle of the woods, nestled against a river that tended to flood during the spring.  

   My mum’s name was Lyllian and my mama’s name was Jude. But I never called them that.  

   Our home felt soft and kind, with warm lights and fireplaces and hot cups of cocoa during the winter. I remember I’d climb over the ends of the staircase railings and on the back of the couch despite my warnings not to. 

   Mama always scolded me and told me I’d have to go to bed early if I kept climbing. I would just pout and poke my tongue out at her.  

   Mum told me stories about frogs in the rain and raised me on apple pies and smiles. She was soft but her hands were calloused from all the wood-chopping she did. She never let me touch the axe, much to my dismay. Mama would smile from where she would be cracking pepper over dinner. 

   Because we were so close to the wild, it was woven into my veins just as securely as the love I was raised on, and I took my first steps on moss near the river.  

   We spent a lot of time outside. We even walked to the school I spent my days at when I was old enough. And I would always insist on walking barefoot, even when I was old enough to put my shoes on by myself.  

   Mama smiled at it, but Mum would always sigh and give me a pointed glance. She made me put on my shoes before I went inside the school building.  

   I was a nightmare as a student. I would always be itching to run, and I’d take off my shoes at every chance I got. I would mimic the wolves I heard howling in the woods, and I would squawk back at the birds outside. I couldn’t sit still in class, and I scribbled on my worksheets. 

   My handwriting was horrifically bad, barely even legible. There were many parent-teacher meetings and extracurricular lessons so that I wouldn’t fall behind. Mum always made sure to sit next to me at the kitchen table and help me with my letters and words, and I remember she smelled of fireplace smoke and incense.  

    Mama would always ask me if I’d done my homework and every time I would say yes even if I hadn’t. And she’d hug me and her work shirt would smell of grease and metal but on weekends she’d smell of pine needles and the woodshed.  

~-~

  Once, there was a movie that I watched, but I don’t remember anything about it except the portrait of a snarling, seething wolf.     When I was seven or eight, a boy named Harlow approached me at lunchtime and said, in a rather rude tone, “Michael says you have faggots for parents.” 

   Now I didn’t know what that word meant, so I asked him, my feet digging into the soil. 

   “It means they’re...” he leaned in to whisper to me. “They’re gay.” 

   I looked at him quizzically, still not sure what he meant.  

   Harlow huffed. “You have two mums,” he said pointedly.  

   I took a bite of my sandwich and nodded.  

   Harlow’s eyes widened. “Really? It’s true?” 

   I frowned and nodded. I swallowed my mouthful of sandwich. “Is that bad?” 

   Harlow stared at me in shock. “Of-Of course it’s bad! How will you grow big and strong without a dad?” 

   At this, the image of the snarling wolf appeared in my mind and rage rushed through me. I’m not sure why. I hardened my gaze and Harlow seemed to stumble a bit.  

   And then I tackled him to the floor with a guttural growl. He screeched and all at once that rage disappeared, and I stood up, backed off and turned away, fleeing into the trees. 

   I didn’t look back. 

~-~

Mama sighed as I sat on my hands and swung my legs back and forth. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, and the air conditioning had been turned full.     It was one of those units that swung the blast of freezing air back and forth, so every twenty or so seconds I would be hit with a chill.      Across the desk in front of me was Mrs. Hillywinkle, her wrinkled face scrutinizing the documents in front of her. Her computer whirred so loudly I thought it might take flight. 

   Mama had come from the shop early to come to this meeting. Usually Mum would do it, but she had been held up on something she called “investigative precautions”.      So there I sat, in the very uncomfortable wooden chair of the principal’s office, nervously swinging my legs.      Every so often the air conditioning unit would brush the papers of artwork on the wall with a rustling sound.      The wind outside howled up a ruckus, and I resisted the urge to howl back. Mama fiddled with the edge of her shirt that smelled of grease and metal. It was how I knew it was a Wednesday. Mama sighed and I pretended not to notice the pointed glare she shot at me.  

   Mrs. Hillywinkle seemed to have forgotten we were there.     Mama cleared her throat, and Mrs. Hillywinkle peered up over her half-moon glasses.     She put down the paper she seemed to think was so important and sighed. “Ms. James-Harriet.” 

   “It’s Mrs. James-Harriet, actually,” Mama said, frowning.      Mrs. Hillywinkle paused for a moment and narrowed her eyes at Mama. “Mrs. James-Harriet.”     Mama nodded.      Mrs. Hillywinkle paused again. Then, “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”     Mama shook her head. “I don’t.”     Mrs. Hillywinkle hesitated to give me a glance. “Your... Atticus here assaulted another student.” 

   Mama seemed to stop in surprise. She turned to look at me and for once I saw the brewing wild in her dark eyes. The moment quickly passed, and she turned back to Mrs. Hillywinkle. “He wouldn’t.” Her hands turned to fists around her trousers.      Mrs. Hillywinkle raised an eyebrow. “Well, he did. Tackled another student to the ground.”     Mama inhaled. “And what provoked this?”     “Nothing, the student says he was minding his own business and Atticus came out of nowhere and tackled him onto the ground—”     “That’s not true!” I snapped, rather out of the blue. 

   “Atticus,” Mama hissed.      I shook her off. “I was the one minding my business,” I corrected. “He came up to me and told me that I couldn’t grow big and strong because... because I don’t have a dad.” 

   Mama took a sharp breath.      Mrs. Hillywinkle raised an eyebrow. “And you tackled him to the ground?” 

   I nodded. “He deserved it.” 

   Mama sighed. “I’m so sorry, he’s not normally like this—” 

   Mrs. Hillywinkle held up a hand. “I’m sure. But we’re worried about his home life. Is there any reason you can think of that would cause him to react with violence?”     Mama was taken aback. I stiffened. Mama sighed. “No. We’ve never hit him or each other.”     Mrs. Hillywinkle scribbled something down.     I continued to swing my legs.   ~-~

I gripped mama’s hand tight as we began walking down the long dirt road to home.      She didn’t speak. I wished she did. She was like that sometimes, when she was angry with me.     She’d get all quiet and I wouldn’t speak either because if I did I was sure it wouldn’t end well.     I sighed.      She squeezed my hand. “I’m not angry at you.”     I nodded.     “I’m just frustrated. With that boy. And the world. Me and your mother have tried so hard to shield you from those who speak bad about us, but...” she trailed off with a sigh.     I nodded.      Her eyes seemed to glisten but not with tears, with something I couldn’t quite place. Her steps on the gravel seemed to be profound and strong. Her braids rocked with every step she took. I squeezed her hand.     She looked down at me and smiled.  

   I tried to smile back. 

   And that image of the snarling wolf appeared in front of my eyes again and I inhaled and stopped walking and my hand slipped from mama’s and I couldn’t shake the picture from my mind.      Mama turned and furrowed her eyebrows at me as I seethed, hands balled into fists.      It was like every part of me was alive, like every part I had ever pushed down had just somehow surfaced and was screaming rabid desires and I wanted to listen, but I didn’t know what they were saying, I just knew that they were loud and scary and feral and wild. 

   I wanted to listen to their screeching wild wants and needs but I couldn’t, I didn’t have the legs or the teeth or the speed or the nose or the right ears that I would need if I wanted to listen and obey and so I just stood there, on the dirt road with my mama in front of me, asking what was wrong.     And I wanted to growl and howl and screech at her just like those wild things were begging me to. 

   I met her gaze and she took a breath, like... like she was afraid of me and some part of me seemed to jump at the thought, seemed to gleefully cry out at the notion that I was scary that I was powerful that I was wild.  

   I seethed there on the dirt road, wanting to howl because those wild things begged me to, and those wild things were deep within the ground and the trees and they were in the air and I was them I was them and they were me. 

   “Atticus.”     The voice cut through like a knife and all at once everything stopped and I took a breath and I could see my mama again and she looked so worried. 

   I tried to breathe, I took long deep breaths as my mama’s hand was on my chest and she whispered to me softly about how it was okay and that I was going to be okay and whatever it was that was bothering me was gone now and I didn’t have to be afraid.  

   I breathed, long and low. The wild things stopped their screeching and the wild things weren’t in the trees and the wild things weren’t chasing me. 

   I was grounded and my mama was there with me.      “Atticus, are you okay?” Mama asked after a moment of just the wind in the leaves and my breathing.     I nodded.  

   And so, we carried on. To home. My feet were wobbling and my legs were shaking but I felt more alive than I ever had been.      Whole. 

   That’s what I felt. And Mrs. Hillywinkle couldn’t do anything about it because my mum would call her a word I wasn’t allowed to say.      I followed mama into the living room where the fireplace sat when we got home. She sat me down in the big armchair that was very squishy and kneeled in front of me.      She said, “Atticus, did that boy who you tackled say anything?”     I nodded. “Lots of things. He called you and mum a word that I don’t think he knew the meaning of.”     Mama tilted her head, braids rocking again. “And was that word?”     I hesitated. “I don’t know what it means either.”     Mama shifted closer. “I promise you right now, Ti-Ti, that if you repeat what he said I won’t be angry at you.”     There was silence. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. I stared at them through the large windows.      “Ti-Ti?” Mama asked.  

   I looked back at her. I hesitated. She blinked at me. I said, “he... he told me that I had faggots for parents.”     Mama’s eyes flashed. She hardened her gaze and muttered something under her breath.      “What does it mean?” I asked.      Mama sighed and looked at the floor. “It means someone who loves people who are the same gender as them. Like me, I’m a woman who loves another woman.”     I nodded. “I love you. And I love Oakley. What does that make me?”     Oakley was my best friend for ever and ever. We played together at school all the time and sometimes he would even howl at the trees with me. 

   Mama chuckled. “No, I don’t think it’s like that, Ti-Ti. The way that I love your mum is different to the way I love you. And I’m not sure you’ll experience that kind of love for a while yet.”       I nodded. “But what’s so bad about that word that Harlow said?”     Mama sighed. “It’s a word used to insult people like me. It shouldn’t be said by anybody, so I don’t want to hear you repeating it.”     I nodded again. “Okay.” 

   She turned back to me. “If he says it again, just tell me, alright? And I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.”     “Okay,” I said again.  

   Her braids shifted again as she leaned back. “Ti-Ti,” she started. “Back on the road.”     There was silence as she tried to formulate her words. “What happened?”     I wished the silence would come back. I didn’t want to tell her about the wild things in my head who screamed at me. I really, really didn’t. It felt... wrong, somehow. Like if someone knew about the screeching, they would hate me. Or throw me out, or make me scared of them. Or maybe the wild things wouldn’t come back, or they’d be there for every second. And both of those possibilities scared me.  

   I didn’t like being scared. I stared at her, my mouth open like I was going to say something, but the words died on my tongue. 

   Mama leaned forward, eyes open and ready to listen. “It’s okay, whatever it was. You can tell me.”     I huffed. “I don’t know,” I lied. 

   Mama raised her eyebrow. “You’re lying.”     “I am not!” I said indignantly.      Mama laughed. “Yes, you are,” she teased, leaning forward. “You’re lying and I know you are because you chewed on your lip before you answered.” She extended her hands to me and began to tickle my sides. “You’re lying, Ti-Ti,” she said as I burst out with laughter.     She leaned to blow a raspberry on my forehead as I squirmed away from her tickles.      And I think she forgot about the time on the road, and I think I did too. I think the wild creatures in my head were gone and they didn’t dare come back and ruin my mama’s love. 

~-~

Mum got home late that night, and she looked like a mess. Like she’d “been dragged through a bush by her ankles,” as Mama put it when she took mum by her hand and kissed her cheek.  

   I rushed up to her to show her the drawing I’d done of a wolf howling at the moon. Mum took it from me and admired it for a moment. A long moment. I waited, brimming with anticipation.      She looked to me over the paper with wide eyes. “You drew this?”     I nodded enthusiastically.     Mum gasped. “Why, I never thought I’d be in the presence of such an artist!” She exclaimed. “Come look at this, don’t you think the linework is just astounding?” she asked Mama.     Mama smiled. “Very. We ought to hang it up.” 

   Mum nodded, proud. “Immediately!”     And so she did just that. It was the centerpiece of the fridge. 

   I stared at it for a long while. It seemed so grand. Like the most important place a thing could be was in the middle of the fridge.      We lit the fireplace and drew the curtains, and I had a cup of hot chocolate while Mama placed another log on the fire and mum laughed when mama accidentally dropped the wood onto the floor with a thud.      I smiled and turned to glance at the fridge again. My drawing of the wolf. And then Mum sat next to me and pulled me to her side and I was greeted with the comfortable smell of fireplace smoke and incense.       Mama made a remark about stealing all the cuddles and joined mum on the other side of me and suddenly it smelled of pine needles and the woodshed and I was very safe and that’s what it smelled of, it smelled of safety. 

   I was safe with them and they would protect me and I would protect them and my drawings would be hung in the centre of the fridge and I would have cups of hot chocolate even when I was supposed to be asleep. And when I did fall asleep in my parents’ arms, I would always wake up in my bed the next morning without fail.   ~-~

   I have vague memories of being carried to my room and the soft voice of Mama telling me goodnight, but that’s all. I don’t remember when I fell asleep.     I remember my dreams, though. I’ve always remembered my dreams, and I’m not sure why. I remember almost every dream I’ve ever had. Most of them are nonsense, as dreams often are. But this one... this one was different. It was filled with screeching and howling and wolves snarling in my face and then I was the wolf snarling in my face.      I was the scary, not the scared, and I liked it.     I was angry and loud and hunting and screaming and I was obeying the wild things in my mind that told me to hunt and howl. The wild things in my mind didn’t sleep, and some things never do, and I don’t think I could either. ��

   I was wild and I was hunting and I was the wolf snarling in my face and I was the screeching things in my mind and I was howling not just at the trees but I was howling at everything that was and that has been.      I woke up screaming that there were wild things in my head trying to hunt me. 

[revelwrites]

The Red Door Pt 2

Part One

Her head was pounding, and her mouth tasted hangover level foul. She just couldn’t remember drinking anything at all, which was the kicker. She wanted to pull the blankets back up over her head, but everything hurt. Moving hurt. The AC had to have come on in the night because she felt sick and cold. Skin clammy. Rolling onto her side, she shuddered at the uncomfortable feel of something hard under her, digging into her ribs. A branch snapped.

Eyes opening, she scrabbled in the leaves and pine needles under her. Horror iced through her to find herself sprawled out in the woods in her oversized sleep shirt, dirt caked under nails. As impossible as it all was, she knew. Reluctantly, she lifted her head.

It was there just like she’d known it would be. The red door where no door had a reason to be. Heart pounding, she saw that it was open. In her dream, she’d opened it and something horrific had reached through. Her breath shuddered out of her, goosebumps prickling along her arms. There was something there on the other side, but not the monster from the night before.

A man her own age, crouched just on the other side of the door, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Dressed in a faded red brocade shirt trimmed in gold, black pants, and scuffed leather shoes, he was at once too elegant for the woods, but right seeming crouched in the leaves at the same time. Stubble hazed a strong jaw, his wild, black hair hanging in his face and brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was handsome, if unkempt. His eyes dark.

At her scrutiny, his head tipped to put her in mind of a big crow. Bits and bobs of the dream floated up. The eyes. The shadows reaching. She slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, afraid of making any sudden moves.

Afraid of what the stranger might do if she did. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, nerves on edge. Would he chase her if she ran? Again, the image of the shadowy shape reaching out, the shadows shearing off in wisps of smoke as it breached the open doorway rose up. This was only a man, not a monster.

Still.

She wanted to run.

Almost painfully slow, she fumbled behind herself until her palm found the rough back of a tree. Every little ache made itself known in protest as she straightened. She was almost certain she’d been lying on rocks and sticks, but she couldn’t make herself look down. Couldn’t tear her eyes from the man who almost definitely wasn’t a man at all.

Her own breathing was harsh in the silence. Across from her, the man straightened with a slow, enviable grace. Mimicking her. He was taller than her, she realized. Big hands curled and uncurled at his sides. She dared to glance back over her shoulder and the world swam. She gasped as the man blurred sickeningly at the edges. Losing shape. Changing.

Head snapping around to face him, she began to shake. He looked human again, but she’d seen it from the corner of her eyes. Seen the monster.

“No.” The word burst out of her, harsh with anger and bright terror. She staggered back a step and he reached for her.

His fingers passing through the door and smoking, fraying at the edges. The handsome face creased in pain, but he didn’t pull back. Reaching for her. Dark eyes found hers.

She took a step forward without meaning to. Without wanting to. Fear lashed her, laying her open to the bone and she broke free of the spell.

Ran.

A plaintive, howl rose from behind her, the sound one of pain and betrayal that lifted the fine hair at her nape and along her arms. Limbs clawed at her hair and clothes as she flew through the woods, falling more than once. For the second time in as many days, she burst free of the tree line and into the yard, terrified. The grass was still wet with dew, and she fell again, landing painfully on her hip.

Scooting backwards from the trees, she was shaking too badly to stand. She’d been frightened plenty of times in her life, but never like this. Never this visceral mad terror. Already the details were fading in the early morning sun. Birds began to sing again, the world going on as if it hadn’t just missed a step.

She let out a shuddering breath and climbed to her feet. Made her way up to the house and inside. Locked the door even though it hadn’t helped. The empty house hadn’t protected her.

The sound it had made when she’d ran kept whispering through her. The pain in that inhuman voice. She began digging through boxes until she found her laptop and the charger. Setting it up on the kitchen table, she threw out the uneaten soup from the night before and washed the bowl and spoon. Dug out a can of chicken noodle soup and heated that up. The sun was climbing higher in the sky- high enough that the light streamed in through the tall bay windows of the kitchen to warm the space. Fishing chunks of chicken and carrot out of the soup, she powered on her laptop.

From the counter, her cell phone began to ring.  Feeling off kilter with all the normalcy after the fear, she answered it.

“You’re such a liar.” The familiar voice on the other side groused as soon as the call connected. No hello, not that she expected one.

Haley grimaced, pacing back to the table to sink into a chair. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been up all night worrying. I found two new gray hairs this morning. Your fault,” her best friend, Amelia complained. In the background, Haley could hear a radio. The singer crying over lost love nearly drowned out by the sound of traffic.

“I was distracted.” Haley chased a bit of celery around the bowl with her spoon. “Lots of boxes to unpack.”

Monsters. There’re worse monsters here. I think I made a mistake.

Her jaw clenched, biting back the words. She knew if she tried to say them, she’d only sound hysterical. She felt hysterical. Couldn’t stop trembling.

“But everything’s okay?” Amelia’s voice was hesitant. Cautious with the unspoken questions. Are you safe, now?

“Yeah. It’s great.” Goosebumps rose along her arms at the lie. “Country living.”

Amelia’s sigh was loud and overly dramatic. “You can’t just ghost me for days, okay? Not now.”

“I won’t.” Fingers tightening on the phone, she felt her eyes burn. She blinked the tears away. “Promise.”

“Mmhmm. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Love you, too,” Haley muttered.

“I’ll come up this weekend, okay? The house nice?”

“Sure, it’s...” She cast about. The kitchen was fronted along one wall with huge bay windows and the sun was streaming in to make the old wood floors gleam like honey. In the light, the scuffs and scratches were hardly noticeable. The previous owner had painted the walls a milky rose color that didn’t look awful with the white faux marble countertops. But it was empty. No curtains on the windows. The counters empty. The battered, old kitchen table and three chairs had been left with the house along with a microwave and a green fridge that didn’t work. “Rustic.”

Amelia laughed. “Alright then. Call me if anything happens.”

There’s a monster in the woods.

“Yeah. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Connection ending with a soft beep, she set the phone aside. She made herself eat the soup, even though her stomach roiled and threatened the entire time. Then grabbed the laptop and powered it up.

Two hours later, and she hadn’t found any clues online about what the thing in the woods was. She’d tried searching for phantom, red doors. Shadow monsters. Shadow monsters on the other side of phantom doors. By the time she gave up, she was about ready to cry. At the very least she decided, her personal FBI agent was probably getting a kick out of her search history.

With the sun streaming in from the big windows to make the dust in the air dance in the shafts, the fear seemed faded and distant. Silly even. A nightmare. She couldn’t quite manage to convince herself, though. Not when she looked down and saw the dark crescents of dirt still under her nails.

Shoving up from the table, she turned on the sink as hot as she could stand and thrust her hands into the water. Picked the dirt out from under her nails and then scrubbed with soap. And scrubbed again until her hands were red and sore.

She felt like a phantom as she drifted through the old house, unpacking boxes one by one in silence just to keep moving. To keep from curling up and bawling. The van had seemed crammed full, but spread out in the big house, her belongings didn’t really amount to much. It was almost disappointing that she had so little to show for the last several years.

But most of her things and all the furniture had been left behind. There hadn’t been time to pack everything, and the risk hadn’t been worth it. Disgust at herself swam up and she tamped it down. It wasn’t running away.

Not really.

The old house creaked around her, seeming to sigh at her lies. Moving through the empty rooms, she tried to imagine what the place could be. A home. A real one. The wallpaper in the halls was old. A faded, pale floral print that was peeling in places and would have to go. The floors were worn, but they could be sanded and resealed.

By the time she circled back to the kitchen, the night had returned. Feet scuffing to a stop, she shuddered. Seeming alive, the night crowded against the windows. Watchful and hungry. Every ounce of calm she’d gathered to herself began to fray. Her steps were loud as she crossed to the door and checked the lock.

And backed away into the hall, feeling like an idiot the whole time, but unable to turn her back on those deep shadows. She’d seen what was out there.

She moved upstairs to her room and flicked the lock shut, then hesitated. That hadn’t stopped her the night before, though she wasn’t sure if she’d been sleep walking or under some strange compulsion. Finally, she tried to shove the dresser in front of the door. It took sitting on the floor with her back to the wall and bracing her legs against it to budge the heavy thing. The feet rasped and screeched against the hardwood as she pushed it inch by inch until it blocked the door.

As irritating as it was, she left the lights on and crawled onto her mattress fully dressed. Being uncomfortable was better than waking up in the woods in just a sleep shirt. Laying there, she could hear it. At least, she thought she could. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she still shuddered all the same as howl after faint howl rent the night. The sound human and inhuman all at once. Despairing and furious.

Eventually, she dug through the boxes littering the bedroom floor until she found her headphones and put them on. Even then, she felt like she could still hear that distant, horrible sound.

Calling out to her in demand.

[citadelsushi]

blah blah original fiction I want to share blah

In the shadow of a massive redwood tree stood a stone cabin. Its foundation was built into the surrounding hills and its thatch roof extended to the ground. Sparse grass and wildflowers crawled along the upward slope of the straw structure, reaching for the thin streams of sunlight that penetrated the think canopy overhead. Pine needles accumulated in thick beds of warm brown hugging the stone. It looked as if the building was birthed from the Earth rather than forced upon it, a stark contrast to the imposing Towers of Mage in the cities proper. Despite the snap in the air, no smoke rose from the tall slate chimney. It would be easy to miss this hut altogether if passing by from a distance. An ideal home in which to find solitude and tranquility. Or a perfectly inconspicuous refuge for someone who didn’t want to be found.

Kaito stalked the perimeter. Only three windows split the stone walls; two small squares near the pitch of the roof and one at waist height that was covered with wooden planks. The scrape of heavy wood against grass was deafening in the otherwise whispering forest. Someone was coming outside. Kaito pressed himself into the shadow of the closest pine. A woman of average height and slender build stepped into the pool of sunlight past the door’s threshold. Hand over her brow to block the light, he couldn’t make out her face. Even if her hand did not obscure his view, he doubted he’d be able to make out her features clearly. Brilliant white hair fell to mid-back, casting a glare so bright it rivaled the snow fields of Northern Tyrzia on a clear day. He squinted and watched her walk around the side of the modest building. Save for her hair, she did not strike him as elderly. She moved with the practiced grace of a dancer, fluidly enough to denote a person not yet suffering from stuff joints.

Squirrels chirped in the trees as she stepped further into the woods. Birds quieted. A blanket of eerie silence fell as if all the forest critters were evacuating from a nearby threat. Sweat coated his palms as he reached for his blade. The woman carried no visible weapons, but that did not mean she was harmless. Daggers or throwing blades could be hidden beneath her skirt or she may have stashed a bow in the thicket of fallen needles toward which she walked. She could possess magic. For the animals to respond as they did, they must have picked up on the same quiet danger that had his gut clenching. Kaito kept one eye on the woman, the other on the forest floor as he crept closer, careful to avoid snapping any twigs beneath his feet.

No, she couldn’t be enlightened. The people of Erie were notoriously vicious toward magic kind ever since the destruction of Cormmond Tower. Tales of their sadistic execution methods were taught in every tower as a warning to all students and motivation to stay loyal to The Mage. If this woman possessed power, Erie would have found and destroyed her. Furthermore, Almon was the only missing student of which he knew. There could be no others.

A breeze swept through the forest and The Giants groaned. Kaito took advantage of the noise and darted from his hiding place, eating up the distance in long, floating strides, and pressed himself flat against the building just as the trees quieted once more. The woman still had her back to him as she reached a pile of needs stacked higher than the surrounding ground cover. As she knelt and began brushing needles aside, Kaito pressed forward. Blade drawn, he steadied his breathing, let his mind grow distant and wander to the place it needed to be before a fight. Lightning sang in his veins, his magic awaiting the opportunity to strike. It knew as well as he did that he had been right. The forest never lied. This woman was dangerous. She must have sensed his presence, or seen him watching from the shadows, and was trying to reach her weapon without alerting him to her plan. What was she hiding that made her hostile to strangers?

Kaito charged. The steel of his sword gleamed as he held it to her neck. The woman yelped in surprise. Clever, but he wouldn’t be fooled. “Hands up,” he ordered. She obeyed, limbs trembling. A nice touch. “Don’t move.” He circled her, blade pivoting against her skin, pressed just hard enough that if she did move abruptly, she would slice her own throat.

Her face remained angled toward the ground. “I am unar­—”

A jolt as she spoke, a brittle angry sound that felt like a song he once knew by heart and had since forgotten. “Shut up.” Kaito kicked the pile of needles. One, twice, three times before they cleared to reveal a wooden hatch sunk into the ground. “What’s this?”

“My cellar,” she answered begrudgingly. “If you’re looking to rob me, I don’t have much. You can have it all if you leave my head intact.”

 “I don’t need your pathetic stores.” Kaito briefly surveyed their surroundings. “I’m looking for someone. A young man with black hair named Almon. He was recently injured and is not in his right mind. Have you seen him?”

“No,” she gritted out. Now it was clear her voice was not rough from disuse, but from anger.

He felt the familiar tingle of power at his fingertips, begging to be released. Something was off about this woman. He slid the tip of his sword under her chin and lifted. “Look at me.”

Slowly her white crown tilted back, and her eyes – as green as the grass of the Northern Cliffs after a storm - snapped up to meet his. Startlingly green. Familiar green. Kaito’s power vanished in the instant his heart stopped.

Amara.

No, it couldn’t be. He had born witness to her death. Years later, he could still feel the quake of the ground beneath his feet as the tower fell. Some nights he woke coughing on dust that was five years settled. Yet those green eyes locked on with the same haunting intensity. The same smattering of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, dotting across her forehead like drifting cottonwood seeds. Even her hair, which was now stark white instead of a rich inky black, was pulled back from her face the same way she’d always done it; twisted and pinned against her crown, strands falling loose to frame her face.

“What…what is this?” Kaito demanded weakly, his tongue dried and shriveled in his mouth. No one possessed this sort of magic. Shifting into another form was impossible. Not to mention whoever this was would have needed intimate knowledge of Amara to recreate her so accurately. And of Kaito himself to know her significance to him.

“I—”

His grip tightened on his sword, angling the blade and forcing her mouth to close, chin tilted higher. Her eyes widened. “Before you speak, know that if you lie to me, I will bleed you like a pig. Who are you?”

“You know who I am, Kaito.” His name on her lips, the same dusty pink, full lips that he used to taste daily, broke something inside of him. If this was magic, this person rivaled The Mage in power. Gods, they’d gotten every detail correct.

His heart hammered so loudly against his sternum he could hardly hear himself speak. “Prove it.”

“Who else coul—”

“Prove. It.”

The woman pressed her lips together. “You’re ticklish along your neck. And behind the ears.”

As his sword slipped from his hand, he whispered, “Amara.”

And then his arms were wrapped around her, pulling her to her feet and squeezing tightly. Somehow, she got her arms free to return the embrace. Five years since her death and he was holding her again. Gods, he was holding Amara. Face buried in the crook of her neck where his blade had been only seconds ago, he breathed deep. Her skin held the same honeyed vanilla scent, like hydrangeas, but different. Less floral, more earthy, like the moss that covered nearly every stone surface in Erie. It was a combination so wholly her, so much like home, the world faded into insignificance as he inhaled deep, lung-bursting breaths.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered into his shoulder.

A sob ripped from his throat. And I you. The words died on his tongue, drowned by his tears. Years ago, he had been trapped beneath the rubble of the tower for hours only to emerge and learn that she was counted among the dead. Everyone had, save for him and the one to whom he had been able to extend his shield.

“I can’t believe you’re real.” Kaito choked on another sob. How could one hug a ghost? He squeezed her harder, crushing her to him as if to prove she was in fact real and not some cruel illusion. She was too warm, too soft to be a figment of his imagination. They still fit together perfectly. “I thought…”

I thought I’d never see you again.

I thought all the dreams I had for us were laid to rest.

I thought you died a horrible, gruesome death at the hands of your power while I hid helplessly behind mine.

A deep inhale filled his lungs with her scent once again as he urged himself to calm. Still, he stumbled over his words. “How are you alive? How are you here?”

“I escaped,” she breathed.

Kaito pulled back just enough to see her properly, arms still holding her tight, afraid that if he let go, she would vanish. Tears welled, but her cheeks were dry. The blast and subsequent collapse had been too destructive for anyone to survive. And Amara’s magic…it had eaten her alive. Had consumed every muscle and bone. At first, he hadn’t believed it. Denial had consumed him so thoroughly he insisted on confirming it himself. Leg broken and hardly mobile, he had sat on the ground and sifted through rubble until his fingers bled. “How?”

“I skirted the hills,” she said. “Avoided cities the best I could. When the forest grew thick, I knew I’d passed into Erie.” At once, Kaito’s mind emptied. As if she’d dumped a bucket of freezing water over his head and now his entire body stuttered. She’d traveled to Erie on purpose. “And you? Your shields, they kept you safe?”

Blink after blink, his vision remained blurred. “Safe enough,” he replied, grip loosening. It had taken hours for rescuers to unbury him. By the time they had, he had grown tired, weak, and had pulled his power back to protect only himself for as long as possible. Until he failed at that, too. “You’ve been here all this time?”

  Amara nodded stiffly. His vision cleared in time to watch the tears in her eyes be replaced with uncertainty. “I was fortunate to have found this house.”

Fortunate? What was fortunate about leaving him behind? He wanted to scream it at her, to shake her and demand why? Was it so easy to leave him behind? Had she not spent the past five years grieving as he had?

Suddenly guarded, she stepped back. Kaito let her, arms falling uselessly to his sides. Much needed air filled the space between them, tinged with a cold that shocked him after such a warm embrace. Fresh air filled his lungs, diluting the overwhelming scent of moss and vanilla in his lungs. It was dreadfully refreshing.

“You’re working with the Arcani?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

Kaito followed her line of sight to his torso, covered in black wool embroidered with intricate swirls of green and gold, now creased by where she had pressed against him. Signature colors of Tyrzia. He straightened, chest puffing. “I’m a scholar now.”

As if he’d slapped her, Amara flinched and stepped back, hand covering her mouth. Tears shined in her eyes again. “I can’t believe you stayed.”

She can’t believe him? He spent five years mourning, blaming himself for her death, crushed beneath the weight of her destruction, and she had the nerve to judge the group who took him in and cared for him? While she was hiding among The Giants? The very woods in which he would never be welcome again despite being born among them.

“You ran!” His voice echoed, but it wasn’t loud enough. No words could cover the amount of damage she caused him. The cracks the Arcani tried to repair still cut deep.

Amara’s tears disappeared with a blink, features shifting into something cruel and foreign.  “You should have, too.”

“Where should I have gone, Amara? Home?” An ugly scoff sent spit flying from his lips. “Erie shut its borders to magic soon after you destroyed Cormmond Tower.”

“Anywhere would be better than Tyrzia. The Arcani are­—”

“The Arcani saved my life!” Kaito hated that he was yelling, that he could feel the muscles straining in his neck as he lost control of his emotions. Power sparked at his fingertips, blue energy sizzling across his skin. “You are the one who nearly killed me. You killed everyone.”

Amara was an ice sculpture. So cold the heat of his anger couldn’t penetrate, couldn’t even melt a centimeter. Her face remained schooled in that same dead expression as she asked, “are you going to arrest me?”

Now it was he who felt as if he’d been slapped. This woman might have Amara’s body, but she did not have her soul. Magic crackled in the air as his shields slipped into place over his body. In the same instant, he retrieved his sword from the ground and pointed it at her. Amara didn’t so much as flinch. He wished she had. “Open the cellar.”

“Why?”

“Because I gave you an order,” he snapped.

After a moment’s hesitation, Amara obliged. Kaito watched her closely, muscles taut and ready to act if she called her power. Not so much as a flicker of her magic tingled the air. As if it was dormant. Or gone. Could her explosion have drained her power rather than her life? Is that why she’d run and hid?

With a heavy groan, the door lifted and revealed a worn wooden ladder descending into darkness. Amara stepped back and crossed her arms. “Knock yourself out.”

In the distance, a voice called, “Kaito!”

Both of their heads snapped to the side toward the direction of the voice. “Shit,” Kaito muttered. Amara still didn’t look startled or phased, but she should. He shouldn’t care, but he did. “Get in.”

“Are those hunters?” Her expression didn’t shift, but her stare was filled with malice. With judgement.

“Yes,” he answered. “Now get in. And do not come out until we are gone.”

She shifted her jaw, clenched it tight. “You mean to trap me.”

“I mean to hide you,” he said, his voice tight, as he stepped closer and aimed his sword at her chest. “Out of respect for our past, I will not arrest you today. But if you insist on obstinance and the other hunters see you, I will not stop them. Get in.”

“Kaito!”

“I think he’s over here!”

“Now,” he ordered.

Amara moved slowly. He kept his sword trained on her, and she kept her eyes on him until she reached the ladder and had to settle on the ground to climb into the cellar. Once on the ladder, she looked up at him. “Don’t come looking for me after this, Kaito. I won’t be here.”

Kaito hardened his shields. “Stay hidden.”

[kori-chan]

Silliness

[bungou stray dogs | soukoku]

How many cigarettes did he smoke? How much ash did he put into his lungs in those few hours? But it didn't seem to matter. For now. At this moment. Only at this moment.

Nakahara slowly exhaled the smoke, looking at the panorama of the city that opened up to his eyes from his small balcony. The whole of Yokohama seemed so tiny from here, but at the same time it reminded of its greatness. The city for which hundreds of people fought. It fascinated with its openness during the day and mystery at night. It was ironic that Nakahara hadn't walked around Yokohama at night much before, not for a mission. Just for himself.

A gust of wind blew his wet hair away from his face, opening his forehead to the night chill. The black atlas shirt was too big for the man. It fell to the middle of his thigh and slowly began to expose his shoulder, slipping off because of the same wind. And Nakahara himself contributed to this, finally leaning his elbows on the fence.

The expensive fabric, a matte atlas, smelled like someone else's perfume. It was notes of pine needles combined with something tart and sweet. This smell had long been imprinted in Chuuya's memory. It seems that the owner of this perfume has never thought about changing it, and neither has Nakahara. How many years has he been buying the same perfume?

Again, a question that made no sense.

«For some reason, my head is full of such silliness», – Chuuya smiled as he picked up the cigarette. The phantom flavor of cherry remained on the inside of his lips and palate.

«It's really silly».

His eyes fell on the glass door, which was open wide. Night light was streaming through the doorway and into the bedroom, scattering satin spots in the room. On the double bed, the cause of the nightly smoking was sleeping in a star-shaped sprawl.

Dazai always appeared unexpectedly, loudly. He made a mess and did not want to think about the consequences. But what a pleasure it was to turn his volume in a completely different direction. When you can't control what you say anymore, when you are slowly drowning. He couldn't admit that he loved such moments. He fucking loved it when Dazai started begging him, when he was completely under his control. When he kissed him passionately and briefly, it was enough to understand everything.

They created their own mess, ruthlessly leaving their marks everywhere – their bodies were blank canvases every time. Nakahara always woke up when Dazai's bandages were already lying somewhere on the other side of the bed, and his pale skin was covered with crimson marks here and there. Some of them would be gone by the end of the night, and some would not come off for weeks. But all of them would be gone by the time they met again. And then, for sure, Chuuya will not hold back.

He said that every time. And each time everything ended at that moment, followed by many kisses. Hot, greedy, thirsty kisses. And hands that roamed over the desired body, pressing it harder to him.

Chuuya was lying. He just couldn't help but be reserved near Osamu. His pleas to finally give him the relief he wanted were too sweet. Too sweet were these moments of weakness when he didn't want to push. Not at such moments.

«Completely insane», – Nakahara concluded every time he sat with a cup of coffee and a plate of instant noodles in the morning, watching Osamu slowly «lick the wounds» – the marks of his complete belonging. He looked at Nakahara with a still hungry gaze, realizing that his deepest dreams were still unfulfilled. That he would remain thirsty for this man no matter how many nights they spent together.

That was why this question was unexpected.

«Are you sure you really want this? You're not in the Mafia anymore, Dazai. Even that should be in question by now».

«Absolutely».

And Chuuya can clean up the mess himself.

However, he could not admit that he usually created an even bigger mess himself. Which even now dominated him.

The remains of the cigarette were in the ashtray. Nakahara walked into the room, hiding his bare shoulders from the wind.

His mind was a mess. This mess was those silly thoughts.

Just silly thoughts.

«Chuuya, you're cold», – Osamu murmured as Nakahara lay down next to him.

The man furrowed his brow, still not opening his eyes, and then sank down a little and snuggled up to the cold Nakahara.

«Is your head messed up again?» – he whispered somewhere in the collarbone area.

«A little bit», – Chuuya answered quietly, burying his fingers in the heavy brown hair and then his nose.

Now the smell seemed even more tart, and the notes of pine needles were almost gone. Now the smell was calming.

Or maybe it wasn't that at all. Perhaps it was the steady breathing and soft snoring of Dazai, who was once again hugging his waist so gently.

Chuuya closed his eyes in relaxation.

The questions didn't matter again.

«Silliness».

[fankhx-invasion]

Full Moon

Once again many thanks to @mangowritesstuff for helping to edit, add content, and advise on these! Also apologize for the late releases, I'm very rusty with my writing nowadays ^^

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Your breath came out in soft puffs, creating little whispy clouds of vapor around your mouth like trails of smoke, taking a stroll through the path in the woods that night wasnt something you had initially planned on doing. Your nose and fingers went numb from the frigid, December weather, in a vain attempt to retain some warmth, you shoved your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket. Home wasn't that far, but you couldn't return just yet. The moon tonight was gorgeous, looking bright and full, illuminating the dense foliage in an ethereal glow. You felt at absolute peace under its cosmic gaze upon the earth, stopping to lean against a tree and pull out a lighter and cigarette from the back of your jeans.

You sniffed the air, humming at the faint metallic scent slowly getting stronger, and the familiar huffing that got louder behind you.

"Is that my good boy?" you gently crooned out, glancing to your left side.

A large snout bumps into the side of your neck, the beast whimpering. It was almost seven feet tall, resembling that of a fox, claws and face wet with fresh blood, eyes glowing bright orange in the dark.

You tsked gently, turning to face the large creature, running a hand up to one ear and scratching the back of it.

"My poor reynard, I bet you're exhausted, hm?"

It only responded with another whine, leaning into your hand for more comfort. Of course it was exhausted after the hunt; its adrenaline was running out as the moon's power waned. The beast was ready to return home and rest all of the next day away.

You dropped your cigarette down, letting it extinguish under the heel of your boot into the ground below.

"Let's get you home, foxy. You're gonna need a long nap tonight. I'll get you nice and cleaned up."

It followed silently behind, tail dragging along a few loose leaves, pine needles, and the other forest floor debris. You managed to persuade the oversized fox to continue moving with soft coos and gentle pets, eventually helping it get through the back door of the small house you lived in.

As soon as you both slip through the back, you lock the door and draw the curtains over, listening to the creature behind whimper and collapse down to the floor. Limbs moved around, bones popped, until the mass of fur left behind a small human figure with fluffy, dark ringlets of hair, the soft ears, and a long, bushy tail.

You lean down to help him stand and gradually step towards the bathroom.

"..'M so sorry.." His voice was scratchy and rough.

"Don't apologize, you know I never mind caring for you."

As soon as he stepped into the tub, hot water running, you started wiping his face and hands of the blood, watching the water turn a very light shade of red. His dark, Italian eyes were intently focused on you.

Eric could barely remember what all he had done; the massacre that took place every night of prey much larger than the rabbits you would lie to him about. You knew he was innocent for the bloodshed, that everything he had done was never intentional, coming from a place of animalistic urges he never had control over. You never had the heart to tell him that the news headlines about missing people were his fault. He was gentle and sweet, his little grin and happy tail wags could make any room brighter, as if he were a ball of pure sunshine. You couldn't bear with the idea of letting him live with the guilt of countless deaths that were on his hands. You made sure he would never know. You made sure the police could never trace him too, messing up any visible prints, picking up his ragged clothing, and washing him of all the evidence left on his skin.

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