#woosh fic

[whatwooshkai]

LOOK AFTER YOU

Death cannot keep Megatron down for long.

Reborn in his young adult body as Megatronus, he finds himself dragged back into the Pit the very same day he met Optimus Prime- or rather, Orion Pax.

While the future of Cybertron seems sure, it won’t be for long.

Because Megatron won’t make the same mistakes twice.

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

CHAPTER ONE: NO MORE SECOND CHANCES

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

Etho cannot deny that in some way, the ocean is messing with his friends, and that he noticed far too late.

It targets Gem first, long before it goes after anyone else, so subtly it’s almost undetectable. Here’s the way he notices: her little boat is cute, but the mangrove wood on the trim seems old and rotten in some places, murky river water staining the paint that coats the sides. The lighthouse, when built, seems washed out, as if the color has been sucked from the stone that forms it. Etho finds this strange, but refuses to jump to conclusions- Gem is still his little sibling with the same warm smile, so he lets it be for now.

It’s really when the fishing craze begins where Etho starts having doubts about the normalcy of things. Grian is in no way an average person most of the time, but this level of dedication is new and sort of suspicious. It starts with the mending book, which is fine, since he’s decided to avoid villager trading this season. Etho comes over sometimes and jokes about the luck of the sea. Here is where it gets weird, though: when he comes over to make that joke again, Grian turns his head, oh so slowly, expression serious and eyes blank as he replies.

“The ocean will provide the book. It’s the next one, I know it.”

It takes a little more effort than it should for Etho to not turn tail and run. The tambre of his friend’s voice is off-kilter and strange, almost hollow in the way it echoes. And it’s the way he doesn’t say mending, he just says the book- Etho can’t help but feel like he isn’t fishing for enchantments anymore. The air smells of rot and slime. He swallows bile, gives a little uh-huh as a reply, and leaves as soon as he can.

Then there’s Pearl and Beef, obsessed with salmon, of all things. Pearl’s thing seems like a one-off, but Doc tells him that Beef has taken the joke about “big salmon” a little too far, claiming he’s gotten emails from them that have threatened the goat directly. Etho doesn’t really know what to make of that, or Pearl’s salmon head, or the continuous slapping of fish on noteblocks that’s driving him insane.

But he knows this: he’s never really liked fishing before, not for its intended use, anyway. It’s good to have in a death game, but not once has Etho found the monotonous motions of fishing appealing. Grian said it best himself: he used to think fishing was lame. And he did. Does. He thinks it’s lame. He thinks all of this stuff about the river and the boats and the ocean and the salmon and the rot is all really weird and not at all cool. He’s only here to make sure his friends are okay. Not to fish, because he doesn’t want to, just to keep Magic Mountain in line.

But Grian says it again: Etho walked up here and was like ‘this is lame’, now look at him! Etho, in turn, looks at his hands. When did he start fishing? Was the sun always that high in the sky? Did the ocean always sing like that? Was there always a magnetic force to the waves at the shore, pulling him closer with every lap of sea foam? Was the lighthouse always this beautiful?

No, no it wasn’t. He knows this. Something is very, very wrong. There’s something in the water that’s making his friends lose it, and there’s something supernatural that’s trying to pull him in. He needs to get out of here, back to the jungle, with its nice green grass and earthy smells-

To his right, Etho hears his death call. The bell rings, the swan sings, and the water keeps lapping at his feet. It’s too late, he knows it, in the way that his hands are gripping the fishing pole with white knuckles, in the way the lilypads seem to grow under his feet to get him closer to the great deep blue. The music continues, the serenade settling into his bones, giving him an eerie sense of calm.

In the magnetic pull of the moment, he doesn’t even realize he’s crying.

[writing-hat]

when the red veil no longer prevails

Basically, Harumi gets to meet people that faced the consequences of her plans and alliances. This is around 10k words.

What happens, when you get stuck in a place with people filled of hatred for you? After a dysfunction in Kryptarium, Harumi and the other inmates are sent to a civilian prison until it is completely fixed. And… let’s just say some people aren’t really happy to have her locked in there with them. Or; a fic in which Harumi gets punched in the face (metaphorically, more like beaten up) for all and everything she has done since deciding to bring Garmadon back.

/!\ THIS FIC IS RATED MATURE! BECAUSE BLOOD AND BEATING AND NOT HAPPY STUFF OR THOUGHTS /!\

Always check the tags! Thank you!

(errors of typo might be found on the way that's completely normal I'm very much tired and I apologize)

[wooshofficial]

Martyn makes his way back to Baxter after the end of the session, only for there to be ghosts at his house.

Not the good ghosts, either- he saw Jimmy and Lizzie chasing each other around the Secret Keeper earlier, and Mumbo hovering around Grian as he called time. No, these are the wrong ghosts.

Three people sit on Baxter, staring down at him with glances ranging from pity to mania. Martyn holds a staring contest with the three before someone speaks up:

“Oh man, the lone wolf makes it back home, everyone! How do you guys think he’s feeling right now?” The voice that pipes up comes from the ghost on the right. They’re not human—a mouse, maybe a rat?—and they’re wearing a maid dress, which isn’t the weirdest part of this whole situation.

“I don’t know,” says the left ghost, lounging on Baxter’s ear and jingling bells on their jester outfit with the movement, “probably…alone. Angry.”

Martyn scowls at the clown and rat, building his way up to be level with the ghosts. “Who the hell are you?! What are you doing at my house?”

He gets no direct response, because of course he doesn’t. Because of course the Watchers would try to drive him insane with ghosts commenting on his current mental state and him unable to give his two cents. Instead, the right ghost looks at the left, who has continued to spread out on Baxter and make some very annoying jingling sounds.

“Angry is a definite. Guilty, probably. Hating himself, absolutely.”

What? No. This is a death game, people are going to die. Martyn knows this. He doesn’t blame or hate himself, thank you very much! He opens his mouth to debate, but-

“Oh, be nice to him, Rat. He just lost his buddies!” The middle ghost finally speaks up, swinging her legs and staring directly at him. She’s got orange skin and what looks like an anchor strapped across her back, which Martyn is confused at- both the fact that it’s there and the fact that he knows what it is. “Remember how I felt up until what, two months ago? Because of you, might I add.”

“I told you Lux, I didn’t know he would get permakilled!”

“Still-“

“I apologized!”

“Would you please get back to talking about me while you’re sitting on my goddamn house?”Martyn says, still at eye level with the three frankly absurd ghosts arguing in front of him, once again to no response. Anchor ghost—Lux—leans over and slaps the right ghost—Rat—straight across the face, and this is where Martyn would stop paying attention to the nonsense, except Rat just pulled out a monstrous looking scythe; and Jester Ghost is scrambling across Baxter’s head to be at their side with a similar weapon in their hand, jingling the whole way there; and Martyn is now checking his wrist tattoo to make sure his between-session immunity is working so he doesn’t die from this.

“Rat!” Lux ghost shouts, looking over towards Martyn, pity still in their eyes, “you’re scaring him!”

“You slapped me!” They follow Lux’s gaze to double the amount of staring in Martyn’s general direction, and Jester Ghost follows suit, with a manic smile on top. Rat ghost puts the scythe away with a sigh. “We’re getting off track. Lone wolf over there is exactly what it says on the tin. Lux gets that feeling, and I don’t because I am basically god.”

Martyn chooses to ignore that. Lux ghost just rolls their eyes.

“But,” Rat says, and Martyn is now sure that these ghosts are simply choosing to ignore him because he’s suddenly locked in another stare off, “what I know-“

“We all know,” adds the clown-

“-is payback. Sweet, beautiful, over the top payback.”

Lux nods. “And he knows it too, doesn’t he?”

“Everyone on this server knows payback,” Martyn mutters, mostly to himself. “Even Scar knows payback. Damn good at it too.”

The jester makes a tsk sound towards him, and that’s when he knows that the ghosts are definitely pretending he’s not there, besides the whole all-three-of-them-are-staring-directly-at-him thing. “Ah-ah, but there’s a difference between how they do it and we do it. When they do it, it’s very…”

“Vanilla?” Lux ghost supplies.

“Boring?” Rat ghost drawls.

The jester ghost ponders a moment, that manic grin still on their painted face, before answering: “Simple. This server only knows simple payback. Us, on the other hand, we’re grand. Dramatic!”

Sure, like Martyn could be more dramatic than spawning three withers, or blowing himself up to kill someone else, or breaking a truce to go on a murder spree and win the game entirely. Like that’s even possible. Like the Watchers would allow that sort of thing on top of all the curses.

“So?” Martyn chides, about two seconds away from leaving and just moving bases entirely. “What do any of you have to do with this?!”

“So,” Rat says, and they have finally stopped ignoring him, “be like us, Martyn. Don’t just go to war, be the war.”

“Fight like nothing else matters.”

“And revel in the catharsis when it’s done.”

And then all three of them start laughing, filling the air with the sounds of bells and chaos and violence before disappearing in the blink of an eye. In their place, a single stick of TnT, with a note tied to it:

A pipe bomb for your troubles :)

Martyn throws it across the mesa, and promptly goes to sleep, deciding that even if lonely, he’s damn glad that he’s not whoever the hell those ghosts were.

[komaedamizuki]

writing cynthia as a cool and graceful lady, even in private, is so valid

even more valid: Cynthia is a loveable AuDHD disaster

[gaytoru]

₍^ >ヮ<^₎ !! | another barbiegloria fic rec!

read here! | (11/11 COMPLETED)

bio :

[mooshys]

IT WAS A TWO YEAR HIATUS?? crazy absolutely insane i cannot believe ive been rereading for that long (im the banger update anon lmao)

i have NO CONCEPT of time

YES it's so crazy how fast time flies........ 2 whole years of absolutely nothing and here we are (finally) nearing the end!

[devilishdelights]

when i actually write a fic. u will see

[lexmarine]

⚠️ BNHA POTENTIAL SPOILERS BELOW⚠️

Inspired by that one Mark and Ethan moment during Unus Annus, where they were playing rock, paper, scissors for whatever reason, I can't remember. That moment lives rent-free in my mind.

Drew Bakugo with my personal headcannons. (I'll learn anatomy one day, just not today :,) ) My OC's name is Korosaki Takahashi, more about her later!

Also working on a colorized version of this that I might upload later!

[caffeine-n-andreneline]

My qin shi huang pinterest mood board is just complete chaos lol

[nyoomfruits]

short little kid fic drabble for @mecachrome with single dad!lando and engineer!oscar, love you, hope you enjoy!!!!!

“Hey,” Lando says, when he wanders over to where Oscar’s sitting in front of the screens in the back of the garage. FP2 is officially over now, and he’s finished discussing some last minute set up changes with his mechanics, so he’s free to go now. His race suit has long been unzipped, and is dangling around it waist as he leans over Oscar’s shoulder. “How did it go?”

Evelyn, who is perched on Oscar’s lap and had been staring at the screens intently, perks up and turns around. “Dad! Oscar says you were the fastest, like woosh,” she points her fingers forward, determined expression on her face.

“Did he?” Lando says, making eye contact with Oscar over Evelyn’s head. Oscar smiles innocently at him. Lando had only gotten as high as P3.

“Yeah!” Evelyn continues enthusiastically. “He’s been showing me the telletries.”

Lando raises his eyebrow at Oscar. Oscar shrugs. “She asked,” he says.

Lando eyes him a little skeptically. “My five year old asked you to show her my telemetries,” he states.

Oscar shrugs. “Well technically she asked if you were the fastest ever, and so then obviously I had to prove her you were in fact, the fastest ever.”

“Obviously,” Lando says, trying not to let the smile on his face turn too fond. He had been very nervous, when he first started brining Evelyn to races, last year. But the team had taken to her like a charm, had taken her in as one of their own, and while there was a nanny to make sure she never got in the way of anyone’s work, none of the team minded entertaining her for short bits at a time.

Especially Oscar, the youngest performance engineer in McLaren’s history, always made sure to take time to explain things to Evelyn, whether it was aerodynamics, brake balance, or in this case, telemetry.

“Alright Eve,” Lando says, gesturing to Evelyn. “Time to say goodbye to Oscar, we’re going to get you those chicken nuggets I promised you, yeah?”

Evelyn’s face lights up, but then falls immediately when she glances at Oscar. “But…” She says, frowning. “I want… Can Oscar come?” She asks, face suddenly turning excited again as she turns back to Lando. “Yes! He was going to tell me more about the telletries, he can totally do that over dinner! Dad, please.”

She’s pulling the patented Norris Pleading Eyes, the ones people have told Lando time and time are impossible to say no to. He thought they were exaggerating, until he became a victim of them himself.

But he’s strong. He’s been here before. He can do this. “I don’t know, bug,” he says, ruffling her hair. “I’m sure Oscar has plans.”

Evelyn turns back to Oscar, eyes in full force, adding in a bonus pouty lip. “I’m free,” Oscar says, immediately, because the man has no fucking backbone, clearly.

And god. The thing is, the thing Lando’s never really told anyone is that Oscar is kind of… Cute. In his own soft, nerdy way. Lando doesn’t like to dwell on it much ecuase it’s not like he’s ever going anywhere with it, not when he has Evelyn and racing and not much time for anything else, but.

But sometimes, in these little unguarded moments, he indulges himself, daydreams about a life together. A life with Oscar. Dreams about sleepy early morning and quiet late nights and all of the joy and laughter in between.

Except that way madness lies. So he tucks it away in a box called ‘Have Yout Lost Your Mind Not In A Million Years’ and moves on.

But now, with the full force of Evelyn’s Norris Pleading Eyes back on him, Oscar’s own nervous, expectant, hesitant expression behind her, he can’t help but fold, nudge the box open just a tiny little bit.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, admits defeat. “Sure. Why not.”

[whatwooshkai]

YOU AND ME AND NOTHING AND EVERYTHING

DAY 5: OPTIMUS PRIME AND MEGATRON

Happy Valentine's Day!

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

I feel like more people should be talking about RTGame’s Minecraft series. Like, seriously. Amongst all the hustle and bustle of Hermitcraft and the angst of the QSMP and whatever else is going on, it’s really refreshing to just watch a man play Minecraft. No story, no lore, no end goal, just rediscovering a game he walked away from years ago.

It feels like watching your baby cousin play Minecraft for the first time, waiting for what Skizzleman calls The Click- the moment when you realize just how much potential this game has. We’ve all had that Click, but you’re excited to see what makes said metaphorical cousin really understand what Minecraft can do. It’s that experience, just with a 29 year old man who is so full of wonder and determination.

Also, it’s just really fucking funny? Like as much as it is a heartfelt and refreshing perspective on Minecraft, it’s also a series he’s running on Twitch, so he’s gotta crack jokes. And RT is very very very funny. Man has a level of audacity that just makes you laugh in shock. He laughs at danger. He works off of spite. His chat goes along with it, builds off his antics. He jokes about Minecraft Diamonds and refuses to be normal about it it’s great.

Anyways: watch RT’s Minecraft series, and while you’re at it, watch RTGame bc Yeah :3

[azsazz]

Might Bite Back

Vampire!Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Anon Reqs: "how do you think vamp az would react it he lost control of his blood thirst and accidentally hurt reader?" and "OMG a fic where Vamp!Az loses control and accidentally hurts reader and then he realises what hes done!! I LIVE for those fics, we need more vamp az!!!!!!!"

Warnings: Biting, blood, vampire things.

Word Count: 2,544

Notes: This belongs on the vampire Azriel timeline.

_________________________________________

Something startles you awake.

It isn’t a noise, it’s the lack thereof that startles you awake. 

There’s an eerie silence to the black consuming the room. You curse yourself for falling asleep when you’ve been so desperately aware of the fact that he lurks at night, watching, waiting.

Your body is rigid, heart stuttering loudly in your chest, and the only part of you that moves is your eyelids as you blink wearily, sleep still clinging to your body, your mind searching through a hundred scenarios, trying to pinpoint what is going on. 

This is different from the silence you’ve slowly become accustomed to, when you were taken in the dead of night by the undead. His fangs had gleamed in the moonlight and you’d screamed so loudly that the trees surrounding the secluded home shook. Crows cawed in warning, flocking from trees and night creatures startled from the woods. Your blood wooshed in your ears like the wind pulling your hair from your nape, carrying your sickly sweet scent to his parted, hungry lips.

Your heart pounds in your chest exactly like that night. When you had felt like nothing more than prey.

Turning your head slowly, as if the slightest movement might make the darkness snap, you look towards the door. The chair you’d stuffed beneath the knob is still in place, and though you know the flimsy construction of wood would not withstand an ounce of his force, it serves as a piece to make noise should it shift, in case you’ve fallen asleep, much like you had tonight.

You force your rampant heart to calm, ears straining over the waves of blood rushing through them as you listen for the silent entity sharing the home with you. You’ve picked up on the noises that you could, trained your ear to hear the signs of the vampire that has locked you in this gothic tower. The whisper of fabric on cold skin, since his silent steps are impossible to pick up. The shifting of the air in the rooms as he moves, growing colder with his menacing presence. The rustle of his wings when he stretches them in frustration. The shivers crawling up your spine whenever he’s near.

But right now, there’s nothing. 

“Azriel?” you ask into the darkness, and you sound nothing more than a terrified child. There are no monsters lying beneath your bed, waiting to snatch you up by your ankles. No, this monster roams the large home freely, sharp teeth on display so that you know exactly what he can do. The only time you’re even a smidge safe is when the sun blinds through curtains you force open daily, but even the sweltering rays are not here to help you now. You are petrified beyond all belief, despite the softer instances you’ve seen of the slightly unhinged vampire who’s trapped you in what you know will be your grave.

There is no answer to your call, but you don’t expect one. He’s a predator first and foremost, and he thrives off of the quickening pace of your heart, the sound of your blood rushing through your body, the shuddering of your bones as you tremble. You catch him sometimes, when you quiver before him, how he licks his lips, fangs pressing into the soft skin of his unfairly luscious lips.

Your mind is screaming at you not to move, not to get up and find out what’s awoken you and has you feeling this unease. Surely, Azriel cannot be in danger. He is the danger. 

No one has tried to breach your room, the chair hooked up against the door, and you wince at the scrape it makes when you pull it away and turn the knob.

The door gives easily, almost swooping in on a phantom wind. It’s not him. Your body is too accustomed to his presence by now. And the lack thereof a darkness that rattles you so deeply it makes your thighs clench, you know he is not near.

The hall is long and dark, freezing cold. So much so that you can see your breath puffing before your face. Azriel doesn’t understand that you need heat to survive in your inferior human body, and you won’t tell him. Maybe it will become so cold at night that you’ll fall into a peaceful slumber, each shallow breath icing over until your heart freezes in your chest. Then, you won’t be trapped anymore.

But there’s a part of you that’s driven down the hall, seeking him out. A part of you that you shove away when you wonder if he’s alright. A part of you that likes knowing that he’s there, watching you when you’re doing the most mundane things to keep yourself from getting bored to death in this hell. When you read in front of the window, or cook yourself something in the kitchen. When you put on a particularly expensive dress for what? For…for him.

Your footsteps are silent against the carpets but to him you know you sound as if you’re stomping around the corridor, making as much noise as possible. It’s normally your tactic during the days, wanting him to know your displeasure for this place. The thought of him being able to hear your soft steps, your hardly there breaths makes you quake in both fear and excitement, knowing how he always knows your location, and can seek you out no matter where you run.

“Azriel?” you call again, softly. It’s hardly a whisper at all, and there is no response.

Your fingers tremble where they’re pressed to the wall, following the darkened corridor. They brush over the frames of artwork curling at the edges, paint dusty and faded with time. You caress the wooden railing, following it down the staircase, ignoring the nagging in your mind that’s telling you to run.

A fire crackles in the hearth and you pause, confused. All this time Azriel has never kept a fire going, not even per your request with chattering teeth and bluish fingers. He doesn’t like them, and you don’t ask why. You don’t care why. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You don’t know what possesses you to move closer to it when the popping of logs is a clear warning sign.

Pausing on the last step, foot hovering before the floor, the hair at the nape of your neck prickles. It winds down your spine like an icy rope, settling into the very marrow of your bones. It doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right.

Before you can whirl around, race back up the staircase to your room, a voice sounds softly in your ear. “You smell impeccable, crow.”

You whirl, a scream tearing from your lips as you tumble from the stair. You catch yourself on frozen toes, staring up at Azriel with wide eyes, who is shrouded in shadow. He’s standing with preternatural stillness, spine tall. His wings are tucked tightly behind his back, and the talons stick high above his head like horns. 

“Azriel?” you ask, taking a step back. Two.

He doesn’t answer, he follows. Azriel takes one step forward for every one you move away, towards the sitting room with the fire. Orange light bathes him, and you can feel it roaring hot at your back.

As the firelight washes over his stoic face, your stomach roils in horror. This is not the Azriel who had stolen you away, who had given you dresses and your own space, who tried to make you feel less like you were robbed of your former life and more like this had been a choice.

But none of it has been a choice. And you are reminded just what he is capable of at the sight of red-rimmed eyes, the lack of color, the baring of sharp fangs that call your name. 

Bloodlust.

His pupils have swallowed the stroke of hazel completely. You watch as his fingers curl and his nostrils flare when your heart triples in pace. His unfocused gaze sharpens on the column of your throat where your pulse pushes through your skin. 

“Please,” you beg, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. Azriel is no longer there, instead, the very beast that lurks inside of him has taken control and is thirsty for blood.

Azriel lunges and you scream, pivoting on your heel. If you can make it to the iron poker by the fire you may be able to slow him down, stun him as you claw at the front door to try and get away. It’s no ashwood, which would kill the vampire who is much too fast for you to even take a step, grabbing you and pulling you back into his chest.

You thrash, screaming, but your efforts are futile. No one can hear you in the depths of these woods. Your strength is no match for him.

Azriel must be in there somewhere, as he is not crushing your body into dust. No, he wants you otherwise unharmed except for holes in your neck. That, he doesn’t mind seeing, tasting. It’s exactly what he’s taken you for, isn’t it? Just when you’d begun thinking that he might not be as bad as the stories you were told when you were young, tales of bloodthirsty creatures who would tear your throat out to taste your pretty blood.

Now is your time.

His grip is strong around your wrists. You kick back with your leg but can hardly reach him. He is immune to your weak hits. You can feel him leaning over you, closer and closer until his fangs are a whisper against your skin, a tease pinpricking right over your thrumming pulse.

“Devine,” he whispers, and the sensuality of it rips through your body like a lance. As you part your lips to exhale another beg, he bites. You scream.

You tremble in his iron hold. His fingers feel like icepicks as they dig into your flesh. Your scream melts into something long as heat courses through your body, the adrenaline and sting of his teeth burning you to your core. It feels…good. 

It feels like you’re walking on flames, yet they aren’t burning you. They’re caressing you in the best way, holding you, cradling you like a babe. For the first time since you’ve arrived at this horrible place, you feel warm. Like Azriel is embracing you, and he is, because you’ve stopped fighting. His hands are around your waist, holding you tightly, and yours are buried in his thick hair. Heat courses through your bones, pooling between your thighs. Your mind whirls with pleasure as he suckles, the hot press of his tongue lapping your skin, mirrored in the pulse of your throbbing clit.

You relish in the feeling. His body pressed tightly to yours, the strain of his cock through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You can feel the way his muscles loosen the longer he leeches from your neck. 

And you enjoy it until you become woozy, when the euphoria seeps from your blood back into his mouth. When his grip feels like each individual finger is imprinted on your bones. Your neck throbs painfully, and your vision is blackening with shadows in the corners. Your head lolls a little, unable to keep it up.

“Azriel,” you choke, but it’s hard to get your lips to form the words. It’s difficult to do anything except lean into him, to let him take his fill. But you have to try, because this is not how you want it all to end. “You’re…” you huff a painful exhale, “You’re hurting me.”

He goes still, bones popping with the effort. His hold on your falters and you sway, and as badly as he wants to pull away, to run and hide in a whisper of darkness, he catches you, because he’s harmed you and the bloodlust has been wiped away by your words alone. Words he swore he’d never pull from you. Words that will haunt him for centuries.

You’re hurting me.

His vision clears, goes sharp, staring right at the two holes in your neck, thick, red blood still dribbling from the punctures. The beast in him rages to lean down and lick you, keep sucking at the marks until your already slowing heart stops completely. He wants to feel the last beat of your heart beneath his hands, his lips, but he forces himself to do the one thing he hadn’t been able to do tonight: focus.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in horror, when his mind catches up to what he’s looking at. You, looking so broken and fragile in his arms, pale. Your head rests against his chest, eyes fluttering with the strain to keep them open. Your mouth parts but no words come out. 

Azriel wants so badly to drop you, to get away from you, because he’s so stupidly allowed his bloodlust to consume him. He selfishly thought that he would be okay for a few more days, that he wouldn’t have to hunt in the aftermath of a brutal storm because all of the animals would be hidden away. He’s been stupid to think that, and the worst has happened.

He shoves the couch closer to the fire with a shove of his boot. The logs pop and he winces, hating the sound. He’d started the fire as a way to lure you down, the warmth calling to you. It was as much of a present for you as it was a distraction for him. A warning he was giving himself, not to enter the room with the fire roaring in the hearth. He hates the way the flames taunt him. You hadn’t made it to the room before your scent had stuck in his throat and his beast caught a whiff. 

Your body looks frail when he sits you down. Your eyes have closed and your lips have lost color. Azriel knows that if his heart was capable of pulsing, it would be a pounding drum in his chest, beating with worry. He races to your rooms, ripping your blankets from your mattress and is back by your side in a matter of seconds. He tucks you in tight, worrying over you as if you are a sick babe. But you’re not, you’re a pretty little thing that he’d taken in the dead of night for his own selfish reasons. For company, for your heart. But never for your blood. 

This is not how any of this was supposed to go.

Azriel’s mind races with thought. The wounds on your neck have stopped leaking, and they’ll close up quicker if he just licks over it one more time but he can’t force himself, not when he’d violated you like this, hurt you. He needs to leave. He needs to get as far away from you as he can. 

The lethargic beating of your heart tells him that you’re going to be okay. You will be wobbly for a few days, throat in pain, but you’ll live. He didn’t go too far tonight. He didn’t drink you dry.

So Azriel does the only thing that he can. The only thing that he’s ever been good at. 

He leaves.

[wooshofficial]

Every time I go onto AO3 to read something the more I realize just how high quality the fics for blaseball were

[ashmouthbooks]

Empty Graves by @unpretty and Empty Spaces (waves and particles) by kathkin

I participated in @renegadepublishing’s tiny book bang last year, and as participant I got access to all the typesets from the event. I saved the ones I thought I’d want to do, and yesterday I looked through that folder, spotted two fics with the word ‘empty’ in the title and thought “oh neat, i know and like these fics, and I can make matching-but-not-same binds for them”. I was delighted to re-discover that they were typeset by the same person, @little-cat-press, so I went ahead with the matchy idea.

Empty Graves is a Superman fic from the POV of Martha Kent, and just so happens to be one of my faves in unpretty’s sprawling series. I chose the marbled cover paper because it evokes stars and galaxies and space for me. The fic is very contained, localised - the Kent farm - but high stakes; Martha will protect her son from the universe if she has to (and she does), because her family is her universe. I liked the idea of wrapping this small-but-big fic in something that resembles the vastness of space. The spine is green to match the hints of green colour on the otherwise dark marble.

Empty Spaces is a Back to the Future fic from Doc Brown’s POV, and featuring transmasc Marty McFly. The Back to the Future movies are foundational to me, and this fic is simply wonderful, highlighting the unique friendship between Marty and Doc. For this I knew I wanted something that evokes time travel, and wound up with this section of a larger marbled pattern that resembles the sci-fi woosh of time (and space) travel. This spine is blue to match the hint of blue visible alongside the green.

Both marbled papers are from Jemma Lewis Marbling & Design. The insides are printed on 90gsm Munken Pure Smooth Cream. These are self-ended, so no endpapers. The bookcloth is sourced from Ratchford but I don’t know which brand it is.

These are A8 sized (printed on A4) - I believe the typesets are intended for letter sized paper, but as I’m not in the US A-series it is. This prints fine on A4. The margins to the sides are slightly wider than originally intended, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue here.