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retrievablememories · 3 years

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picture me | johnny (m)

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was when you figured he must be a vampire.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s that guy you keep staring at?”

You cough. “No one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. The mirror.

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

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

“Come on. We shouldn’t stay here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s there when you arrive, of course.

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

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

“Did you come back for this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, just different things here and there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you still didn’t get his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I...think I’ll stay, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The movies are fun.” You trace your finger across the table’s surface, thinking of your own favorite spots. “Me and my friends like to go downtown. There are a lot of cute little shops down there…”

You and Johnny talk for a while longer, and you almost forget you have to get back to campus until you glance at the wall clock. “Oh no, I’m gonna be late.” Flustered, you jump out of your seat and crumple your empty cup. “Sorry to cut it short, Johnny, but I gotta go back now.”

He smiles good-naturedly and nods, his dark bangs sweeping his face. “I understand.” As he watches you gather your things and get ready to go, he speaks up again. “Actually, if you want to see the park at sunset sometime...I could show you? It’s up to you.”

You pause, suddenly curious at the thought of seeing him outside the café. In the back of your mind, you feel a little paranoid and afraid of your friend or maybe even your parents seeing you there with him, though the latter is extremely unlikely. It’s hard to shake that familiar fear of judgment and ostracism when it’s been ingrained in you since childhood. “That sounds good. If it’s not any trouble for you…?”

“Never too much trouble. I usually get off around 4 on Fridays, just before the sun sets at 5. Unless the weekend is better for you?”

You nod, holding your books tighter to your chest. “Friday will work for me! I’ll meet up with you then.”

Johnny smiles. “Great; I’ll see you then, kind stranger.”

Maybe he says it to be joking or quirky, to sound like one of those characters in a movie or drama, but it makes you smile. Nodding to him again, you step out of the café and rush towards the direction of your school. Johnny watches as you retreat, your roles reversed.

You meet up with Johnny at the park that Friday, just as you both agreed. You spot him sitting on a bench near the park entrance, waiting on your arrival.

Johnny’s wardrobe is still mostly dark, but it’s a little lighter than usual today. He’s changed things up with a white polo shirt underneath his black sweater. Seeing him dressed like this, you wonder what he’d be like as a student, or maybe even a university professor.

He stands up when you get closer, hearing the sound of your footsteps approaching and turning towards you. His camera sits safely around his neck, the lens catching in the light of the sun.

When you stop in front of him, he smiles at you warmly. You try to relax into the genuineness of that smile and ignore the still-lingering traces of anxiety about being out with him. “Hi, Johnny!”

“Hi, Y/N.”

You and Johnny walk around the park as he looks for something interesting to shoot. He snaps a few shots of the trees, fallen leaves, bushes, and other natural elements along the way, though it seems like he hasn’t quite captured what he wants yet.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you ask, peering at his camera as he holds it in his hands.

“There’s an aster bush around here,” he responds. “It hadn’t fully bloomed yet the last time I was here, but it should be open by now.”

It turns out he’s right as you two finally come up on the bush. Its blooms make bright purple smudges against the rest of the landscape, which is a monochrome red-and-orange palette from the leaves changing their hues. You watch as he comes up to the bush carefully and quietly, like it’s a small animal he’s afraid to scare away. Johnny is very attentive while taking pictures of it, always conscious of getting the correct lighting and securing the exact angles he wants to capture. “Compassionate” is not a word you’d usually associate with the act of taking photos, but that’s the only word you can currently think of to describe this display. He treats the flowers with a peculiar sense of respect, as if they’re a human subject.

After he’s gotten the images he wants, Johnny offers you his camera to take a few of your own. You’re anxious about holding his prized possession and are afraid you’ll find a way to mess something up, but he promises you it’s fine. You take a few shots of the sky, still with a few wisps of clouds left, and a nearby tree that’s almost stripped bare of leaves. You know the shots will probably end up blurry from your unsteady hands, but Johnny tells you you’ve done a good job anyway.

Something about getting his approval makes a pleasant warmth settle in your chest.

As you both walk down a long trail, you finally ask him, “Sorry if this is invasive, but I was wondering how old are you? Like...as a vampire.” Your voice becomes hesitant on the word vampire, even though you’re the only two in this part of the park.

He chuckles a bit. “I’m 85.” You try not to look surprised. “I’ve been turned for 60 years. Old, but probably a little younger than most vampires you’d think of.”

“Kinda,” you say quietly. “They’re always like 2,000 years old in movies.”

“The ancient vampires are purebloods. They keep to themselves and avoid mingling with turned vampires, let alone humans. Some people are even skeptical if they exist. Supposedly, they use humans as servants or blood banks.” He gives you an apologetic look after saying this, though you don’t really know why. You don’t get the feeling he’d do that to another being, but he is still mostly a stranger... “At least, that’s what my mentor told me.”

Your curiosity is roused at all this new knowledge. “You had a mentor?”

“An older woman. She was also a turned vampire.”

“Turned, huh…”

Johnny nods, toeing at a small pile of leaves on the ground. “She went away eventually, said people are meant to pass in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t think she ever had intentions to stay. But I enjoyed her company while she was there.” Johnny stops at a short bridge above a small manmade lake, and you both look down into the water.

You place your arms on the bridge railing so you can lean over more. You notice he doesn’t have a reflection in the water, and this startles you more than you expected. Before meeting this strange man, you’d never thought much before about why vampires don’t have mirror reflections, but it seems even more unnatural to see this phenomenon happen again in the lake.

You find yourself looking at the side of Johnny’s face, trying to read his expression as he peers into the water’s depths. He turns to you, and you flinch at being caught staring, but he only smiles slightly. You force yourself to form words and break the silence. “What—what did you do after she left?”

“Lived on my own. She taught me a lot of things to help me live independently as a vampire, so it wasn’t too difficult to get along without her...but emotionally? A different story.”

“You sound like you had a very close relationship with her.”

“Yes. Quite close…” Johnny’s tone suggests something deeper, more intimate than a regular friendship. You feel a bit astounded at the idea of him having an older, more worldly lover while being only a newly changed vampire. Your reaction makes you feel foolish, inexperienced. Still, you can’t help imagining a scenario of them living in a big, dark mansion somewhere in the mountains, rolling around in a bed with bloody red sheets—and maybe drinking from the occasional naïve, misled human hiker.

Strangely, too, you feel jealous at his freedom, his ability to go wherever and do whatever with whoever he wants without overbearing relatives always just a step away.

You continue staring at the ripples as they circle in and out of the water’s surface, the motions triggered by a small orange leaf falling into the lake. You’re unsure of what could be the right thing to say to his admission, so you blurt out whatever comes to mind next. “You said she taught you to live independently as a vampire. What does that mean? How do you get...you know. Blood?”

“There are ways,” Johnny says cryptically, which makes your own blood rush faster. He turns to you with a grin, like he finds your naivety endearing. “It’s nothing drastic, though. At least, not for me. I never drink directly.” It does make sense that there are other ways to drink human blood without taking it straight from their necks, though you can only speculate on which methods he prefers. “Drinking directly is lethal, and often not worth it.”

“So, it’s true that vampire bites can kill?” You watch as Johnny pushes himself off the railing, and you follow him as he continues down the trail.

“It’s not false. But it’s never really that simple.” Johnny’s answer is mysterious, and he doesn’t elaborate further. He turns to you. “Where did you hear that, anyway? Your university? The one that bans all nonhuman beings?”

“You know where I go to school?” You feel embarrassed, thinking he must assume you’re like the rest of the student body who hates nonhumans but still nurtures an odd obsession with them.

“I saw it on your notebook one day, the school insignia. I’m not a stalker, by the way.” You laugh only slightly, and Johnny seems crestfallen when he notices your apprehension. “I don’t care if you attend school there. Just because you do doesn’t mean you think the way they do.”

“You must think I’m some weird opportunist, then,” you mutter, heat finding its way to your face. “Asking you all these questions...I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think anything except that you’re a pleasant person to be around.”

You’re quiet for a moment, letting the compliment sink in. You think you should probably give him one of his own, but before you can, he says, “Look. The sun’s already setting.” Just like he told you before, the dying rays filter through the tree leaves and create impossibly intricate patterns on your surroundings. You hold your hand out and watch the latticework that the leaves create dance over your open palm.

You let Johnny take a picture of your hand with the tree shadows flitting over it, but you shy away from the camera’s lens when he points it higher to your face, a questioning look in his eyes. “Maybe some other day.”

You walk around for a while longer until the sky bleeds into a dark purple. “I guess I should be going soon. It’s getting late,” you say, though you’re also a bit sad over your evening with Johnny meeting its end.

“Do you want me to take you back to campus? You shouldn’t walk back alone. My car is just in the parking lot there.” He points to it where it sits in the distance.

You look at Johnny with a confused gaze. “But you can’t come on campus. They have...things to ward off vampires.” Like gates made of pure silver, displaying intimidating, elaborately designed crosses. You don’t know if any of it actually works, but it’s probably better not to find out.

Johnny doesn’t seem bothered by this information. “Yeah…I know. I can just drop you at the street across from the main gate.”

You hesitate a moment longer but eventually agree. He is right; you’d rather not walk alone at night, and getting a ride with him is better—and cheaper—than calling for a rideshare.

The ride to the college is fairly quiet, with the radio filling the silence. It’s not an awkward type of stillness, at least, which you’re grateful for.

As he said he would, Johnny parks on the side of the street that sits in front of the main gate, just outside the immediate vicinity of the campus. The metal crosses stare back at the both of you, glinting in the light of nearby streetlamps. You turn your face away from them, biting the inside of your cheek.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride. I guess I’ll see you back at the shop next week, yeah?” Again, you get the urge to say something, anything, to remedy or cover up the foreboding source of discomfort sitting just in front of you, but there’s no one sentence you could say to wipe away decades of hatred.

Johnny nods and smiles, and still he shows no signs of being disturbed. He doesn’t cast another glance at the gates. “It’s no problem. See you then.”

You get out of his car and cross the street to get inside the gate; it’s early enough in the evening for it to still be open. Any later, and it’d be locked shut to even humans. You risk another wave at him before turning back around and heading for your dorm, which sits a few yards from the entrance. Johnny lets the car idle on the side of the street until you’ve walked into the dorm, and only then does he drive away.

It doesn’t take very long for you to warm up to Johnny inviting you to other places. The next time you and him go somewhere other than the coffee shop, you accompany him as he buys some film for his camera on one of his free days. You don’t know a ton about photography, so you’re more than happy to let him tell you all about how film works and why he buys certain kinds over others.

The place he frequents is a specialty photography shop that still carries older varieties of film—ones that fell out of favor once digital cameras became a thing. The store looks noticeably old, but not in an unkempt or decrepit way. You can tell it’s been around for a while, holding all kinds of history in its structure.

“There are so many different types.” You look over a shelf of film rolls in awe. “How can you tell them all apart?”

Johnny laughs. “It gets easier if you’ve been doing it for a while…or a few decades.” He picks one up from a row of them and holds it in front of you. “35mm is the most common type, which is what you’ll find the most of when you look through any film shop. That’s what I use.”

He sets that one down and walks past another display of film rolls, gesturing toward them. “There’s also 120 and 220 film formats here…those work for even older cameras, sorta like ones you’d see in 1930s movies. You can even turn a film camera into a digital camera.”

You nod to his words, looking over what seems like millions of film canisters—and occasionally glancing at the lines of his broad back as he walks ahead of you. “You should teach a photography class. I’d be more willing to listen to you than some old professor.”

Johnny snickers. “Huh, I don’t know. Not a professor, but I am old.”

You both continue walking through the store, with Johnny giving you the rundown on every item that catches your interest.

Like the coffee shop, there’s another mirror in this store. Many more, actually—there are whole rows of them on a series of shelves, all in varying sizes and shapes. They create a fragmented view of your form as you stand in front of them, though you don’t initially realize you’ve crossed into their glassy line of sight. You’re busier with looking at a roll of film Johnny’s handed you. When you notice your reflection shifting in your peripheral view, you look up.

Johnny’s only a few feet behind you, and you know this because you can hear him and feel his presence. Yet, it’s strange to see yourself as the only person in the aisle.

Eventually, he notices what’s got you preoccupied and comes to stand next to you. Though you see him clearly in front of your eyes, there’s no trace of him in the glass reflections.

Suddenly, you’re hit with the aching loneliness of it—how it must feel to never see yourself. You can see him with your own eyes, and so can everyone else who encounters him, but what must it be like to be virtually invisible outside of other peoples’ perceptions of you? You almost feel utterly alone even though you know he’s beside you.

Noticing your sudden melancholy, Johnny takes the film roll from your hand and tosses it up in the air, making it look like it’s moving on its own in the mirrors. He means to lighten the mood, if only to see the cloudiness disappear from your expression. It works to a degree, though you still feel downcast deep below.

“It’s not good to dwell on it.” Johnny presses the film roll back into your hand, still carefully avoiding skin contact. He has no problem meeting your eyes, though, and you shyly look away from his dark gaze after a few prolonged moments.

“You’re right,” you say softly, turning back to the aisle and away from the rows of mirrors.

—

You and Johnny head to the coffee shop after your trip to the photography store. Once you get your drinks and sit down in your usual spot, he speaks suddenly. “Something’s wrong.”

Your eyes dart around the shop, thinking he’s referring to one of the patrons around you. “What? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out a bit panicked. He doesn’t want to laugh, but he does.

“No, I mean...something’s wrong with you. You seem far away.”

“Oh…” You wonder if you should even bring it up and potentially ruin the mood. But you have been curious for weeks now, and you don’t think you’ll get a trustworthy answer by asking anyone other than him. “I just...I was wondering why you don’t have a reflection. I know it’s a vampire thing, but I’ve never really known why...you don’t need to answer, though. Like you said, it’s not good to dwell on it.”

Johnny makes a motion like a half-nod once your question is revealed, his eyes darting to the window and back to the table. His fingers trace across the rim of his coffee cup, a thoughtful but stormy expression on his face, and you’re afraid you shouldn’t have reawakened this topic. “You know...being undead means being in two places at once.”

“Two places?”

“We are caught between the living world and the world of the dead. Something that’s not really supposed to exist, yet…” He’s quiet for a moment. “You can only imagine the kind of issues and side effects that can cause. One of them being no reflection.”

“I never thought of it like that,” you say. “Two planes of existence...what does it mean to be a part of the world of the dead?”

“Our blood runs slower. Ours is more like sludge compared to yours. The heart beats only a few times per minute. Don’t need to eat or sleep, either, though many vampires still do.” Johnny pauses. “How much do you really know about vampires?”

“I don’t know much about any of this...stuff.” You gesture vaguely, meaning all supernatural beings and not just vampires. “No one ever told me these things growing up, and it’s hard to tell truth from fiction at school. People will say anything, horrible things, and you just take it at face value, I guess. I never really thought to try to find the reality.” You sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything.”

“Learning is good. You can always learn. I don’t think it’s too late for that.” Johnny’s voice is a little lighter. “Anyway, everyone’s knowledge is different. Sometimes it slips my mind that everyone doesn’t know what it’s like to live as a vampire, though the world never lets me forget for long.”

“Then…do you hang out with other vampires who do understand? Or…maybe humans who can sympathize?”

Johnny gives a humorless laugh. “Most humans are hesitant to interact with us, if not full-out terrified or disgusted. At the museum...it’s less pronounced because all the employees already know. They…tolerate it. But every time someone else realizes what I am and doesn’t take well to it?” He shakes his head, acts like he’ll say something else, and then abandons that line of thought. “And do you really think I’d want to spend my free time around other bloodsuckers?” He tries to play it off as a joke, but you’re more inclined to think he actually feels that way. You can only nod, feeling bad for him but also a little disturbed by his view of his own kind.

“I think you’re a kind person, and you being a vampire doesn’t affect that,” you say hesitantly. “I like talking to you. And even if you feel that way about other vampires, I…wish you wouldn’t feel that about yourself.”

Johnny remains quiet, but he nods. You wonder about the struggle occurring in his mind. The only outward hint of his uneasy state shows in the furrow of his eyebrows and the tense set of his mouth. With his right hand resting on the table, he rubs his fingers together absentmindedly, like he’s analyzing your words. You have a sudden and startling desire to hold his hand, to twine your fingers together and feel his skin on yours for the first time, but you don’t dare cross that boundary.

He finally replies with, “You’re much kinder to me, an old and bitter vampire, than you probably should be. But maybe that’s a good thing about you.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” you agree, your voice low. “Every living being needs companionship. Good companionship, anyway.”

The corners of Johnny’s lips shift in something reminiscent of a smile. He turns a rueful gaze once again to the window, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “Aren’t I lucky to have yours, then.”

On a day when you don’t have as many responsibilities to juggle, you visit Johnny at the art museum after his working hours are up. He’d already invited you to come to the museum any day you felt like so he could show you around.

When you get there, he’s waiting in the visitor’s lobby for you, framed by receding sunlight as the day starts fading into night. He looks the same as he always does when you see him in the café on his lunch breaks, but within the context of the museum, he suddenly seems more…alive? Vibrant? He could’ve served as a muse for one of the many statuesque, perfectly proportional sculptures in the museum, and you’d never know anything different.

Your heartbeat increases at the sight of him, just enough to be outside the normal range.

“Hi, Johnny. I hope your day went well?”

“It was fine, nothing too crazy. But it’s better now.” And he smiles at you, sincere enough to make your heart ache.

“Oh—that’s great.” That’s it? You scold yourself internally, but you aren’t quick enough to think up a witty reply to his comment before the topic shifts.

“Is there anything in particular you wanna see first?” Johnny asks, leading you further into the museum.

“I guess I hadn’t thought too deeply about that…do you have a favorite exhibit? I want to see what you like.”

Johnny smiles faintly. “Let’s see, then.”

The dark-haired man takes you to a section of the museum filled with oil paintings, all by one singular artist. At first, all you see is varying shades of black and gray and red, with some white splashed in between. When you begin looking at the paintings more closely, it’s easier to see that each one depicts a different scene of chaos. Maybe a sort of organized chaos, but disarray all the same.

There is one picture that holds a clearer subject than the rest. One of the oil paintings is of a vampire—obvious by the fangs—with bloodied lips and anguished eyes. You pause when you catch sight of it, your steps stilled by the sheer frenzy in the other being’s painted eyes. Their hands reach out for the viewer as if begging for an escape that can only be provided by whoever’s observing.

“This one was painted by a fellow vampire, you know. The same one who did all the rest of the paintings in this gallery,” Johnny explains. He points at the placard next to the painting that displays the artist’s name and a short description of the piece. The word fellow comes off his tongue wrapped in cynicism. “And it was one of the ones I personally chose for this exhibit.”

You glance at him, a tinge of surprise blooming in your chest. “Really?”

He nods. “Who better to depict the ills of vampirism than a vampire themselves? I thought it was a…fascinating change of pace from all the humans who try and fail to do so, ironic as that is.”

If you look at the painting for long enough, you think you can recognize sadness in the corners of the vampire’s eyes—pure, unadulterated sadness. Different from anguish or panic. A similar mask of sadness you’ve seen on the man next to you.

You say nothing for a while. You simply feel the painful throb of your heart in your chest and listen to the small sounds around you. Even now, there are still other people exploring the museum and walking through this very exhibit, but you can’t hear or see any of them. Johnny notices the disconcerted look on your face, and his forehead creases. “But I’m sure you want to see something less…morbid than this, right? Come on.”

“Uh, I-I don’t mind,” you insist, even though you feel like you’ve just awoken from a painful trance by the sound of his voice. But he’s already gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

The next set of paintings you end up in front of are a series of sunflower studies. One frame depicts the long green stems; another provides an up-close view of their lined petals. One zooms in close on the flower’s brown center, only small glimpses of yellow left at the edges of the frame.

“This is definitely very different.” You look at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “But it fits you. I see why you like it.” You remember him back in the park, taking careful pictures of the aster bush and of your hands…and then offering to take one of you. You don’t know why that last one makes your stomach jump.

“I thought you might like it.” Johnny’s eyes linger on your face as he observes your reaction to the paintings. He’s seen these flowers probably a hundred times by now in this permanent exhibit, but the wonder in your expression is new to him.

—

You both walk through a few more exhibitions after that, all with different subjects and mediums—some consist of sculptures, others are clay vases and figures. There’s still a lot to see in the museum, but you’re starting to get hungry, and you know Johnny has already heard your stomach growling.

After the 2nd time it happens and you think you might melt from embarrassment, he grins at you and makes a suggestion. “Let’s go to my office. I’ll get my things and we can eat. The restaurant here is pretty good—or at least that’s what everyone else says…”

When you get to his office, you feel almost like you’ve stepped into a room from years past. Your gaze drifts across his desk immediately; it’s not sleek and modern like you’d expect, considering the rest of the museum’s aesthetic, but wooden and heavy and vintage-looking. It’s olden quality resembles everything else in his personal space. Even his desk chair, a big and plush thing, feels vintage with its soft leather and rustic design.

This feeling is far from a bad thing, though. You enjoy the aged look of the bookcases, the picture frames, the chairs, the small decorations here and there—everything about this room.

Johnny notices how you look around, studying everything in sight, and smiles. “It’s not the most modern, but I like it.”

“It’s perfect. Like a world of its own.”

“A woman of taste, I see.” Johnny puts a hand over his heart, giving an expression like he’s truly touched, and you can only grin sheepishly. When he has his belongings, he leads you out and locks the door behind him.

“Let’s see what they have on the menu today, then.”

—

You get dinner at the museum’s restaurant, just as Johnny recommended, and he even decides to eat too. Maybe he does it so you won’t look odd being the only one eating, or because he really just wants to; he doesn’t let on. Either way, sitting across from him like this in a fancy restaurant with both of you having a nice meal feels almost like a date. You let that thought amble around for a few minutes longer before tucking it back into one of your mind’s many small niches.

“I’ll probably be digesting this for the next few weeks,” he says jokingly, pulling a mock-disappointed face at his plate.

“That sounds like the worst constipation in history.” He snorts at your comment, his eyes creasing as he laughs. You notice he has a dimple when he smiles, and your grin mirrors his. You don’t think you’ve seen him laugh quite so genuinely before, but now that you’ve experienced it, you want to hear it again and again.

Anything is preferable to the perpetual gloom, always slinking around the corner.

—

When Johnny gets back home after dropping you off at the university, he undresses himself and showers and pulls on his bedclothes, which are nothing more than his underwear and a pair of sweatpants. His upper canines ache in his gums the entire time he goes through these motions, like two pulses of red-hot heat positioned on either side of his mouth.

He takes a blood bag from the fridge and drinks it in bed, leaning his arms against his knees. A sudden remembrance manifests itself in his mind; he hears the hazy echo of his mother’s decades-past voice in his head, reprimanding him for eating in bed. A sharp pain grips his chest, and he tries to send it back to the depths where it belongs.

When the blood hits his stomach, the pain is eclipsed by the bloodlust, which is no better. His fangs drop immediately, spiking into his lower lip. Johnny closes his eyes and, very gingerly, allows himself to draw a picture of you in his mind, of your blood in his mouth and your heartbeat roaring in his ears. The way your blood would flow out so delicately, crashing into his tastebuds like the high tide. He is usually better than this at curtailing his bloodlust, not even letting it reach the point of his canines hurting—he can’t remember the last time that’s happened—but being around you sets him on edge. Awakens him in some strange, raw way.

That only makes him more wary. And more guilty about imagining himself drinking your blood. He shouldn’t even be around you if he’s losing his grip on his hard-won control. But although it makes him feel ashamed, it also causes his heart to rush.

He drains the blood bag to the last possible drop. To his relief, it calms him significantly, though the thoughts of you don’t leave. More innocent ones now, of your outing earlier in the evening. Deep beneath, they are tinged with his ever-present guilt at his vampiric nature.

Johnny doesn’t need the sleep, but he drifts off anyway, if only to quiet the conflict sending daggers into his mind.

You’ve known Johnny for a few weeks now, not counting the time you spent silently staring at him in the café, but you find yourself intertwining yourself further into his life. You end up visiting his apartment sooner than you anticipated. You didn’t think of anything as ridiculous as him living in a coffin or sleeping in the rafters like a bat, but you also had a hard time imagining what his place might look like.

You come over on a weekend when you have more time to simply hang out and not worry so much about anything else.

Like usual, he waits in that spot on the side of the street for you to come out. In the daytime, you’re more apprehensive about him being here and someone potentially seeing him and trying to cause trouble for him, but there’s a part of you that likes the rebellious aspect of it. And if he truly doesn’t mind coming near the campus to pick you up, you don’t have much issue with him doing it.

Johnny’s apartment is clean—and a little sparser than you’d expected. Maybe he’s a fan of minimalism. One side of the wall is taken up by a wide bookcase, which features a bunch of different knickknacks, books, and a collection of larger hardcovers that look like photo albums. On the other walls are a few framed pictures of different scenes, and you assume they’re ones he must’ve taken.

“This is a nice place,” you say as he takes your jacket for you and puts it up. “It must cost quite a bit, too…” You sit down on the couch, stroking the soft material of it.

Johnny shrugs. “Thanks. It’s nothing I can’t handle...being nearly a century old gives you plenty of time to save money.” He appears charmingly self-satisfied when he’s able to make you laugh. “Do you want anything?”

“Water is fine…thank you.” Johnny nods and goes off to the kitchen.

Despite trying to keep your eyes on the wall photos, your gaze follows him as he leaves. You discreetly watch him move around his kitchen. With his dark clothes, he’s like a splash of black paint against the pale tile and stainless steel.

There are blood packs in Johnny’s fridge. Lots of them. You know because you saw them from your vantage point on the couch when he opened the fridge door. They look like the blood bags you’d see in a hospital, which makes you wonder how he even gets access to those. Another mystery you struggle to wrap your head around.

He comes back to the living room with your water, and you take it gratefully, though you also feel a little awkward. You think maybe the blood bags are something you shouldn’t have seen, although you know he probably would’ve made more effort to hide them or put them away if that were the case.

“You have a good supply of blood, a nice apartment, and a great job. Does every vampire get these kinds of perks?” Admittedly, it sounded better in your head. Your attempt to stave off the awkward feeling—which was really only coming from your end—only makes it more intense. Johnny laughs dryly in response. You can’t tell if he actually finds it amusing or is just trying to humor you, which makes you feel incredibly silly.

“All of it’s government-issued if you promise never to bite any humans.” Johnny gives a wry smile. “But it’s a mistake to think vampires live glamorous lives, filling up on blood and having no cares in the world.”

“N-no, I get it,” you stutter. “Bad joke.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you or be mean. It’s just the way things are.” Your roles are suddenly reversed, and now he seems to feel some sort of sympathy for you, like you’re just an ignorant little human who doesn’t know any better. The last part of that is more your insecurities speaking out than anything else, but you try to ignore that and take him for his word.

Johnny gets up from the couch to go over to the bookcase as you sip your water. After looking through the photo albums intently, he takes one off the shelf and hands it to you. You set your water down and hold the album carefully as you open the front cover. The cover itself has a neat little label that reads Telluride 1976 - 1980, so you can already expect what you’ll find in it. There are numerous photos of trees, bushes, snowy mountain ranges, lakes, brilliantly vibrant flowers, and woodland creatures. You stop at a picture of a deer looking straight ahead, its black eyes wide and curious as it examines the lens.

“I lived in the mountains back then, a little after my mentor had left. I spent some time trying to reconnect with nature...and all that other hippie shit people used to do back in that era.”

You chuckle. “Did you wear the same kinds of clothes, too? Bell bottoms and tie-dye T-shirts and all?”

Johnny laughs and shrugs. “Maybe…but that’s only for me to know.”

You grin and look at the photos again. “Well…did your plan work, at least?”

Johnny gives a wistful smile. “In some ways, I think it did.”

You continue looking through the rest of the album, which you could probably do for hours if you had the time—just sit and trace every possible line, curve, and ray of light. Johnny sits beside you as you do, occasionally explaining some pictures and their backstories.

“Lately, I’ve been wanting something else to take pictures of...someone else, maybe.”

“What, like a subject?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’d be nice...I haven’t taken pictures of another person in a while.”

You nod quietly as you flip through the pages—another possible hint flying right over your head. Then a thought comes to you—one that makes your skin warm. “Have you ever taken pictures of anyone you were...involved with?” You don’t say it directly, but you hope he can get the gist of what you’re asking.

Johnny nods as if he doesn’t want to admit to it, a nervous smile gracing his lips. “A few different people…but I always gave them the pictures after we, you know, stopped seeing each other...so there’s none left here.”

“I see…” For a few moments, your thoughts circle around that concept. What was it like to bare yourself in front of someone else like that, immortalized on film? What might it be like to allow Johnny to see you like that, to take pictures of you in your most vulnerable form? The idea doesn’t make you as downright anxious as you expected it to, though you can’t completely shake the lingering embarrassment about it.

After you finish looking through the entirety of his Telluride adventures, Johnny shows you some recent pictures he’s developed, and you’re giddy to see your own blurry creations among them. Now that you’re holding them physically in your hands, you can agree that they look nice, each with its own little personality.

“I thought about putting them in a new photo album,” he says, “but you can keep them, if you prefer.”

You hold them to your chest. “Yes, I’d like to keep them. Thank you.” You smile. “I’m sure I’ll leave you with plenty other photos to put in your album, anyway.”

—

The sun is close to setting again. You aren’t ready to leave yet, though, and Johnny is content to let you stay longer. He pulls out another album for you to look at, this one dated with 1960 - 1964. Unlike the others, there’s no title to describe what’s in it except for that year range.

“This is a picture of me someone took before I was turned,” Johnny murmurs, sitting back down beside you. He turns the album to you, and in the middle of the first page is a sepia-toned photo of him sitting on a bed—or maybe a couch?—wearing a suit. White, handwritten lettering on the bottom right of the photograph reads August 4, 1960.

“Oh wow...” You touch the photo gently over its protective lining. “You look exactly the same. Of course.”

“It’s the only photo I have left of myself,” he sighs, leaning back on the sofa. “If it weren’t for that...I’d feel almost like I didn’t exist at all.”

“Do you remember this day?” you ask.

“…Vaguely.” His answer doesn’t feel like the whole truth, and the way his eyes dart anxiously as he says it confirms your suspicions. Then he sighs again, heavier this time, and he seems to be exhaling all 60 years of his burden along with it. “I was...going to be married. It was for our wedding shoot.”

You’re surprised for a reason you’re unsure of, never even imagining that Johnny could’ve been married at one point in time. Could’ve had an entire life and a family, if it hadn’t been for...

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” You know you never would’ve met him if things hadn’t happened this way, and that knowledge tugs at your heart in a way that makes you feel intensely selfish.

Johnny shakes his head and avoids your eyes. “It was long ago.” He wets his lips and his jaw clenches like maybe he wants to say something else, but he remains silent for a while.

You continue exploring the photo album in silence. With its thin size, there aren’t as many pictures in it as the others—much less, in fact, but each one is still enough to keep your interest. Your mind keeps drifting back to the one of Johnny.

You hand the album back to him when you’re done. He takes it from you, but in a gesture you don’t foresee, he allows your hands to touch for the first time. You make a tiny flinch at the unexpected coolness—not ice-cold, but enough to be noticeable—but you don’t draw away from him. You let his fingers slide across yours as the photo album leaves your hands, and it sends electricity racing up and down your spine.

“S-sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for flinching or for making contact at all, though there is no reason to because he initiated it.

“Doesn’t it ever disturb you at all that I’m not human?” Johnny asks softly, still holding the album.

“What?”

“You’ve taken all this so easily...much more easily than many others. You aren’t even disgusted at my cold hands.” A ghost of a grin comes over his face.

“If I were disgusted, I wouldn’t even be here,” you say, trying to lighten the tension. It’s not the kind of tension that arises from anger, offense, or upset, but something else that you are lost on comprehending in this moment. “Some of it’s unfamiliar, obviously, but I’m not disgusted.”

He glances down at the album in his hands, as if contemplating something. Maybe thinking about the only living photo of himself beneath the cover. Or maybe he’s thinking back to how he was turned in the first place and subsequently lost the life he was about to have. He still hasn’t told you anything about how he became a vampire, and though you’d like to know, it’s obviously a sore spot for him.

Eventually, he nods, willing himself to smile at you. “I’m glad.”

—

Night has fallen by the time you’re done exploring the decades of his life, though there is still much you haven’t seen and don’t yet know. You let him drive you back to the school as you stare out at the passing cars, wondering how many more of these people sitting in their vehicles are nonhuman and you’d never know it.

You hesitate after he pulls up across from the main gate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Uh, nothing really, it’s just—I still don’t have your number or anything.” And I want to talk to you more often. I want to hear your voice more often. You don’t want to say anything overly dramatic or cheesy, so you just keep those last thoughts to yourself.

Thinking it had been something serious, he smirks at your concern. “Oh, I see. I’ll give it to you now, then.”

Once your numbers are safely in each other’s phones, you finally bid each other goodnight.

Though you try to steer your thoughts towards other things, you keep veering back to Johnny. His apartment. His fridge full of blood bags. His photo albums full of years of history. Even when you get into bed that night, you can’t keep him off your mind.

You wake up gasping and sweating when you dream of him with his fangs in your neck, your own blood running down your neck and chest. You glance over at your roommate to make sure you haven’t woken her and rest your head on your knees, trying to catch your breath and settle your racing heart. Your skin still prickles with how you could practically feel his heated breaths on your neck, ice-cold hands gripping your shoulders.

The worst part of it is that you can’t quite say you completely disliked it.

“It doesn’t make much sense to have a Halloween party and dress up as the very beings that you hate, but whatever…” you mumble, looking through a rack of costumes with a certain impassivity. You’re not very enthusiastic about going to this Halloween party, but your friend refuses to go alone. You haven’t been spending as much time with her anymore—partly because of Johnny and partly because you feel even more out of place around her than normal—and with all her begging and pleading, she refuses to let you opt out of this one.

“It’s about having fun, no one really cares Y/N. They’re freaks, aren’t they? That’s why people dress up as them, they’re practically meant for this.”

You become even more apprehensive about the party after hearing that, if that’s even possible. You smooth your hand over the fabric of a witch’s robe and sigh again, shaking your head. It doesn’t feel quite right to keep spending time in her presence—or anyone else who goes to your school—but you feel trapped on all sides, left without much of a choice. You would never hear the end of it if you tried to switch universities…or even drop out.

Your mind strays back to Johnny as always, with his melancholy aura and weird jokes and pretty pictures and monochrome clothes. The smell of his cologne, the lingering scent of roasted coffee beans, and his toothy smile, when he does show it to you. Something in you makes you want to drop everything you’re doing right now and go to him. It might even be nice to settle in his arms, feel them strong and solid around you—though he’d probably need just as much comforting as you.

“Dress up as this!” Your friend breaks the reverie as she prances over to you with a pair of fake fangs, the tips of them painted in acrylic blood. She holds them up to your mouth, and you struggle to manage a smile, if only to sate her enthusiasm. “It actually reminds me of…that vampire at the café. Say, have you seen him since then?”

You shake your head, moving away to sift through another rack of outfits as you try to maintain a detached expression. “Nope, not a glimpse. Haven’t even thought about him.”

When your friend doesn’t suspect anything, you let your expression drop just a tad, breathing out quietly.

The night of the party, the full moon is heavy and bold against the black blanket of the sky, which feels horribly cliché. You wonder if there are any werewolves out tonight, and what they might be doing right now.

“We’re going to have a good time tonight,” your friend insists as you both walk up the front steps of the host’s house. It’s someone you only vaguely know, a friend of a friend of a friend, but clearly a person who has an abundance of money judging by this expansive home. You don’t know why she feels the need to convince you, but maybe it’s because you haven’t seemed very enthusiastic so far. You only give a thumbs up to her words, which feels like an unconvincing gesture. Luckily for you, it works.

After a few hours, the party is still going strong but your head is starting to hurt from the music, and you’re growing weary of all the men crowding in too close, looking at you in your angel costume like you’re something to be devoured. You’ve rolled your eyes at way too many of them and their haphazardly put-together costumes, dressed up as vampires with terrible fake fangs or werewolves with manes of matted up fur.

Your friend keeps flitting around the party, talking to whoever she recognizes from classes or campus organizations, and you’ve given up on trying to follow her around any longer. Every time you turn around, she’s somewhere else. Noticing that you’re currently solo, a guy from one of your history classes comes up to you and begins what he thinks is an interesting conversation on how angels actually look more like Eldritch abominations than the cherubic humans depicted in paintings—so your costume is “technically inaccurate” —and your eyes glaze over as you pretend to listen to him.

You eventually manage to get away from him and get to an undisturbed corner, wedged next to two girls drinking cider and critically rating all the guys’ costumes. You pull your phone out and think about calling for a ride back to campus, but your thumb hovers over the message icon. You press it without thinking too much about it, and Johnny’s name appears as one of your most recent conversations. Though you feel somewhat nervous, you will yourself to open the box and begin typing.

To: Hi Johnny. I hope I’m not bothering you, but can I come over? 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿 I’m over this party

You put your phone back in your purse, trying not to get your hopes up for a quick response. You know there’s a good chance he’d still be awake at this time of night since he doesn’t need to sleep, but he has his own life and is probably off doing...vampire-y things. Whatever those things could be.

However, your hopes are met when your phone pings only a couple minutes later.

From: Of course. You’re not scared about spending your Halloween with a vampire? 😏

You smile at that.

To: I think I’ll be fine…as long as you don’t bite me.

From: 🦷🩸

—

You get to Johnny’s studio apartment not too long after, and you hang around outside his door for a few moments before knocking, suddenly feeling bashful about your costume. Maybe you should’ve changed before coming over here; what if he thinks it’s childish? Or maybe too revealing? Does he even care about that kind of stuff? Doesn’t matter now, though. You’re here, and there’s no way you’re turning back around.

He answers a few seconds after you knock, wearing a sweater and black pants. You notice his sweater is a cream color and not the usual black. He looks a little surprised to see your costume, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Wow, you look pretty. Nice of you to visit me after falling straight from Heaven.” You cringe at his cheesy line, though you also cannot deny that you secretly enjoy every bit of it.

“Thanks, Johnny...” you say timidly, stepping into his home as he lets you in. “Nice work with changing up the color scheme.”

He’s confused for a moment before realizing you’re talking about his clothes. “Oh yeah, that...um, haha. Thanks.”

Unbeknownst to you, the back of his mind is buzzing with a form of excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the clawing, frantic spikes of bloodlust, but a more physical kind of desire. It’s pleasurable, but he also feels guilty about pining over how sweet and innocent you look in your all-white outfit, stockings hugging your legs perfectly and your dress just short enough to tempt the imagination. Really, you’ve painted a picture of perfect purity, and the only thing he can think about is ruining you. Putting his hands on you and peeling your dress off to reveal the soft skin underneath.

He casts those thoughts aside as you sit prettily on his couch, legs crossed at the ankles—though it’s hard to do so. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? There isn’t a whole lot of food here, but I can order something…”

“Do you ever make your own coffee?” The question seems a bit random at first, and you try to explain. “You know, since you always get it from the café.”

Johnny smiles. “Do you want coffee? I can make it.”

You nod. “That would be nice…whatever you have.”

“I pretty much have your usual order memorized by now, so I should be good on making it.” Johnny walks to the kitchen. “You can look through the albums while you’re in there. The ones you haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh, thanks.” You feel a little nervous to be looking through the shelf of his treasured photo albums by yourself, but you’re also glad he trusts you enough to let you do it. It makes you feel important. Maybe even important to him, as silly as that might sound.

It isn’t long before the scent of coffee wafts out into the living room. Johnny returns soon with two cups of it, and just as he promised, yours is made just the way you like it.

“Thank you.” You set the album back on the shelf and take the cup from Johnny. For a while, both of you talk of nothing important—just filling the space with the details of your days.

“So how was the party?” Johnny finally asks, and he raises his eyebrows as he scans your outfit again. You grin halfheartedly.

“It was…alright. Kinda weird. I think it’d be more fun if I went to a regular university, but you know…”

Johnny shakes his head. “I can’t blame you for bailing out.”

“Yeah…I’ve been to college parties before, but the Halloween theme was a bit…”

“Strange for an institution that bans all supernatural beings?” Johnny finishes your sentence. He doesn’t look offended or irritated by it—only slightly amused.

You shrug, biting your lip. “Yeah, that.”

“Well, look on the bright side. I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in your natural form otherwise.”

This one almost goes over your head, too, but you catch it just in time. Johnny’s compliments make you feel warm all over, like you’re sitting under the sun. You grin and look down into your cup of coffee, unused to receiving such bold praise and unsure how to respond to it. Something pops into your mind, though, and you think it might be a good idea to run with it.

“You could...take a picture of me, you know. If you want to...since I’m all dressed up now anyway.” You meet his eyes only for a second and then look away, twisting the mug in your hands.

Johnny sits up a little straighter at your words, trying to catch your eyes, though you don’t hold his gaze for long. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure. Go ahead! Before I change my mind.” You laugh nervously and carefully set your half-empty mug on the table.

Johnny’s camera is never too far away from him, so he grabs it and plays with the settings for a bit before looking back to you, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna start, okay?” His voice is surprisingly soft. This, yet again, reminds you of him and the aster bush. He acts as if you might run away at the first shutter click, which makes you feel babied, but you don’t totally hate it.

The first few photos are a little awkward—at least to you. You aren’t sure how to pose, or if you should try to look more casual, though Johnny assures you you’re doing well. He gives you directives throughout, telling you to look in his direction or angle your face a certain way, and you follow his instructions to the best of your ability.

At one point, one of your dress straps slips down. When you go to fix it, Johnny says, “Wait. Could you keep it like that?”

You look at him, your body heating from the suggestion.

“Is that okay with you?”

“…Yes.” Your throat is dry, and your body reacts in a way you don’t expect—little nervous thrills in your hands and feet, though you try to internally explain it away as the coffee’s effects. Johnny takes a few more photos like this, and then he steps closer to gently touch your chin, guiding your face to the angle he’s looking for.

“So good for me.” It slips past his lips in a reverential murmur before he can really consider what he’s saying, and you both freeze. Your heart rate increases, and you wonder if he can hear how hard the red organ is beating in your chest. Probably.

You want to hear him say it again.

Johnny laughs awkwardly, his hand coming back to his side almost a little too quickly to be natural. “Um, I’m really sorry. That was a bit...”

“It…it’s fine.” You avoid his eyes. Johnny takes a few more photos, but the set of his mouth is a little tight, as if he’s stressed about something. Or regretting what he let slip, maybe. You want to tell him you really don’t feel bad about it, but you aren’t sure how to do that without making things more awkward…or revealing your true desires.

When Johnny has taken enough pictures of you to be satisfied with, he sits next to you on the couch, setting his camera on the coffee table and looking suddenly timid.

“I can’t wait to see them,” you say, attempting to break the tension that never really cleared the room after his earlier comment. He blinks for a moment like he doesn’t know what you mean, and then realizes—obviously, he’ll be developing the photos.

“They’ll come out nice, I’m sure. I think you’ll photograph well.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, and now it’s your turn to be unsure of how to resurrect the conversation.

“You’re beautiful.” It’s an abrupt comment. It makes your stomach twist in a pleasant, fluttery way, and you become hyperaware of his form sitting next to yours.

“Haven’t heard that one much, but thanks.”

Johnny turns to you. “Anyone who’d think otherwise is a fool.”

There’s a pause after this where you both simply study each other, watching for hidden reactions that can’t be read on the surface. The way he says it is…decisive, assured. But it also manages to be tender, as if he needs you to know what he thinks of you. Needs you to see yourself the way he does—the same way you do for him. You don’t know where the confidence comes from, but maybe his tone and his words and his endlessly dark eyes have pulled it out of you. “I want to kiss you.”

Johnny’s lips part. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Johnny moves closer to you and cups the back of your neck. Something awakens in his eyes in the seconds before he presses his mouth to yours. Though he wants to drink eagerly from your lips, his kiss is languid to avoid overwhelming you, and there is an audible smack of your lips whenever he pulls away and presses back in.

His mouth tastes like the coffee you just drank, but underneath that you swear you can taste a hint of the deep iron of blood, and you don’t know how to feel about that. You think about what his fangs would feel like scraping against your bottom lip, if he’d ever show them to you, and you moan quietly.

“Do you want this? With me?” Johnny confirms once more, pulling his gaze away from your lips and up to your eyes. His own eyes are yearning, but there is also an element of something like fear roiling in them. As if you’d turn him away, even though you’ve already shown your desire for him.

“Yes. Just you. No one else.”

Johnny’s body gravitates towards yours, and you think he’s going to push you down onto the sofa, but he scoops your legs up and carries you to his bedroom instead. Even his hands on your waist and legs makes you burn inside.

This is the first time you've seen his bedroom. The sheets are cloud-soft when he sets you down on them, and his window lets moonlight shine through the open blinds and scatter in thick beams across the floor. The only other light source is the bedside lamp, which emits a comfortable yellowish glow.

Johnny joins you on the bed and lets you climb into his lap—encourages you to do so. His cool hands pulling at your thighs as you settle them on either side of his waist makes tingles go through your body. You don’t hesitate to bring your lips back together, kissing each other deeply as one of his hands cradles the back of your head and the other settles on the small of your back.

You are certain vampires don’t have any powers of enchantment—that’s for magic wielders. And yet, you feel like you’ve been put in a trance by his kisses alone, and you wonder how you could’ve lived this long without knowing how his lips feel—how they fit perfectly against your own. As if everything up to now has purposely led you together.

You shift in Johnny’s embrace, and the movement causes his thigh to slide between your legs. Your heat is pressed against his thigh directly now, your silken panties catching against the denim of his pants. You murmur against his lips, not really saying anything of substance but wanting to vocalize your desire to him. Johnny’s hand tightens slightly on your back, and he experimentally lifts his leg higher and slides his thigh across you. That draws a gasp from you.

Noticing your positive response, Johnny continues rocking his thigh up against your pussy and kissing you until you’re breathless and your nipples are straining against the fabric of your dress. You pull away from him for a moment to try to ground yourself, feeling like your nerves are already being singed with fiery pleasure. Johnny’s face is noticeably more flushed than before, but he also looks much more composed than you feel at the moment.

“It takes longer to get hard,” he explains, as if reading the lingering question in your own expression. “Since...you know. Slow blood.” You rock your hips over his thigh more enthusiastically, motivated to get him hard underneath you, and you listen to his choppy breaths as you move. Your movements aren’t the smoothest, but he helps you guide your hips in a way that feels good for you both. You’ve never been with anyone before, so it doesn’t much matter to you how long or quick it takes for him to get there as long as he does.

Feeling the bulge grow underneath you excites you. Johnny groans against your lips as you kiss him and rub yourself over his member. The sound comes from somewhere deep inside him, as if it’s something he’s been containing for a long time. Your hand goes to his waist and tugs at his belt loops, then drifts closer to his belt buckle, pulling the leather and metal apart. Johnny pauses when you get off his lap and slide further down, grips your arms like he doesn’t want you to go. “Are…you sure? You don’t have to…if it’s too much—”

“I want to, Johnny.”

With your affirmative, he lets you kneel between his legs, pull his zipper apart, and trace your curious fingers over the bulge beneath the fabric of his underwear. Johnny loses his breath when you drag his underwear down, sliding it over the heated skin of his dick. His length is thick and long—even with him not being fully hard yet—and the tip glistens wet with precum. You weren’t sure what to expect, but this is much bigger than you think you might be able to handle. It makes your face warm and your stomach do another series of flips. Still, you want it and you want him, so you aren’t going to stop now.

You lean closer to press your lips against his shaft, leaving a few soft kisses behind. Johnny’s mouth parts when your mouth touches him.

Johnny gently holds the back of your head as you leave small licks over his shaft, tasting the salty skin on your tongue. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you, his other hand brushing the side of your face.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, his voice heavy with lust as you circle your tongue around the thick, darkened tip, catching drops of his precum. He never takes his eyes off you, and this makes you feel a little exposed, but you continue with your actions. When you suck Johnny’s tip past your lips, his thighs tense under you, the thick muscle reacting beautifully to your actions on his body.

More precum drips from him, and you find the taste strangely pleasing. It makes you want more of him, of whatever he has to offer you. You wrap your hand around his shaft, though it doesn’t fit entirely around, and begin stroking him in a way you hope feels good.

Johnny’s hand slips over yours to guide your movements and show you how much pressure to apply, what pace to stroke him at. “Like this, baby…yes, that’s so good…” He showers you with praise as you get the hang of it, and he eventually lets your hand go so you can do it on your own, his own hand drifting back to the bed to grip the comforter.

It’s hard to quantify just how much seeing you like this turns him on, you kneeling between his legs with his cock between your lips while wearing your pretty, angelic outfit. His previous guilt about “corrupting” you descends to the very back of his mind as he savors every moment of your hands on his cock and your tongue circling his slit.

“I’m close,” he whispers. You quicken your movements on him, hollowing your cheeks tighter around his dick, and the moan he gives shoots straight between your legs.

Johnny carefully pulls your head back so you won’t choke before he comes, streams of his seed shooting into your mouth and running down his cock. Your hand still squeezes around him as he comes, and he slowly thrusts into the tight circle of your fist as you milk every drop from him. By the time he’s spent, your mouth and hand and part of the sheets are completely sticky with his release. You imagine it must have been a long time since he’s last had an orgasm.

The vampire watches intently as you swallow his cum, which causes his softening dick to throb in your hand. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, uncaring of the taste of himself in your mouth. His hair tickles your face as he kisses you feverishly, his nose bumping yours and his tongue prodding past your lips.

“Come here, angel.” Johnny pulls your body up onto the bed before you can get yourself up there first. The pet name makes warmth flood through your body, like drinking a hot chocolate at the café, except a thousand times more satisfying. Johnny’s hands are once again caressing your thighs, though this time they slide up underneath your dress and squeeze your hips. “Can I take these pretty panties off you?”

“Please.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of them and pulls them down your legs and past your ankles. One of his hands goes underneath your dress to feel you soft and wet against his fingers, and you both moan at the same time. He slides his digits through your lips and over your clit, and him leaning forward to bring his mouth to your throat is enough to have you nearly overwhelmed. His fingers tease your entrance but don’t push inside until you nearly have to beg him.

“Please, Johnny…” You push your hips up to get his attention.

“Do you want my fingers?” he asks softly.

“Y-yes…” At your words, he eases the middle one into you, slowly enough to avoid discomfort. It feels strange to have someone else’s fingers inside you. His finger reaches further than yours can, touching you more deeply than you’ve felt before; it makes you gasp a bit too sharply.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, freezing and thinking he might’ve done something wrong.

“N-no, I’m fine. Keep going.”

Johnny’s mouth edges closer to the cleavage of your dress as he starts thrusting his finger into you, warming you up enough to take a second digit. Shakily, you bring your hands up to slide the straps down and make it easier for him, and his breath hitches when you pull the top of your dress down.

His mouth envelopes one of your nipples as he slides the second finger into you. His fingers encounter a part of you that makes you moan unexpectedly and grab onto him, a little surprised at the sudden spike of pleasure.

“You’re so pretty,” he purrs, his lips moving against the curve of your breast as he speaks. “And so responsive.”

As Johnny’s mouth and fingers work you closer to an orgasm, you marvel at how handsome he looks and how good he feels. He opens his eyes to see you staring at him, your pupils wide and mouth desperate, and he separates himself from your chest to kiss you deeply once again.

When you come around his fingers, Johnny whispers more compliments to you about how good you are and how he wants to watch you come undone because of him all the time. When he thinks you might be on the brink of overstimulation, he takes his fingers out of you, slipping them into his mouth to taste you.

“I’ll take this off now. Is that okay?” He whispers this into your ear with his hands on either side of your hips, caressing the fabric of your dress.

“I-it’s okay.”

Johnny slips your dress off, leaving you in nothing but your white sheer stockings. The sight of you sitting there on his bed, breathing heavily from your climax in your pretty thigh-highs, has his cock throbbing and rising to life once again.

“Lay back on the bed.” You do, and he settles himself between your legs like you did for him earlier. When you glance at him, his eyes are heavy and piercing. In this moment, you are acutely reminded of the fact that he is not a human, with how he looks like a beast of prey about to devour a meal. You are too nervous to look back at him for long, so you stare at the ceiling with your legs shaking from anticipation.

Johnny’s mouth on you is almost jarring in how wet it is, and you arch up into him in surprise and a rush of pleasure. He gently presses your legs back onto the bed and continues licking into you, parting your lower lips with his tongue and making your thighs tremble under his grasp.

If you had to describe it in words, you probably wouldn’t be able to. He kisses your pussy the same way he kisses you on the mouth, passionately and with more than enough tongue to satisfy. Johnny slips his fingers into you again as he curls his lips around your clit, and you moan unabashedly.

You’re quickly spiraling towards another orgasm, maybe quicker than you expected; but it makes sense with you still being so raw from the climax you just had. You gain enough courage to give another glance down at Johnny, and you see the way his other arm moves back and forth from beneath the bed, stroking himself while he eats you out. Something about that pushes you over the edge, and you cry out as you come on his tongue.

As Johnny gives you time to calm down again, he stands and finally pulls his clothes off, baring his body to you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a man so beautiful.

He goes to get a condom, and your words stumble from your lips before you can psych yourself out of saying them. “I-I’m on birth control.” Johnny looks back at you, his gaze filled with something you can’t quite read. He comes closer to you, holding himself above you on the bed so his face is hovering just above yours.

“You want to feel me raw?” he whispers.

You nod under his burning stare, feeling like you’re on a high you won’t be able to get off of. “I need you, Johnny.”

Johnny climbs fully onto the bed then and positions himself between your legs. His cock is thick and heavy between his thighs as it bumps against your inner thigh and leaves a smear of precum behind. After putting some lube in his hand, he slicks himself with the sticky substance, preparing himself to fuck you open. Something deep in your abdomen shudders, and your walls clench around nothing as you watch him stroke his shaft, the squelching, wet sound of his hand on his dick loud in the quiet room.

When he’s done, he grabs your thighs and pulls you a little closer to him. “If it hurts, tell me, okay?”

“O-okay.”

The slick tip prodding at your hole makes you want more, though you are a bit afraid of how this is going to feel. When it finally pushes inside of you, you gasp. Johnny watches your face for signs of pain as he slides forward further.

With two previous orgasms and the lube to help, his cock stretches you open with some discomfort, but not the kind of sharp pain you expected. Your nails leave little half-moon shapes on Johnny’s biceps as you squeeze his arms and try to keep your lower half relaxed, wanting to take all of him in—or as much as you can manage, anyway. You try to keep your breathing even as he pushes into you slowly.

Your eyebrows crease and your mouth tightens when he slides deeper still, and he pauses. “Johnny…” You worry your lip with your teeth, feeling like you’ve been stuffed to the brim—and he’s not even all the way in yet.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you beg, maintaining your grip on his arms. “Just…try moving.”

Johnny pulls out and slowly thrusts back in again, angling his dick to find that sensitive spot within you. Your mouth falls open silently when he does; this feels much, much different from his fingers. This is better.

Johnny repeats the movement, being mindful not to push himself too deep—only enough for you to handle. Beneath him, your body begins unwinding at the pleasure he’s delivering to you, and your eyes flutter closed as the ecstasy takes over your mind. One of his hands goes to tease your clit as he settles into a good rhythm, and you cry out at the extra dose of pleasure.

“You’re taking me so well,” Johnny mumbles as he sits back and watches himself slide into you, both of your lower halves slick from lube and your own wetness. “So warm and wet, angel…” You can tell he’s using a lot of his energy to keep his pace controlled and gentle enough for you to actually enjoy. The idea of being fucked harder makes you ache deep inside, but you figure it’s best to save that for when you’re more used to this. You already know it’ll be difficult to walk in the morning after this.

Johnny leans forward to kiss your lips, changing the angle again and circling his pelvis into you, and a choked gasp escapes your mouth at the slow wind of his hips.

Johnny lavishes your neck and throat with kisses, and though he is a vampire, you aren’t worried about him biting you. His fangs have not made an appearance since all this started, and you doubt if he would ever bring them out in front of you. You don’t know if you should ask about it, either, wondering if it’s too soon after only a month and a half of knowing each other—but maybe you could say the same about him being inside of you right now.

“Johnny…” you whisper into the air, your fingers scrabbling against his sweaty skin. The mounting tension in your abdomen is close to snapping, and you are almost frightened by how intense it already feels. He moves his face from your neck to be face-to-face with you again and plants a heavy, dizzying kiss on your lips.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve got you, Y/N.”

Falling apart in Johnny’s arms feels like a form of Heaven that’s meant to be kept hidden, because you might become addicted to it otherwise. Your inner muscles squeeze around his dick as you come. His name flows from your lips in a high song. You can’t imagine any physical sensation that could be better than this, his hips rocking into you as you tighten and cream around him, and you know innately that Johnny has ruined all chances of you ever feeling this fulfilled with anyone but him.

The constant pulse of your walls against his dick is too much to withstand for long, and Johnny’s muscles pull taut with pleasure when he comes, groaning into your neck and spilling overflowing streams of thick cum into you. His hips falter in their former rhythm, and he resists the urge to push himself as deep as he can into you.

When he pulls out, you whine from the discomfort of it, but also because you wish he could stay in you forever. You know you’ll be sore when you wake up—and you can already feel the very beginnings of exhaustion and ache settling in your body—but you’d do it a hundred times over without changing a thing.

—

Johnny curls himself around you after he’s cleaned the both of you up, as if he means to shield you from the world. You’re quiet for a while as you listen to his slow-beating heart and feel his cool skin against yours.

You look up at his face, which is hard to see distinctly in the dark of the room. With the lamp turned out, the only source of light comes from the moon now, but you can decipher enough to make out the shape of his lips and his glittering eyes. You know he can see much better than you in this light, and he takes his time tracing his fingers across your face and cheek, studying your features.

“Would you ever…make me a vampire?”

His body tenses at your question. “Don’t say anything ridiculous. You still have a whole life ahead of you to live. What I have here...this is no existence.” He’s not mad, at least not at you, but his voice hardens at the very idea of it.

“But what if I wanted to live it with you?”

Johnny takes a breath, but he doesn’t say anything to that. He just continues stroking your face and looks at you for a long time, like he’s searching for something. You don’t know if you truly expected an answer from him, or how you would feel if he did give one.

Eventually, your eyes begin to fall low, and sleep overcomes you. The last thing you register is Johnny’s chilly hand touching your cheek. When he notices you’ve drifted off, he pulls the covers tighter around you both. Then he presses you to his chest as he tunes out the sound of cars rumbling on the streets below in exchange for the beating of your heart—still alive, so red with blood.

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years

Text

Arkham Files: Pied Piper

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Hartley Rathaway, alias Henry Darrow; also known as the Pied Piper. The patient shows signs of depression and general emotional distress, but I have not yet been able to give him a full psychiatric evaluation. Session One. So, young man, your name is Hartley Rathaway?

Pied Piper: Yes, sir.

Hugo Strange: Any connection to Osgood and Rachel Rathaway, the billionaire publishing magnates?

Pied Piper: They’re my parents, sir.

Hugo Strange: (Surprised) You mean to tell me that you’re that Hartley Rathaway? The boy who was set to inherit a fortune as large as the GDP of some small countries?

Pied Piper: I’m the only Hartley Rathaway! Ever! Nobody but my parents would stick a child with a name like that!

Hugo Strange: So if that is who you are, young man, why in the world would you have ever decided to put on a costume, call yourself the Pied Piper, and embark on a life of crime using weaponized musical instruments?

Pied Piper: Because someone had to even the score.

Hugo Strange: What do you mean, even the score? You had life handed to you on a silver platter. You grew up in a palatial mansion, with servants to tend to your every need. You had the best education money could buy, you traveled all around the world, and you were set to inherit one of the largest fortunes in the country. What injustice could a pampered prince like you possibly have faced?

Pied Piper: None, sir. I’m not evening the score for myself. I’m evening it for the poor, the downtrodden, the people who through no fault of their own are denied the opportunity to even know that they’ll have a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. My parents and people like them live in scandalous luxury that they didn’t even earn, and they have the nerve to say that the poor are lazy and selfish! It’s unjust and unfair, and yet everyone turns a blind eye! I...I had to do something!

Hugo Strange: (A bit taken aback) I must admit, young man, I was not expecting to hear a manifesto from someone of your background. (Pause) I take it that you don’t simply steal for kicks in the way that your file seems to suggest?

Pied Piper: Not often. Usually, I take the money from people who won’t even notice it’s gone and give it to people who really need it.

Hugo Strange: So you think of yourself as some sort of Robin Hood, then? Stealing from the rich to give to the poor?

Pied Piper: I wouldn’t have thought to put in those specific terms, but...I suppose I do, yes.

Hugo Strange: Why not just give away your own money, Mr. Rathaway? Certainly you have access to more than enough of it.

Pied Piper: (Laughs quietly) I tried that once. When my parents found out, it became part of the argument that got me disowned, disinherited, and thrown off of their estate without a dollar to my name.

Hugo Strange: Your parents disowned you?

Pied Piper: Yes. They even paid the FBI to give me the identity of Henry Darrow just so I could never be traced back to them. If the Flash and that brilliant young reporter hadn’t stumbled onto the connection between me and my parents somehow, Hartley Rathaway probably would have been effectively erased from existence.

Hugo Strange: That does at least explain why your file gives you two entirely separate names and histories. I admit that that had been puzzling me, Mr. Rathaway.

Pied Piper: Well, now you know. (Pause) How did I end up in Arkham Asylum, Doctor? Even if someone had become convinced that I was mentally ill, Breedmore Psychiatric Hospital would seem to be much more conveniently located.

Hugo Strange: It would be. In fact, there are any number of prisons and psychiatric facilities that would be more conveniently located to the area of the Twin Cities than Arkham Asylum...but through a series of judicial and political decisions to which I was not privy, somehow all of you “Rogues” were placed under my watch. (Pause) So, Mr. Rathaway, you went from being one of the wealthiest and most privileged people in the country to being homeless and penniless. I imagine that that was not an easy transition for you.

Pied Piper: No, it wasn’t. Although the panic didn’t kick in right away. It wasn’t until I used my sonic technology to steal forty thousand dollars from my parents’ company, and then gave the money away to people in need, that my anger subsided and it really hit me that I was impoverished. All I had left was my hypnotic flute and the silly costume I had made out of my mother’s nice shower curtains in order to disguise myself while I was stealing money from her company, and I was panicking. Which in hindsight is probably why I made the stupid decision to hypnotize a group of random crooks into becoming a sort of gang, told them that my name was the Pied Piper, and tried to become their leader. One of them probably would have ended up shooting me within a couple of days, but because my sonic abilities were quite unusual, the Flash showed up to arrest us before I got myself killed. They went to prison, but for some reason that was never adequately explained, I was released from the police station without even being booked.

Hugo Strange: How could that have happened, Mr. Rathaway?

Pied Piper: My parents’ money, of course. They hadn’t had the time to create a false identity for me yet, so I suspect that they simply bribed the police station into letting me go so that no one would know that the former heir to the Rathaway empire was now a common crook.

Hugo Strange: And what happened after that?

Pied Piper: I almost starved to death.

Hugo Strange: And what saved you?

Pied Piper: Well, I had sat down on a park bench and was sort of waiting to die when I suddenly came face-to-face with a pair of blue pixie shoes that were floating four feet off the ground. The pixie shoes were attached to a blonde kid in a garish leotard. He asked me if I was the kid with the magic flute, and when I said yes, he told me that he was the Trickster and invited me to stay with him in his apartment for a couple days. I agreed when he told me that he also had food. During the month I stayed with him, he gave me a crash course on how to survive on the streets...although most of the other Rogues insist that I must not have learned very much from it.

Hugo Strange: Why is that, Mr. Rathaway?

Pied Piper: Because I still give away basically all the money that I steal. Most of it goes to the poor, and the rest of it goes to my parents, to pay them back for the money they spent on trying to mold me into someone I could never be. That way, they can stop complaining about all the money they wasted on me. (Pause) Captain Cold insists that if I had any sense, I would keep some of the money for myself, but why would I do that? I spent my early life in unimaginable luxury. It’s only fair that I go without to help the poor now.

Hugo Strange: So you’re martyring yourself for the sins of your parents?

Pied Piper: I’m not martyring myself. I’m just doing what needs to be done.

Hugo Strange: Sacrificing your own financial well-being for the sake of others is not healthy, Mr. Rathaway. With a philosophy like yours, I’m surprised that you’re even still alive. (Pause) Incidentally, how have you managed to survive multiple stints in prison? A skinny, sheltered ex-aristocrat like you would seem to be an obvious target.

Pied Piper: Which is why I don’t call attention to myself whilst incarcerated. You’d be surprised how effective keeping your head down and your mouth shut can be. (Pause) Well, that, and Captain Cold has made it pretty clear that if anyone messes with me, they’re also messing with him. And almost no one is willing to get on Captain Cold’s bad side.

Hugo Strange: So your status as one of the Rogues protects you?

Pied Piper: Yes, sir. (Pause) But if I really had to, I think I could survive without them. I may be a sheltered ex-aristocrat, but I’m also a master hypnotist. I didn’t take up the name Pied Piper for nothing, Dr. Strange.

Hugo Strange: Yes, your file does go into great detail about the effectiveness of your hypnotic instruments. When you first arrived on the scene, there were even some people who thought that you might be the Pied Piper of the folktales, due not only to your powers but also the fact you seemed to appear and disappear almost at will, without ever really getting caught (Pause) Of course, from what you’ve told me, I can guess that the explanation for your remarkably infrequent imprisonments was due to your parents’ wealth, rather than to any magical powers.

Pied Piper: Those rumors were actually quite helpful. When people thought I might be magical, they put considerably less effort into tracking me, and that gave me a lot more freedom to do things like volunteering at homeless shelters and food pantries.

Hugo Strange: But you are not magical, Mr. Rathaway. You are only a man.

Pied Piper: I know that, Dr. Strange. If I had magical powers, I’d be a lot farther along in my goal of helping uplift the downtrodden than I am.

Hugo Strange: Mr. Rathaway, that was not what I was trying to tell you. Wanting to help others is an admirable goal, but the methods which you are taking to pursue it are decidedly unhealthy. You are a human being with human needs, and you are discounting them all in your desperation to prove that you are worth loving. While I believe that you honestly want to help others, I also believe that there is a part of you that is still trying to earn the love which it sounds like you were denied as a child. You’re hoping that if you sacrifice enough, you will finally be accepted as worthy...but you are giving too much.

Pied Piper: Too much?

Hugo Strange: Yes, Mr. Rathaway. Too much. (Pause) Think of it this way. If you starve to death because you have no money to pay for food, you will no longer be around to feed anyone else...and by giving away all of the money you bring in, illicitly or otherwise, that is effectively what you are risking. And it’s certainly what you’re doing to yourself on an emotional level.

Pied Piper: (Quietly) It’s what I was taught to do, Dr. Strange. What I wanted wasn’t important. What I needed wasn’t even important. The only thing that was important was upholding the family name. My parents have always made it quite clear that their love for me was conditional on whether I would sacrifice what I was to be their idea of the perfect heir, and I tried. For eighteen years, I tried, but it was never enough. Not after I’d been born deaf.

Hugo Strange: Yes, your files mention that. Your files also mention that your deafness was cured thanks to a pair of highly advanced hearing aids, which were created by Dr. William Magnus. The operation cost millions of dollars, and it granted you far more than the normal range of hearing.

Pied Piper: 14 hertz to 55,000 hertz. I hear more sounds than a dog. (Pause) And all the nasty things that people whisper behind my back when they think I can’t hear.

Hugo Strange: Are you glad that you were given these hearing aids, Mr. Rathaway?

Pied Piper: Very much so. Without them, I’d never have known what music sounded like. (Pause) But to be honest? If I had to choose between being deaf and knowing that my parents loved me, and being able to hear and knowing that it was entirely because my parents didn’t want the social embarrassment of having a disabled son, I’d choose the world of silence. And I hate silence.

Hugo Strange: Mr. Rathaway, you have spent your entire life sacrificing your own needs, either for the needs of others or for your parent’s desire for a so-called ‘perfect’ heir. That is why the request I am going to make of you will be so difficult. (Pause) Between now and our next session, I want you to write down something that you really want to do. Not something you think you should want to do; something that you actually want to do.

Pied Piper: But-

Hugo Strange: Mr. Rathaway, you will never be able to achieve healing until you recognize that your wants and needs are just as valid as anyone else’s. You will not be able to care for others in a healthy way until you learn to care for yourself.

#flash rogues #dr. hugo strange #pied piper #flash comics #batman comics #fanfic

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hoekaashi · 4 years

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3 am Talks

a/n: i’m starting a 3 am talks series for bnha and hq. i got this idea at, you guessed it, 3 am when i was thinking about what the characters would talk about with you at 3 am. i hope yall enjoy! pairings: kaminari x reader, bakugou x reader, kirishima x reader warnings: none taglist: @suckersuki, @bakugoustanaccount, @babydabi part 1 | part 2

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

⇾ conspiracies, conspIRACIES, cOnSpIrAcIeS ⇾ Beyonce and Eminem are members of the Illuminati ⇾ he will ARGUE for this one, after seeing videos of the two of them spacing out in interviews and ‘glitching’ he will never be convinced otherwise ⇾ the moon landing was fake ⇾ Denki stands by the moon being a secret alien satellite which is why he believes in the next theory ⇾ aliens have taken over the earth and are hiding in plain sight ⇾ the ‘moon landing’ was a disguise to help cover the fact that aliens had made contact with the earth and would experiment on humans to understand when, where, how, why, and what we are ⇾ pigeons are government cameras ⇾ that’s why corona is actually happening, the government is trying to change out the batteries of ALLLL the pigeons around the world ⇾ time travel is real ⇾ this poor baby wants to go to the Bermuda Triangle because he wants to go back in time to see real dinosaurs because he finds it hard to believe that they were green and brown after seeing how colorful peacocks, butterflies, birds, and other animals are ⇾ he would go off about all these ideas and even more because this boy believes in all this ⇾ probably even has magazine/newspaper clippings that he saved in notebooks with his own comments littering the pages

“Okay, no, but listen. You’ve seen the videos too. How could he have been spacing out like that and people think it’s normal?! On top of that, that weird stuttering and stumbling over his words. He was created by the Illuminati, that’s all I’m saying.” You rolled your eyes. “Or,” you said, dragging out the word. “He was just higher than an airplane.” Denki scoffed. “That sounds so stupid, why would he be high during an interview or when commentating?” “And him being created by the Illuminati is the only logical conclusion?” “Well duh! Next you’ll probably say that the moon landing was real.” You sat up in his bed. “What are you talking about? It was?” “No it wasn’t!” He shot up too. “It was all fake! Created by the aliens so they could invade the Earth.” You looked at him with confusion written all over your face. “What are you even talking about?” “How do I know you aren’t an alien?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “You are so dense. You think pigeons are fake?” You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms. “Yes! Do you?!” “No!” “I will convince you, if it’s the last thing I do!” He got up and rummaged around his desk, looking for his notebooks.

.・゜-: ✧ :-　-: ✧ :-゜・．

⇾ now, for this boy, it would take A LOT of trust in you for him to even TALK to you at such late hours ⇾ oh boy, but once he does, all his walls come down around you in the wee hours of the morning ⇾ these talks would only ever happen on a Friday or Saturday night because he’s still a nerd top three student and wouldn’t let anyone jeopardize that ⇾ it would probably take place out on the balcony or out on the roof, his arms wrapped around you to shelter you from the cold ⇾ he would talk about where he sees himself in the future ⇾ it would be a really raw, one-sided conversation but also an opportunity for him to get things off his chest without having to keep a front up ⇾ talk about his future would eventually bleed into the goals he wants to achieve in life ⇾ it’s not even that he needs advice or someone to agree/disagree with him ⇾ it’s more that he just needed someone to listen to him without being judged by them ⇾ this is probably the most soft and real he’ll ever be with you, but it definitely won’t be the last time

His arms were lazily wrapped around your waist and his chin rested on your shoulder as the two of you looked out at the city on the roof of the dorm. Neither of you could sleep so you opted to watch a movie, but the longer it played, the more withdrawn Bakugou became. You dragged him up to the roof for some air, hoping that he would eventually say something. “The more we work towards becoming heroes, the more I feel like I’m getting left behind,” he finally said. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, not replying. “Seeing how fast everyone’s improving makes me realize how naive I’ve been my entire life. Just because my quirk is strong, doesn’t mean that I’m strong.” You looked back out to the city. “How can I expect to beat All Might if I can’t even beat shitty Deku or IcyHot? I wanna be number one, but there’s still so much I need to learn.” He shifted so his face was nuzzled into your neck. “I want to be the type of hero others look up to and villains fear. I want All Might to tell me that he’s proud of how far I’ve come. I want you to be proud of the hero I become. But I can’t achieve any of that if I keep focusing on the past.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze when he paused to tell him you were still listening. “I’ll show everyone who’s looked down on me that I was meant to be the top hero.” Removing his hands from your waist, you turned to face him, a soft smile reassuring him that he wasn’t in over his head. “I know you’ll do amazing things, Katsuki. Just look at how far you’ve come already.” You wrapped your arms around him and felt one of his hands pet your head. “I know I don’t say this enough, but I love you.”

.・゜-: ✧ :-　-: ✧ :-゜・．

⇾ this is another boy who would have a soft conversation with you ⇾ the brief look into his past shows that he had a lot of insecurities about himself and I feel like he’s also a bit appreciation/compliment-starved ⇾ his talk would have to do with his future too, but more so relationship wise ⇾ don’t attack me but kiri seems like the most manipulatable (is this even a word? lol) and naive out of Class 1A and that just stems from what he views as ‘strong’ ⇾ so if he were to be manipulated by villains, it would seriously crush his soul and spirit (unless he was a willing participant but yall don’t wanna have that convo) ⇾ therefore, if he were to trust someone with his heart, he would feel very lucky - you should feel lucky too, because this sunshine child trusted you enough to open up ⇾ don’t get me wrong, he seems like an open person, but how many people truly know what’s going on inside that mind and heart of his? ⇾ he hasn’t even spoken to Bakugou about any of this ⇾ he would ramble on about what he sees in the future for the two of you and what he wants out of this relationship ⇾ maybe even talk about his weaknesses with you and his insecurities ⇾ overall, it would be a really deep moment for him where he lets down his walls completely to let you in

Kirishima’s head was resting on your stomach as you carded your fingers through his hair. His head would rise and fall with every breath you took. You weren’t expecting him to start talking about the things that were weighing heavily on him. If you were being honest, you didn’t even know how he felt about the things he spoke about. “I’ve never been this open with anyone,” he chuckled. “But if anyone should know, I feel like it should be you.” “I have no idea what you’re going on about, but I’m listening.” You carried on, playing with his hair. “I just don’t feel strong.” Your hands stopped their motions and you just stared at the red hair resting on top of you. Kirishima moved and rested his chin on your stomach to look at you. “What do you mean you don’t feel strong?” “I just feel like I’m lacking in so many areas - physically, mentally, emotionally. I know I shouldn’t be comparing myself to everyone else, but you just can’t help it ya know? I always wanted a flashier quirk, but I’m slowly trying to accept that I can be strong with the quirk I have.” You nodded, but still didn’t know where this was all coming from. “But I’m really thankful to have you. Knowing that I can trust you to be there for me always, that really means a lot to me. You’re always so patient with me.” Your shock quickly disappeared and a soft smile took its place. “I’m glad you feel that way with me.” “I know we’re young, but I can honestly see you in my future for a long time. I never really knew what I wanted in a relationship especially because we’re so young, but now I know. I just want to thank you for helping me in all the little ways you didn’t even know about.” Because his entire body weight was resting on top of you, you just brought his hand up to your lips and gave him a kiss. “No one is perfect Ei, even adults are still learning and growing. I hope I can stay with you for a long time.”

#kaminari denki #kaminari x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #kirishima eijiro #kirishima x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha x you #kaminari fluff #bakugou fluff #kirishima fluff #bnha imagines #bnha fluff

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xparadisexlostx · 3 years

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So Idk what possessed me to write this. I wrote it all in one go and it is in desperate need of a proof read and probably and edit... but I doubt I’ll ever do that lol. I’m tired and I’m getting a headache and I still have drafts to work on, so I’m just gonna post it before I lose confidence and hide it like the many, many other drabbles I’ve never posted.

I don’t know why I wanted to write this in first person. That usually annoys me, but for some reason it just sounded right in this case.

So this drabble is primarily about Beck and Cora, how they meet, and the relationship they have. Obviously I did a LOT, if not too much, condensing because otherwise this never would have ended.

For context, Cora is Beck’s sort of adopted mom. She his a centuries old witch who was possessed, years ago by a spirit of hospitality. Over time the two merged into one being and that is why she’s pretty much immortal. Because of what she was she was made an outcast by her own people, the clan of the Grey Owls. Here is her face claim.

_____________________________________________

A long life makes you accustomed to loss. You learn people are better at a distance. Far enough away that you can’t really make out their faces, and their voices turn to echoes by the time they’re in your ears. Any closer than that and you risk the pain that comes with a proper meeting. I found that out the hard way when Hattie passed.

It was agonizingly slow. At first she just needed a bit of help with getting up after a long day in the garden. And then she couldn’t go as far on our evening walks. Eventually she couldn’t make it out to tend the flowers that she loved so dearly, and she forgot the names of the dairy goats we’d raised by hand and bottle. And when I saw Death come peacefully across the border of the Living Dream, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight and invisible to my love, I lifted her up in my arms and carried her out to the fields of flowers. She didn’t remember my name, but she held me close to her with what dwindling strength remained in her arms, and laid her head on my heart while I whispered a silent goodbye.

We had never had any children. Back then we only escaped the scandal of being together by living on my family’s land and growing or making most of what we needed. People in the towns whispered, but they let us be so long as we didn’t make too much noise. That wouldn’t have been any life for a child. Children need community, friends, and more love than just two mothers could bring them. The mortals would have never accepted a child of ours, and the witches had cast me out years before on account of what I was---what I am.

I buried Hattie in the flowerbed, and I left my home after that. The place I had been made, where I had settled for three centuries, had nothing to give me but pain. Even England reminded me all too much of what I had lost. I was alone, and I imagined that somewhere else I could find a place where I was content with that once again.

And I did. In a cottage deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I found the peace that had evaded me for so long. People stopped by in the occasional way: lost travelers, rapscallion youths, the occasional farmer looking for good dairy stock. That was the way for well over a hundred years. It wasn’t until the storm of ‘01 that it all changed, that I noticed the pie I was cooling on the windowsill was gone, and there was only a small muddy handprint in its place.

In the afterglow of a lightning strike I saw him there. A great, hulking bear, tall as the horizon, pale as a fresh pressed bedsheet, illuminated against the black sky. On his head were horns made of trees, and his claws were gnarled roots. On his back he carried a forest with a heart-tree that glowed gold. My brother, older than me by millenia, scarcely seen but ever familiar, always present. He looked from me to the barn, and stared, transfixed, by whatever he saw, and then he was gone.

I pulled on a raincoat and stepped into my boots, and raced across the yard to the shelter of the barn. The goats stirred in their pen, and the chickens let out a low squawk of protest as the building flooded with light. I found my pie in the back stall and a trail of blueberry pawprints leading away from it and into a pile of hay, where I found a small, trembling kit, little enough to fit in my one hand.

She shook like a leaf, whining up a terrible storm, as I tucked her beneath my coat and took her into the house. The promise of a proper meal convinced her to turn back into the girl I already knew she was, but she still shook so hard that she lost half of every bite she tried to take. I might have scolded anyone else for stealing, but she was so slight, too small and slender for a girl her age, and she was covered in mud and briars and sticks that matted in her golden hair. And when I put her in the tub to scrub her clean I saw the bruises and the cuts that no branch had inflicted.

Looking back on that night I never had the chance to hold her at arm’s length. From the moment I plucked her out of the hay and pressed her to my heart, she was mine. I couldn’t keep her. The Fox Bitch wouldn’t allow it. And no one would listen to me when I told them of the heinous crimes Elea Tandy was committing against her own kin. No one cared when I complained of the local coven teachers casting her out.

I made myself content with what I could have, and I taught her what an old witch could when she escaped that awful house and made her way through the forest to me. I showed her how to sew up a skirt as well as a wound, and taught her what the woods had to offer when her mother denied her supper. When she couldn’t read my spellbooks I taught her songs and rhythms to help her remember words and order. How to milk a goat, how to shear a sheep, how to tie a good and proper knot, and how to cook anything you found or caught. Our time together didn’t always last long, and when she left I felt it like a stab to the heart, but she was mine. The baby Hattie and I never got to have, filled with more kindness and curiosity and life than anyone else I had ever met.

And I ought to have known by the sight of my Brother what she was, and that she could not belong to me, or to anyone forever, but it wasn’t until months later, when I saw him again, watching her ride through the woods with a wild abandon, that I understood.

Feral. A term that makes every parent clutch her pearls and shiver in fear, even though they barely know what it means. Feral witches are born to leave. They are only a brief bridge between the Dream Realm and the physical, destined to merge once more with the Nature Spirit from which they came.

She was not mine to keep, but I held on.

I held on in agony as she ran off, desperate for freedom and adventure and a respite from the violence of her home. I smothered her in loving arms every time she came back. But she came back less and less. It was too dangerous, and every time she risked us both. I told her I didn’t care, and that I wasn’t afraid of Elea Tandy… but I knew that she was.

She was right to be.

Even I had never imagined Elea could be so vile and twisted as to kill a familiar. And to make a child watch… It turns my gut even to think of it now. I thought it would be the death of her, and it likely would have been if her brother hadn’t turned on their mother himself. He tried to bring her back to life, and so did I. But there was nothing but fathomless despair behind those blue eyes. I finally had her safe beneath my roof, and she was dying in my arms just like Hattie had. No amount of love could ever replace what she had lost when Dawnbreaker had been hanged before her eyes.

After ages of lifelessness, she eventually became restless in her grief, and I imagined I was witnessing her end. I put her in my car and drove her as deep into the wilderness as I could, and when I wrapped my arms around her I said that same silent goodbye. I barely made it home before my own sorrow and anger threatened to drown me. She was too young, I thought, and how unfair it was that she should die having tasted so little happiness, having felt so few kind touches. Brother would care for her upon her return, but why had he ever allowed her to come from the womb of that wretched woman? I had gifted her all the love that I could, and it didn’t feel like nearly enough in the face of all the pain she had been put through.

I hated him for that. Perhaps I still do.

I left California the same way I left England, distraught, and purchased new land on the secluded shores of Lake Erie. I told no one where I went, and no one would have ever asked.

When I saw the golden horse upon my lawn some years later I thought it was a reflection in the Living Dream, a spirit of what once was lingering, but the girl upon its back was no longer a child. Even at a distance, even after all those years, I knew her face, and when she ran into my arms I held her tighter than I ever had before.

She was alive and more vibrant than I’d ever seen her---all golden curls and smiles and a wild glint in her eye. We rode horses on the shoreline and sang foolish songs around a campfire. She told me stories of where she had been and everything she’d seen as she wove crowns from wildflowers. The next evening she showed me the scars where the mountain lion had nearly ripped her life away, and then demonstrated her new form with such ease that I felt my knees go weak. Even at such a young age the power swelled around her.

Feral. The very thing that had made other witches reject her had allowed her to thrive. In the wilds she had found the peace and happiness that others had so cruelly robbed her of. And I felt a pride blossom in me that I’d never felt before.

She left me again, as I knew she would, as was her nature, but this time I didn’t feel grief. For as long as she was on this Earth, she would return to me. That much I was certain. And that much has always been proven true.

Now, without the fear of her mother’s viciousness, she comes to me more frequently, and she can linger in my house as long as her wild spirit will allow. Our time together isn’t so rare… and yet I know that it is still brief.

Each visit I see the spirit grow within her, each year the magic grows stronger. It pulls in more animals, and it bends nature around her without her even noticing it.

She doesn’t see my Brother when she is sitting upon her golden stallion, basking in the sun as it cuts through the forest branches, but I think she feels him. As the animals gather all around her and play like newborn lambs, as she feels the embrace of the woods around her, I think she feels him watching. Her eyes glisten and she smiles with a fondness that breaks my heart. I think that if she just takes one step she will be lost to me forever.

I call her name when she raises her hand to touch what she cannot see, and with the slowness of a drunkard she blinks her eyes. When she looks back at me in those moments I know she can see across the centuries. She knows what I am.

Again I call her name. It’s selfish, maybe, to want to hold onto her. Perhaps I do nothing but hold her back. But she smiles at me, and the mist evaporates from her eyes to reveal that mischievous sparkle.

“Come away from there, girl.” I say, beaconing her back toward the house with a wave of my hand and I watch my Brother’s eyes with unbecoming smugness as she presses her golden stallion forward and exclaims “‘Race ya!’” as she charges back home.

#my drabbles #post type: unformatted

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queerpyracy · 3 years

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I hope it's ok to ask your farmer expertise for writing purposes? if a farm was abandoned for c. 2 weeks, with no one to care for the animals, how would the ones you are familiar / have experience with fare -- starve, break out of barns/enclosures, etc? I'll drop dollar in your ko-fi if u answer thx

i'm gonna put this under a cut both bc it's long and bc some of the content might be upsetting, general content warning for animal death and injury

so, what kind of farm infrastructure you have/how it was left is going to matter here

animals with outdoor access are going to have a much easier time getting out than those closed up in a barn, though if they are closed up they'll push on anything they can get to move and doors can come off tracks/hinges, a big enough and desperate enough animal will break a chain on a gate or break a latch on a door. (bulls, especially, are great for fucking up gates for less desperate reasons than thirst. we had a mature bull jump over a gate for horny reasons, and there is now a permanent bend in the top bar.) sometimes they even lift gates off their hinges, which isn’t a perfect way to get out bc cows don’t like walking over that kind of stuff but they will if they have to.

chickens aren't great fliers but they can get over fences pretty easy if there's not a roof in the way, so if they're penned but not in a coop, they'll get out to look for food and water. they'll have the easiest time food-wise (unless it's winter) but will also be the easiest for smaller predators (hawks, raccoons, foxes, skunks, coyotes, etc) to pick off. this'll depend on whether or not your hypothetical farm was abandoned during the day with chickens outside or at night when they were shut up in the coop for protection, in which case, unless your birds have access to two weeks worth of water, they're fucked. mine made it about 8 days on the water provided them when we had to evacuate because of wildfires, but they were topped off knowing we might not be able to get back to them and given extra water because of it. we're talking a 2 gallon covered water can + a coffee can for seven hens, it wasn't too hot, and they were almost dry when i was able to come home.

chickens might be able to make it without food for two weeks, but they might also start cannibalizing each other. this would probably start with a bird at the bottom of the pecking order getting injured and then the situation escalating from there. (this, by the way, doesn't happen unless chickens are under a lot of stress. like chickens are fucked up but i feel the need to be clear that this is not Normal chicken behavior. they will give each other minor injuries but cannibalism happens bc of extreme stress.) chickens will also kill small snakes and rodents.

chickens that are outside without being able to get back in their coop will find a tree or other elevated place to roost at night. chickens that are outside with access to their coop might choose to roost in their coop or outside. laying birds will also start to pick fun new secret places to lay their eggs, under bushes and such. even fed chickens will sometimes eat their own eggs, hungry chickens are absolutely likely to become routine egg eaters. extremely hungry chickens will stop laying.

roosters might be able to fend off skunks and raccoons, but hawks drop out of the sky* and anything much larger than a raccoon is going to devestate an unprotected flock. chickens that are outside in winter and can't get out of the cold are going to be vulnerable to frostbite, particularly their toes and combs. also: if a chicken gets wet down to its skin there is a very high likelihood it will get sick and die.

*hawks will kill a chicken but chickens are also generally too large for them to carry off, so they’ll leave most of the chicken where they found it.

a note on predators in general: you'll have to decide how aggressive they were before the humans were no longer around. where i am, the coyotes are pretty good about keeping their distance, but that's not true of every place, and if they were already a problem, they'll definitely increase their hunting in the absence of humans to keep them at bay. larger animals like cows and horses might be able to drive off or kill a coyote/dog or a small bear, but if they're contending with mountain lions that'll be more of a problem for them. not impossible to drive off/kill, but much more likely to successfully kill livestock.

i don't have much experience with sheep but a problematic dog can kill tons of them in a relatively short time so you can extrapolate from there. i can't think of anyway people tend to keep rabbits that wouldn't leave them dying of dehydration after a few days, unless they manage to pop a latch on their cage/hutch, but they too are going to be extremely vulnerable to predation, being small, unaccustomed to wild conditions, and possibly a highly visible color. domestic rabbits also can die of fright very easily. (my sister's rabbit, who survived a cow sitting on her cage and lived many years after, is an outlier and should not be counted.)

what kind of fencing you have is going to matter: cows don't give much of a shit about barbed wire fences even when they aren't thirsty and hungry, so that won't be much of a problem for them either. if the fence is old, they might push over a rotting post and get out that way. downed wires (barbed or otherwise) might result in an animal getting tangled up--they might be stuck or they might have a horrible ankle bracelet which will cut into them and get infected. they might break the wire from the fence, have a horrible ankle bracelet, and get stuck/tie up their back legs somewhere else.

electric fences are going to be a bit more problematic unless the power is down. cows (and i assume most other livestock) will go through an electric fence if the voltage is compromised in some way, which can happen just from having tall grass/weeds that get wet and short out the fence. if an animal gets tangled up in a hot electric fence and there's no one there to free it, then it's fucked. an electric fence isn't going to be hot enough to kill it fast, is the problem, just enough to make it harder to escape. (i had a rather frightening experience this last summer with a heifer getting her back legs tangled in a temporary wire. she's fine but she wouldn't have gotten out without my help and her legs didn't work for a couple of minutes, and she seemed kind of Off for weeks after that. you wouldn't know anything had happened to her, now.)

wire mesh fences are going to be the hardest to get out of. cow/hog panel fences can be busted where they're tied together/stapled to a post (especially, again, if the fence is old and the posts are decaying.) wooden fences they will just knock over or break through. hedges will be eaten and used for shelter. if for some reason this farm has stone walls that could be a problem for everything except maybe goats and chickens.

goats are escape artists anyway, as long as their horns to get stuck in anything/their feet don't get tangled up, they'll be out and roaming. they are smaller and thus more vulnerable to predators than larger livestock.

access to water is going to be the primary motivator in the short term and the thing that will kill shut-in animals the fastest, as for whether or not anything that manages to get outside will starve in two weeks time, that's going to depend on the season and place. the middle of winter in a place with snow and ice is going to be very hard, obviously, but if we're anywhere between spring and autumn and there is food to be had somewhere, then hungry animals will try to get to it. if they can't get out of fences, hunger might drive them to eat toxic plants they ordinarily avoid. how deadly that is to them depends on how toxic it is, how much is available for them to eat, and how big the animal is. a large cow can probably survive a few stems of tansy ragwort but not a field. (sheep, weirdly enough, can apparently eat young tansy ragwort plants without issue? again, not much experience with sheep but this fact has haunted me since i read it. tansy ragwort causes liver damage in almost everything but sheep, which die at the drop of a hat, Fine, I Guess.)

they'll also start chewing on things that aren't toxic but they might avoid for other reasons, like risking scratching up their nose by eating blackberry leaves, or lower branches of conifer trees. any branches of deciduous trees they can reach, if in leaf, will be one of the first things they go after. if they're regularly pastured under these trees, they'll already have pruned up the bottom branches to however high the tallest animal can reach. if it's autumn or after and there are apples or other fruit on the ground they'll absolutely clean those up, no matter how old--tho after two weeks anyone who finds the place will probably have missed the period of time in which there were drunk livestock. goats will also strip bark off trees, girdling and ultimately killing the tree.

if they can get out of fences they'll wander however far they need to go to find more food. how lucky they are again depends on the season and location. steep hills will provide more danger, especially if it's wet and slick. how regularly they return to the farm itself probably depends on where the water is and if there's better shelter there than anywhere else. (depending on how isolated your hypothetical farm is, wandering livestock might be the indicator that something is Wrong.)

if there are stores of grain laying around that ruminant livestock get into and gorge themselves on, they could get bloat and die that way. they'll also eat bedding straw if hungry, which isn't really nutritious, as long as it isn't covered in urine or feces. in a mixed species group of animals they're more likely to graze closer to/around the feces of other species than in their own. don't ask me why this is just something i've observed.

under severe stress like dehydration or hunger a lactating animal will dry up, which could have consequences for their offspring. if they're old enough to eat solid foods this isn't necessarily lethal, but could stunt their growth in the long term, or leave them more vulnerable to hypothermia bc of the decrease in calories.

some bullet points bc this is A Lot:

animals that are closed up in a barn/coop/etc are at a much higher risk of dying in under a two week time span than animals that aren't

thirst and lack of shelter will kill them faster than hunger

winter is going to in general be the most dangerous season for them to go two weeks without care

most livestock find ways to escape their holdings even when they aren't desperate

small and very young animals are going to in general be more vulnerable to weather and predation

that's about all i can think of off the top of my head, if you have any more questions i'm happy to help.

#farm tag #Anonymous

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black-streak · 4 years

Text

Waiting for the Worms

Prologue- part 1?

Read this first:

This story contains graphic depictions on drug use implying overdose, child neglect, starvation, outright violence and major character death.

Possible future chapters will include trauma, grave digging, claustrophobia, murder, emotional manipulation, and child abuse. Will add more if they occur.

Please take of yourself and avoid this if you have any of these triggers, this fic is going to be a Lot of angst before anything gets even remotely better.

~---~

The first time they switched, it only happened for a minute. Whatever magic in the universe that created the soulmate connection was benevolent enough to wait until the younger of any pair turned six before a first switch could occur. Just old enough to be able to speak and communicate with the world around them, but young enough to establish a fast bond. Of course, the first few swaps were always quick. Just enough to let you know your other half was out there and alive without adding unnecessary mental strain from such a new experience.

Marinette had only turned six just that morning when she came to in a boy's body, standing in a bathroom and looking down at a woman slumped in the bathtub, needle sticking out of her arm. She couldn't process what she was seeing, not really. Only doctors and nurses used needles, and they never left them in, so why did this lady have one? Did the nurse forget it there and she was too afraid to take it out herself? That's okay, Marinette was brave. She'd take it out for her.

Leaning over to grab the end of it, she blacked out only to awaken sitting up in her bed. Blinking back the confusion, she ran downstairs to tell her parents what she experienced, leaving out the woman with the needle. Her mama and papa needn't worry. She's sure the lady would be just fine once whoever that boy she woke up as took it out.

…

It took three years for a swap to last more than a few minutes for her. Her parents assured her that this was normal and the switches with her soulmate would get longer once they were both a little older, usually around ten. This time, it lasted over an hour. She was only nine and quite proud to be considered strong enough to hold a connection earlier than average.

Only, she woke up in an abandoned building.

This couldn't be right, he was in a home last time and that was only a few months ago. Maybe her soulmate just got lost and decided to take shelter for a while? The gnawing hunger said otherwise. Lifting her shirt, she could see the outline of her ribs and began to understand. This wasn't a mistake. He must've been starving for quite a while to be so thin. That much, she realized on her own. The pain of hunger struck up again and she felt tears well up in her eyes, not only for the tightness in her stomach, but for the misery of her poor soulmate.

When the pull to switch started to tug at her mind, she resisted, hoping the boy would go and eat with her family. It was almost dinner time and he deserved a real meal, even if it wouldn't transfer with him when he reentered his body. She prayed with all her might that at least this would offer him some small comfort. Surely he felt the tug too and knew she was holding back for him.

Marinette wished she could leave some sort of note, but upon scavenging the backpack she finally noticed beside her, she found it filled with only necessities. She couldn't fault him for that. His survival was more important.

Her strength wilting, she knew she'd let go soon, her last thought a hope that he enjoyed his time as her.

Coming back to her own body, she carefully hid any reaction and resolved not to tell her parents, not wanting them to know the horrible truth. For what could they do? They didn't know the boy's name, where he lived, or even how to find him. And if the sounds and words she had heard in the last few switches were anything to go off of, he wouldn't speak French either.

Based on her parents' behavior, they hadn't noticed. Perhaps they just thought she was feeling a little down and didn't want to talk. That was fine by her.

…

When she turned 12, something changed. Marinette had grown accustomed to waking in random places hungry, sore, and cold. Over time, the hunger was less, so surely he found some reliable source of food even if it wasn't enough to curb the ever present twist in his lower gut. He also seemed stronger over time, little bruises and scars starting to accumulate from what she could only assume were street fights. She considered herself lucky the swap never occurred during one of those.

This however? Was completely different. Enough to give you whiplash.

She found herself in a soft bed with plush blankets and down pillows, the room surrounding equally as lavish. For a moment she wondered if perchance they had a third soulmate who was much younger than them, but looking down at herself, the frame and scars and structure were all the same.

Not sure how to behave in this new environment, she simply sat there, unmoving, until a nagging in the back of her mind told her to check the drawer of the side table next to her.

Reaching in, she found a crisp, folded up piece of paper with her name scrawled across the top. A note from her soulmate. Opening it up, she thanked everything she had that she realized he probably spoke english three years ago and began studying it extensively. Reading his letter was slow going and took multiple tries, but she eventually figured out the jist of it even if she was clearly missing some of the more obscure words and proper conjugations.

He was thirteen and had been taken in by a man of wealth, Bruce Wayne. This was home now. She would wake up and not be homeless now. He was sorry. Something about her deserving better. His name was Jason. He was very sorry. A man named Alfred was a good person and trustworthy. She would like him. He hoped she liked him.

The letter, as convoluted and confusing as it was at times, broke her heart.

Shuffling through the drawer, she pulled out a notebook and opened it to a random page and grabbed a pen. She was embarrassed to say that her note was probably more confusing with its broken english, but there was no way he learned French while living on the streets, so she did her best to let him know that he shouldn't apologize. He had no control over his situation and that she hoped he found some reprieve in his time in her body. That she cared and was so very happy for him to have found a home. That it was wonderful to know he would sleep in such comfort with a full stomach and a warm blanket and people who cared for him keeping him safe. That he deserved to be happy and thrive without the fear of where he would sleep that night, when his next meal would be. That she was happy to be his soulmate, no matter what.

…

After that, they switched more sporadically. She learned that muscle memory was an amazing thing. Nothing quite like coming to while sparing with a full grown man. And not realizing that it was a spar and not some man trying to actually take down her soulmate.

The next time they switched, she found a note with profuse apologies and a brief explanation as to what was happening. That was how she began her training with him. She asked her Maman about getting into martial arts so she could keep up with him and continue his training if he got stuck in her body for more than a few hours.

Obviously her parents knew she had a soulmate and presumably his new parental figures knew he did too, but they made sure none of them could ever tell when a switch occurred. Letters were made detailing their usual reactions and attitudes and way of doing things. Letters were burnt to never be seen by another's eyes. Instinct is what helped them the most to hide their secrets. While Marinette had always been a generally open and honest kid, this was between the two of them and no one else needed to know their business. Especially with his new role as a vigilante in training.

…

When she turned thirteen, that training took a new meaning for them both. He had been Robin for half a year at this point, with only minimal switches during actual patrols, when she received Tikki.

Directly after defeating Stonehenge, she wrote out a long winded letter in near perfect english- written grammar rules would forever confuse her- to him despite his immense progress with French and placed it in a secure lock box they used in her home for communicating and instructed Tikki that upon sensing their switch as the magic being assured she could, to stay hidden until he finished reading it in its entirety.

Of course things don't work out that simply and they switch in the middle of an akuma attack. Looking back on the footage, muscle memory once again saved their lives, but she still feels horribly about how he got tossed into it. Tikki assures her that he was okay and read her note and wasn't angry with her. That she had been forced into this position in both their lives now, yes, but not at her.

She could only count her blessings that they both already had a background in fighting at this point. If her mentor took note of her easy transition into superheroism, it was easily chalked up to her martial arts classes, even if she had only been in them for about a year. If his mentor noticed his increased agility and critical thinking due to his time in her body fighting akumas and using convoluted lucky charms, he likely assumed it was his own guidance finally taking hold.

…

The last time they switched, Marinette was fourteen and in class. It was first thing in the morning, attendance already taken and lessons underway. By all accounts, Jason should have been asleep, what with it being around two a.m. in Gotham. Switching at this time wasn't unheard of though considering their lifestyles, so upon feeling the small tug in her mind that let her know she was about to be somewhere else, Marinette placed her tablet down and leaned back in her seat so he wouldn't accidently draw attention by tossing the tablet or falling back upon waking as her. Then she waited.

The first thing her disoriented mind picked up was the feeling of a metal bar launching into her stomach which… admittedly wasn't an entirely new feeling, though it usually occurred in her own body and not through his.

Okay, so a fight, she could handle this.

Her arms wouldn't move though.

They were strapped down, as were her legs and the metal was pulling itself away from her. So she wasn't launched into a steel bar or batted across the city. This was purposeful, she thought as the bar slammed into her stomach once more, erupting in pain without the protection of a magical suit. Despite the fear now coursing through her, she opened her eyes.

Or rather, attempted to.

One was swollen shut and as she became more aware, she could feel broken ribs, a broken leg and arm, the pulsing of half her face. As her one good eye opened, the room spun, but she could see a man in a swirl of purple and green standing over her body. Her soulmate's body. As soon as the world stopped, she came to focus just in time to see a crowbar swing down into her throat, cracking the windpipe. As she struggled for breath, the tugging came to the back of her mind once more, the strain on his body too much to hold her mind in place.

She pushed it back, focusing more on forcing him back into her mind than breathing at this point, ignoring the blows raining down on her.

She was numb by now anyways.

She could feel Jason trying to claw his way back, pushing against her will to switch back, but at this point, this body wasn't strong enough to allow a switch. She was stuck in him and he in her. Good. Jason had been through enough. She could endure this for him.

Distantly, she noticed the beating had stopped. Hopefully that meant Batman was here now and would take her away from this place. To a hospital or even to their personal surgeon, whatever their name was, she could never remember. It'd be over soon and she could rest through the pain until Jason's body was healed. Then they could switch back. When the pain was but a distant memory.

Smiling to herself at the thought, she managed a tiny smile, not hearing the explosions in the background until the flames were upon her.

And then she was gone.

#ml x dc #jasonette #maribat #please read the warnings #this is really dark #still only on mobile so no keep reading option that i know of #WFTW #part 1

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a-simple-imagine · 4 years

Text

Welcome to Westworld

Synopsis: Y/N and Natasha visit Westworld where they meet a particular blonde.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader, elements of Dolores x fem!reader

Words: 4.2k+

A/N - This turned out a little longer than expected and totally self-indulgent. I guess it is a crossover.

"Can you believe we're actually here?" Excitement oozed from every word that left your lips as you step off the train. It was nothing more than a train station but you couldn't help but admire it. It was almost too perfect, the pristine white and black of every surface; it was elegant. Even the people who occupied the platform were dressed in white.

"Not really," Natasha groaned, pushing you gently forward. "All I got from Tony for my birthday was a card."

"Yeah... well... I'm his favourite."

It was definitely meant as a brag after all this place cost thousands of dollars. A young woman calls out your name as she approaches. She was a traditional kind of pretty, piercing blue eyes with not a blonde hair out of place. Not a blemish on her ivory skin. "Welcome to Westworld."

Natasha was already being lead away by one of the men in white as you follow your guide.

"Given it's your first visit, I have a few questions for you." She draws your attention back. The woman proceeds to inquire about your medical history; basic questions about previous conditions and your mental health. She takes you up the escalators, and at the top is a giant screen advertising the park. You couldn't wait to get inside.

"So how does this all work?" You wonder, "Is there like an orientation... or tutorial, maybe?"

The other woman smiles ever so softly, it was a gorgeous smile. "No orientation, half the fun is figuring out how it all works. You'll start in the town at the centre of the park; it's relatively safe. Then the further you go out the more intense the experience becomes. how far you go is up to you."

You nod along as she speaks; wondering if Natasha is going through the same line of questioning. "Makes sense."

The woman whose name you have yet to be told leads you into what you assume is a dressing room. Different selections of clothes lined the walls. With glass display cases in the centre. "This will be the first choice you make; everything in here is bespoke and exactly your size so please take your time."

You drift over to a display of dresses. They ranged from simple picnic dresses to eccentric ball gowns. Your fingers dance over the material of each dress before selecting a blue one. It had a high collar to frame the face paired with a flattering "V" cut. long leg-o-mutton sleeves and full skirt with pockets. It was adorned with a delicate red rose pattern. "Found something you like?"

You almost forgot she was here. You shake your head, placing the dress back. Your eyes fall to a display case of pistols that stood centre. "Are those real?" You ask as you walk over.

"Real enough," She responds; the guns were in perfect 3 x 3 lines.

"I thought you couldn't get hurt here," you comment as you look over the following case which held a few shotguns.

"Only the right amount." You look to her, brows furrowed a little before focusing on the suits. You didn't have anything against the dresses but they weren't practical for what you had in mind. A suit on the other hand; you'd look like a traditional cowboy. You select a black jacket before turning to your little companion.

"Uh... should I get changed in another room or?"

"I can help you or I can step out of you like," you chucked a little until you realised she was serious. The blonde takes a few steps closer, you swallow hard at how close she is. She smells good; sweet. "Whatever, you want."

You're stunned for a moment. "I... can dress myself- thank you though, really."

she smiled tightly before wandering away. "I'll be outside if you need anything."

You opted for a long black jacket with matching slacks that were held up by suspenders. A striped white shirt and a little red scarf to complete the look. You had a gun holster strapped to your hip with a small silver pistol lodged in it. You'd gotten changed a couple of times before finally settling on this look and went to find your guide. "How do I look?"

"Time for the final touch," she leads you to a corridor with hats hug up on the wall. In different colours and sizes. You select a white hat to help break up the black a little; it was more tan than white. An Ivory hat. And thus concluded your introduction to the world, she left you to walk down a long corridor to a brown door. You twisted the nob and walked through to an ensemble of men and women. It was old fashioned, really looked the part. You find Natasha sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey.

"Damn, cowboy," you comment playfully, "Is this seat taken?"

Natasha turns to you, eyes drifting over your outfit as you take in hers. She wore dark brown trousers with a lighter brown vest no shirt underneath which showed off her arms. A brown hat on her head. "I'm surprised you didn't come out in one of those dresses, you're not gonna be too hot in that?"

"I almost did," You shrug a little, glancing around at the men in costumes. "I don't reckon so but I can always take off the jacket."

The bartender poured you a drink you never asked for which you took with a smile, heading over to get a look out the window. There was nothing but darknesses you twisted on your heel to glance back at her. "I wonder what it's like...

The once cramped compartment felt so much freer as light spilled into the cabin. You turn quickly to get the first glimpse of Westworld. The large mountains, canyons, the blue sky. It was all... surreal. This place must be absolutely huge.

Pulling up to the station; you're not even sure how you got on the train. Yes you walked through the door but how did a static door lead to a moving train? You get down off the train almost too scared to step into the unknown. Natasha trailed behind you as you walk into the small town of Sweetwater. It didn't seem all that big but it was busy. Too many things were hitting you at once you weren't sure what part to take in.

"Slow down, dude," you almost stumble into two girls as she calls out to you but you manage to dodge, with each step you feel your confidence grow.

"Come on Natasha," she's a fair few paces behind. "What should we do first- Hurry up,"

You wait for her to catch up before continuing. Glancing at each building as if trying to find something to break the immersive experience but everything seemed like it fit into this world perfectly. You couldn't even tell who were guests and who were the hosts, everything just worked. "What do you wanna do?"

"I don't know, it's your present." A large white building catches your eye. MARIPOSA was written in large black letters across the top of the building, above some decking. Saloon and hotel were written slightly smaller. "I think we should-"

Her voice drifts as you wander over to a poster that was pinned to a post, fluttering gently in the breeze. You flatten it out and a giant smile spreads over your lips as the words WANTED becoming clear as day

"You sure you can handle that?" The voice of reason has returned. Natasha was stood behind you.

"I'm a tough girl," you argue, "I could do it."

"Maybe start smaller, yeah? Stay in town get the lay of the land-"

You're not in the mood for Natasha's sensibility. Maybe you weren't ready to go hunting for outlaws but you could if you wanted to and surely you could find someone around here willing to help out. It's almost second nature to drown out her talking when you don't wanna listen as your attention becomes drawn somewhere else once again. You catch sight of a woman with a tan and black horse. Her light blue dress stood out against the otherwise drab colour scheme. She had beautiful golden hair that absorbed the sun. You don't know what it is but you can't help but watch her for a moment as she tries to shove a bag into the satchel on her horse; a can spilling out and onto the floor. Without a second thought, you're walking towards her, scooping up the can.

"Excuse me miss, I think you dropped this." Her delicate features come into view and you have to take a step back to appreciate. She was beautiful; overly so. Some would even say perfect. Her lips curled up into a gracious smile that brings joy to your face.

"Stop running off on me," Natasha scolds as she walks up behind, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Who's this?"

It takes you a moment to even comprehend that Natasha is talking. "Uhhh... I don't know."

"I'm Dolores," the otherwise annoying southern drawl is charming to the ear. "Thank you for the can,"

"You're Welcome," you tilt your cowboy hat a little, introducing yourself and Natasha. "So are you from around here, Dolores?"

"I am," she nods, smiling brightly. "I live just down the road but I don't think I've ever seen you two before. Suppose you're some of those newcomers, we get a lot of those."

You glance to Natasha who just shrugs. If she lived here that meant she was a host even though she definitely didn't seem like one. And you technically were newcomers just not in the way she's probably thinking. "That we are ma'am. I hate to be a bother but we were wondering if you might now what there is to do for fun around here?"

"It's no bother," she deliberates for a moment, putting the can away on her horse. "I guess it would depend on what you're looking for."

"I guess it would," you chuckle. Half the fun is figuring it out but you had no clue where to start. "Uh... what do you do for fun?"

She looks to you for a moment, paused in thought. "I go to my favourite spot by the river and paint."

"That sounds nice," not what you were expecting her to say but sure. You look to Natasha wondering what she wants to do.

"I think we should secure a place to sleep and eat first, maybe get a drink too."

"Alright," You sigh, logic beats fun here. Secure food and shelter was a very Natasha thing to say. "Would you mind taking us out tomorrow? We could go down to the river- I promise we won't get in the way?"

"I would be delighted." You can't help but feel a little delight at her words. "I'll meet you two back here tomorrow morning then."

"Perfect."

"Do you have horses?" The blonde asks, climbing up and onto hers.

"I'm afraid not we came on the train, know where we can get one?"

"I can bring some if you like?" She offered, her hand patting her horse a couple of times. "Or there is a stable on the edge of town, they should have a few if you got the money."

"We'll buy a few, thanks." May as well get some for the duration of your stay.

"I guess I'll see you two tomorrow then,"

"Bye Dolores," you wave as she rides off. Instantly turning to Natasha with the giddiness of a small child.

"I can't believe we came all the way here and you just wanna sit on the side of a river with some random girl."

"I wanted to go bounty hunting but you said no," you huff. "Besides, it's just one day. I'm pacing myself so where to next?"

"I need a drink but maybe we should get a couple horses first?"

"Okay... let's find the stables,"

It takes a while to find the stables. In the end Natasha had to ask a local who pointed you in the right direction. The stables were a big reddish-brown barn with a paddock to the left. One door was left open so you just wandered on in. It was considerably darker inside, dirty too. Despite the smell, there didn't actually seem to be a horse in sight.

"Howdy, folks. You looking to sell or buy?" An older gentleman startles you from the right. He had a white mustache but lacked hair on top of his head.

"Buy? How much is a horse?"

"Depends on the horse missy." You weren't sure how you felt about being called missy but you let it slide. "I've only got one left, ain't too many selling these days but he's a real beaut."

"Can we afford this?" Natasha asks quietly. The thing with theme parks was that despite the expensive entry fee, nothing seemed to come for free. You could steal a horse but that seemed risky so buying one was the next option.

"I don't know but Tony said to go nuts. I'm taking that as buy the horse."

In the very back stood just that; a horse. Black as the night with patches of white across his back, a crescent of white adorned the top of his head. "He's a big fella but gentle as can be," he reaches over to run his hand across the horse's nose. "I should be getting more in soon but this is the best I got for now. I'll even throw in everything you need to look after him, saddle and all."

"We'll take him," you declare quickly before Natasha can have a chance to say no.

"Great, let me just grab his papers."

You smile to Natasha. "Go pay the man,"

With a roll of her eyes, she wonders after the stable keeper. Staying with the horse, you walk closer; reaching out slowly. The animal was soft to the touch and made your smile brighten. "I think I'll call you moonshine."

Natasha returns a moment later with papers in hand. "He's ours."

"Great... do you know how to ride a horse?" You ask Natasha. The stable guy opens the door to let the horse trot out so he can attach the saddle. You watch him carefully to make sure you remember the process just in case.

"Do you?" You didn't so you shake your head. You'd never thought the skill would come in handy.

"Guess it's time to learn."

"You're all set," The man announces, slapping his hands together.

"Thank you," you take the horse's reigns and begin walking back towards the door. Thankfully the horse follows. "Where to next?"

"Food?" Natasha suggests. "Find a place to sleep.

"Let's hitch the horse and grab some food, I think I saw a restaurant back in town."

"Hitch the horse- listen to you cowboy."

After dinner, you retire to the Sweetwater inn. It was incredibly cheap but money was different back then so it makes sense. The next morning, Natasha is up at the crack of dawn, waking you up at around ten. You have breakfast before finding Dolores at the wayside.

"Morning, you two."

"Good morning, Dolores." You answer with a yawn.

"I see you got yourself a horse,"

"His name is Moonshine," you answer. "They only had one though."

"That's alright. One of you can ride with me."

"I'll ride with you," You weren't giving up the chance to get closer to her. Natasha's brows furrow at your eagerness. "I don't trust Natasha on a horse."

You climb up behind Dolores and it's a little daunting being up so high up. It's instinctive to put your arms around her to make yourself feel safer. Heat rushing to your cheeks as you realise you've just grabbed a woman you hardly know.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" you pull away.

"It's alright, have you ever ridden a horse before?" Dolores quarries.

Your head shakes. "No."

Reaching behind her, she searches for your hands. You take hold of hers and she places them around her. "We'll be okay just hold tight."

Dolores feels warm in your embrace and she smells like fresh linen. It's weird how... normal she felt. You kind of expected her to feel hard and cold but she felt like any other human being. It's like when you put your arms around Natasha who gets annoyed when you don't let go. "I'll go slow at first so you can get used to it."

You nod a little even though she can't see and with a flick of her wrist, the horse starts moving. Your grip tightens around her at the motion but you relax with a heavy sigh. It takes a second but you work up the courage to look at Natasha who seems at home aboard Moonshine; no surprise there.

"You doing okay back there?"

"Mhmm,"

The horse gets faster but it's not as bad this time; you've grown accustomed to the motion. You don't know how long you're up there for but you approach the river with a gentle curiosity. Natasha helps you down form the horse, which doesn't seem as big from the ground. Looking out over the river, it was a beautiful spot of lush green. Natasha walks up beside you as Dolores collects her things from her horse. "She felt real," you hum quietly, not bothering to look at her. "Like I don't know how to explain it... she doesn't feel like a machine."

"Doesn't mean she isn't one," Natasha pats you firmly on the back. "Remember that,"

You watch her walk to the river edge before glancing at Dolores who had set up her axel.

"Whose horses are those?" You ask out loud, pointing to a spot where three horses roamed. They seemed to be enjoying the grass.

"Oh they're wild," Dolores replies. "Do you want to get closer?"

With Dolores leading the way, you approach the three beasts. One was chestnut brown, the other tan and finally the third was a greyish white. The white horse trots closer to the two of you as Dolores offers out her hand.

"Here," she hands you a slice of apple. "Put your hand out real flat."

Doing as instructed, the horse seems cautious but eventually takes the free food leaving a little slobber in its wake.

"Hey Nat, we could have just gotten a couple of these instead of buying one."

"I don't know about you but I don't think we could tame a wild one."

"They're really quite gentle," The host interrupts, stroking the neck of the horse. You're utterly amused by the whole situation. This place was, in terms of technology, so advanced, and yet life was simple. It was the little moments that were so enticing- although you still wanted to go chase criminals at some point.

The day is spent with Dolores. It's joyful and peaceful although you're not sure how much fun Natasha is having. As the sun began to set and Dolores insisted she had to get home, you go your separate ways and head back to Sweetwater with Natasha.

Tonight was Natasha's turn to pick and so you ended up in the Saloon. It was surprisingly full and lively. A man sat at the piano, playing tune after tune. There was a poker game taking place between a group of men. And you were pretty sure there were working girls wondering about offering their... services.

"How do you think they make them so realistic?" You think out loud as you stand at the bar. "Like Dolores was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. And there's just no way you could tell she wasn't another human being without knowing beforehand."

"Will you shut up about Dolores," Natasha groaned. "There are plenty of other..."

Her voice trails off and you find a stranger stood just behind you. She was a pretty brunette and sporting a deep blue ruffled and laced corset dress. It looked good on her. A soft hand danced ever so lightly over the skin of your cheek. "You're new," she hums, bringing her fingertips to her lips. "Not much of a rind on you."

You swallow hard under her gaze as she smiles. "I can give you a discount. It's normally five dollars but I can do it for four."

You glance towards Natasha, it had become a habit since entering the park. You wanted to gauge her reaction; figure out what she deemed okay. "Go ahead," The redhead brings a shot glass to her lips, knocking it back. "I don't care if you fuck a robot,"

"She's not-" you cut yourself off, "thank you for the offer ma'am but I'm gonna have to decline. Maybe another time."

"You don't have to be so negative all the time." You growl as you lean down against the bar, signaling for the bartender to refill your glass. "Maybe actually pretend to enjoy this place."

"How am I being negative?"

"The point of this place is to have fun and experience the old west. Live without limits," you try to keep your voice down but not so much it's drowned out by everything else going on in here. "You don't have to keep telling me everything isn't real- I know that. I know the hosts aren't people but they're basically the same so just stop it. Maybe I should have come alone."

You down a shot of whiskey which burns as it drifts down your throat before finding a seat at an empty table. "Look I'm sorry," Natasha takes up the seat opposite you. "I'll try to take this more seriously okay? I don't mean to ruin your experience."

"Would you really not be mad if I fucked that girl?"

"I mean... it's your money to waste. Why? Are you curious."

"Maybe just a little," you chuckle. It was a genuine curiosity if you were being honest. Surely they can't feel real in those moments. "I won't though."

Natasha is relatively happy as you get a couple drinks in her, so the night practically flies by. You even try your hand at a little poker which you're bad at but Natasha seems to be cleaning up.

Day 3 of your Westworld adventure and you're not quite sure what to do. Where to go? Or who to talk to? You stood staring at the wanted poster from the day you walked in. Natasha was in the general store picking up some supplies. Maybe today was the day to do something a little more... exciting. Then you spot her again; Dolores. She brings a smile to your lips as you watch her but it's quick to fade as three men approach her. You can't hear them but you also can't just assume they have bad intentions so you keep an eye on the interaction. Mainly on Dolores in the middle and when she tries to push past and they stop her, you spring into action.

"Fellas, how about you leave my friend here alone."

They all turn to you and you take a step back. Are they hosts or guests? You couldn't tell. "Or what?" A nasally voice assaults your ears. The owner was a short man with thick brown hair. "We can do whatever we want so fuck off."

"I said, leave her alone." You stand your ground, hand lingering on the gun you hadn't had the honour of using just yet. "Now."

The biggest of the lot was a burly man with a thick beard. He definitely seemed like he would win if this ended in a fistfight. He towers over you, grabbing you by the arm but before you can react, Natasha is between you. Pressing the man's arm up against his back. "You so much as look at my girlfriend again and I will break your arm, you understand? Now the lady asked you nicely to leave so I'd listen if I were you."

Natasha releases him and he fixes himself. A triumphant smirk appears on your lips. You may have wanted to test out your gun but maybe Natasha jumping in had been for the best. "Come on boys. It's not worth it."

"Thank you," Dolores looks relieved to see you and it fills you with an undeniable warmth. There was just something about her that you absolutely adored; and it wasn't just the pretty face.

"It was no big deal," You respond casually. "Some guys can be such assholes."

"Still, I'm grateful." You're proud of yourself even if Natasha did the heavy lifting. "I'd love to have you over for dinner tonight to say thank you. I'm sure my daddy would love to have you join us."

"We would love to," Natasha answers for you; you a little surprised actually. This was the first time Natasha seemed interested in Dolores, you kinda thought she hated her. "As long as it's no trouble."

"None at all." Dolores insisted, climbing onto her horse. "Just grab your horse and we can go now. I'll show you the rest of the ranch too."

You walk alongside Natasha to collect moonshine from outside the general store. "I can't believe you nearly got into a fight over a fucking robot."

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #dolores abernathy #Dolores abernathy x reader #evan rachel wood #westworld

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bingleycharles · 4 years

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First off, I don’t spend a lot of time on tumblr any more, and this blog was mainly meant to be a reference blog for wuxia/xianxia genre, which has been my favorite genre for a long time. My main intention was to provide some information that might be helpful (I think MDZS becoming so popular so quickly due to the tv drama came a bit unexpected to us who have loved the novel for a long time) and not really engage much beyond that. But, the more time I spend here, the more I feel that some things need to be said.

There’s been a lot of talk about the MDZS novel dubcon/noncon elements and I definitely had no intention of engaging with that to any extent, but the mentality of this particular group of people (and I use that term generously because it’s mainly the mentality of extremely sheltered children) on tumblr is so unbelievably wild that someone needs to say something, and I guess that’s going to be me. I am going to warn people in advance, that I am going to make no attempts to be nice about this, because after some of the discussions I’ve seen recently, even if niceness was deserved, I certainly am no longer capable of it.

Now that the disclaimer is in place, let’s talk a bit about where this hatred for mxtx and her sex scenes comes from.

1. People who believe that nothing problematic should exist in fiction, because nothing problematic should exist in the world.

Sometimes, this is based on a simple inability to recognize how fiction and real world are not, in fact, the same thing, and this inability can be more commonly found among those too young to understand complex subjects (see great majority of the above children, who have already caused a great deal of damage to vulnerable communities by misusing and misrepresenting terms like pedophilia, incest, etc, etc). More often however, it is based on the inability to understand how real word and fiction are actually related, an inability that is unfortunately found among many people who should be considered adults. It is a fundamental misunderstanding of both, rooted in a belief that real world problems exist because they are normalized in fiction (but not all world problems because no one is trying to get rid of murder mysteries, just the icky problems they don’t actually wanna think about or do anything to solve, but would still like to never see again. All this while simultaneously getting to say “well, I’m against incest in fiction so that’s my contribution to the issue,” so they can then feel good about themselves).

This belief, by the way, that real world problems exist because they are normalized in fiction, has been proven as a false narrative many times, but like “Bible says all gay people are evil” or “climate change isn’t real” doctrines, it refuses to die even when faced with facts. “Fiction does not exist in a vacuum” they keep saying, as if those capable of critical thinking have not addressed this subject so many times, that you could practically walk your way across the Pacific Ocean on their responses alone. The real world problems do not exist because someone once wrote them down in a piece of fiction, and that should be abundantly clear to us all. Instead, problematic subjects exist in fiction precisely because they existed in the real world first, and we, the human beings, find writing things down to be one of the many ways we process information, problematic or otherwise.

There is also an insistence on seeing every piece of fiction as an instruction manual for “bad things,” and honestly, I don’t know what happens in these people’s heads, nor do I want to. Again, according to them, any underage fiction is an instructional manual for a possible pedophile, but tens of thousands of murder mysteries are just entertainment. If you read/write underage fiction, you must be a pedophile, but by the same logic, if you read/write bloody murder mysteries, this logic either doesn’t apply, or murder is just fine. So inevitably we go back to the fact that a lot of these issues are only raised by people who just don’t think anything they personally find “icky” should exist, and that’s rooted mostly in white privilege (and we’ll get to the white minority individuals later) and ethnocentricity (and we’ll get to that in a minute too). Basically, when I hear “people will learn that rape is okay from fiction,” I automatically think you’re either extremely immature or extremely ignorant, or both. Please take a psychology/sociology class or seven, throw in Moral Development 101 in the mix, and get back to me in like ten years, when we can both try and have an adult conversation. In the meantime, arguing against this is like arguing with climate change deniers. More likely to make me dumber than them smarter.

In short, you will never be able to get rid of problematic fiction, because you will never make the world not problematic, nor will stopping the people who choose to reflect their problematic world in writing fiction accomplish absolutely anything, except them having no way to process their reality, and you being considered an immature child (which most people who think like this already are, so no news there, let’s move on).

2. They believe things are problematic because they believe that their particular experiences are common to everyone else. If they see it as problematic, then everyone else should to see it that way too.

This should be self-explanatory, and a thousand of these discussions have been held in the past, by people more eloquent than myself, about every subject from rape fantasies and bondage (go back a few years to 50 shades), to experiences that are unique to specific minority groups, like trans individuals, refugees, rape survivors, those with disabilities, multi-national and multi-racial individuals, and so on and so forth. Even among the hundreds and hundreds of these vulnerable groups of individuals, there are hundreds of different subgroups, whose experiences are all wildly different, wildly subjective, and all completely valid to them, regardless of how they differ.

None of us have the ability to understand each and every one of those unique experiences. At best, we may be able to somewhat understand a few people who have had similar experiences, but our opinions on a variety of subjects have been shaped by the smallest differences in those experiences, and are likely to never be exactly the same.

What I’m saying is this: the little white girl from Iowa, regardless of her minority status as disabled/lesbian/bi/queer female, will never understand what drives a young/disabled/queer/multiracial/2nd gen. immigrant girl, to write 55k of rape fantasy fiction between two multiracial men, and she doesn’t have to understand it. Neither her disability nor her queerness should give her a single iota of moral high ground over the other individual, or vice versa. Her personal understanding of what is morally right or wrong in fiction does not give her the right (nor should it ever) to pass judgment on anyone else’s experiences, or their method for processing those experiences. There is no sensitive way I can say this, so I’m not even gonna try. You don’t get to be automatically right because you’re gay, disabled, or a minority of any kind. Like, I know this is uncomfortable to hear, but people around here often use their status to invalidate others and to get them not to engage in any type of discussion that would prove their opinions wrong. I’m literally watching children on tumblr going, “I don’t need to know about oppression, I’m gay,” like holy shit. The only oppression you know is your own. That’s it. Please tone down the arrogance and realize you’re not alone in the world, minority or not.

I get that if you were raped, you may never want to see rape in fiction. But in the same vein, there exist people who were raped, and want to see rape in fiction. I get that you’re gay and offended by certain type of fiction, but there are also people who are gay and prefer the same type of fiction you find offensive. This is exactly when words like “pedophile” and “incest” get thrown around a lot, for things that in no way meet the definition. Because there is no factual or valid argument that exists here, and people are browbeating other people by saying “Well, I’m gay and oppressed and I just don’t like it so it has to be wrong.” But when the dissenter is also gay and oppressed, and you have to admit that based on the status you’ve used to validate yourself, you also have to admit that their opinion is as valid as yours, then the only fallback is to point a finger and say that there must be something wrong with them. “Well, your opinion is not valid because you read underage fiction so you’re a pedophile,” and this is literally what keeps happening over and over again.

At the root of all this is a twisted, sick belief, that those who process their issues and their problematic environments in the morally pure and acceptable way are the only valid voices in every community, and that everyone else’s experiences are immediately invalidated by default. It’s a pretty fucking gross rhetoric, and it’s been going on here on tumblr for a very long time now, but it’s only gotten worse, and it’s especially prevalent among the new influx of mdzs “fans.”

3. They believe things are problematic because their culture considers them problematic, and they have no concept of the fact that theirs is not the only culture in the world.

This is particularly nasty proclivity, commonly found in Western consumers of fiction. The Western audiences like to think themselves enlightened, despite the fact that most Eastern cultures have carpets in their government buildings older than the entire Western culture, system of law, morality codes, or their Constitutions. This is mostly true of U.S. in particular because their ethnocentrism keeps self-validating itself through ignorance, poor education, and other evils of capitalism. But it’s also true of other white European consumers of fiction, who have a long history of colonialism to thank for their continuous insistence that their morality is more enlightened than everyone else’s (oh, the irony of that). But not to go too far from the subject at hand, if I had a dollar every time a white girl from United States said “Ew, this rape scene this Chinese author wrote is really gross and I find it to be offensive to my entire existence,” I could pretty much overthrow the entire capitalist system that produced this ethnocentric fucking nonsense in the first place.

In short, there are many individuals in the West, who might be minorities in their general community, but have no concept or understanding of other cultures, other minority communities, or other individuals that have life experiences drastically different from their own, so they judge everything they see from their own perspective, because it is the only perspective they have, and unfortunately, it’s a pretty narrow one. There is an important lesson to be learned here, and it’s the one I’ve already mentioned above:

Being queer, or being any kind of a minority, does not automatically save you from being ignorant, being ethnocentric, being unable to understand other people’s experiences (minority or otherwise), and it most certainly does not mean that your queer culture is the only right queer culture in the world. If you doubt my words, I highly suggest consulting some native-Chinese male queer individuals, who have also read that rape scene by that Chinese author who has upset you so much that you can’t stop crying about it (although it wasn’t written for you, and you were under no obligation to read it), and maybe ask them what they think, since their opinion is the only one even close to being relevant to this particular conversation. I guarantee that their answers will shock and amaze you, and you may even learn a thing or two along the way.

(And if you immediate answer isn’t that their opinions will all be wildly different as well because them all being native-Chinese male queer individuals still doesn’t mean they’re all the same fucking person [because hello? China has 56 ethnic groups alone] and that each and every one of them is a unique individual with a unique perspective based on their particular upbringing, social environment, sexuality, etc, etc, then you’re fucking missing the point, please go back up to the beginning and try again).

In the end, the answer to never having to see anything that upsets you is pretty simple and straight forward. If it’s bothersome, do not engage. If you don’t understand something, if it seems alien to your experience, if your very existence feels utterly repulsed by it, consider the fact that it was probably not written for you in the first place, and simply remove yourself from its presence.

Do not assume that you know why it was written, do not assume it is a personal attack against your existence, do not assume that you understand (or ever could) the culture that gave it birth, the history that formed it, or the shared experiences of those who happen to like it. Do not assume that you are the authority on problematic when it comes to anyone else’s work except your own, because you are a unique individual, your moral beliefs and expectations are your own, and no one else is required to share them. The world does not have a common morality, and if it did, it certainly wouldn’t be a common morality of a white girl on fucking tumblr who isn’t gonna take an intercultural competence class unless she’s in her fourth year of college, and even then, the exact privilege that allowed her to take that class is gonna make it pretty unlikely that she’ll understand it. It’s a tough life I know, but you’ll get over it tolerably well I’m sure.

In the simplest words possible, please try and turn a mirror towards your own propensity to think that your viewpoint is superior to all others, quit making excuses that amount to your particular minority status somehow making you immune to rampant cultural ignorance, because it’s literally been centuries of this bullshit from white colonialists countries for the rest of the world, and everyone is pretty fucking sick of it.

People are simply asking you not to be a dick to other unique individuals on the sole basis of the fact that you are incapable of processing their world, their culture, or their experiences, in the same exact way that they have, and frankly, it’s really not a lot to ask.

#mdzs #mxtx #mo dao zu shi #racism #ethnocentrism #xenophobia #white privilege #cultural ignorance

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ohdearden · 3 years

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IC PORTION; BASICS —

CHARACTER NAME/ALIAS: Mia Dearden / Speedy (the second)

FACECLAIM: Ester Exposito

AFFILIATIONS: Team Arrow, Teen Titans, the Nomads

AGE (physical age as well, if different): 23

SPECIES (human, metahuman, alien, etc): Human

IS YOUR CHARACTER’S IDENTITY SECRET OR PUBLIC? Secret

IF SECRET, OR YOUR CHARACTER IS A CIVILIAN, DO THEY HAVE A CIVILIAN OCCUPATION? Mia is new in town, and is currently focusing her efforts on aid work. She’s working hard at learning the language so that she can be of more assistance, and potentially work in town in the future.

IF YOUR CHARACTER LIVES IN THE FORTRESS, WHAT ARE THEIR DUTIES? Refugee outreach, and whatever else she might be decent at. She’s happy to help out, but can’t cook for shit.

DESCRIBE SIX TRAITS (3 positive, 3 negative) YOUR CHARACTER HAS AND HOW THESE AFFECT THEM: + Empathetic and caring: Mia, having been through as much as she has, has a strong push to help others. She has trouble turning people who need help away, and will often find herself reaching for a way to help them. She worked at the community center back home to help youth at a disadvantage (much as she had been herself), and found time to spare to volunteer time at the domestic violence shelter as well. + Bold: Mia is unafraid and outgoing, making her personality very loud and bold. She’s unafraid to speak her mind, and is often quite blunt and straight to the point. She speaks to people easily (though making friends is another matter) and is always one to make her presence known. Mia has never been one to slip through the cracks unless it was by personal choice. Mia is best described as an extrovert, and has trouble containing her feelings whether they’re positive or negative. + Determined: Mia more or less forced her way into being Speedy, which is a surefire show of her determination. Once she sets her mind on something, she will achieve it. Mia has no problems setting goals for herself and setting up steps to get to these goals (yet she struggled with school, ironic). It is hard to sway her away from an idea once she gets her mind set to it. - Stubborn: Hand in hand with determined goes stubborn. Once Mia has her opinion set on something, it’s hard to sway her opinion otherwise. She’s unfortunately very hard to persuade out of her opinions, and once she’s got her mind set on something it’s often set in stone. Even when she can feel herself losing, Mia struggles with letting things go. Hard-headed was the term her mother always used, along with the phrase stubborn as a donkey. - Angry and Confrontational: Considering everything Mia has gone through in her life, having a solid angry streak is something that had been more or less unavoidable. She has a temper that’s quick to ignite, and she often has trouble bringing herself down once it’s sparked. Mia has the type that can go from 0-100 very quickly, though not at all the other way around. Mia is the type that enjoys confrontation, and it’s something she thrives in. Arguments are her specialty, and not something she will back down from. She is certainly not the type to let things go, and would rather argue until she was blue in the face. She would much rather deal with things now rather than later (and cannot understand why people would rather just let things fester). - Defiant & Rebellious:The word ‘no’ is a trigger word for Mia. Being told she cannot do something makes Mia want to do it all the more, and she is even more likely to try once she’s been told she shouldn’t. Rebellion is something that runs deep, even if she (sometimes) tries to fight it. Sometimes with reasoning she’s able to understand the no, but it’s hard to swallow down the urge to do it anyway.

POWERS AND/OR ABILITIES: Mia excels in archery and acrobatics. The latter came in handy in her time on the streets, and the former is a well-honed and learned skill. Mia is quick and discreet, and able to slip through crowds with ease. Mia has become proficient in swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat as well. While she is capable of close-range fighting with mixed-martial-arts abilities, she prefers to keep her fighting from a distance when given the option. She’s also a damned good pick-pocket, but well, that’s neither here nor there.

WEAKNESSES: Her immune system is absolutely garbage, and she tends to take a bit longer to heal than she’d like. She tries to be careful to keep herself in proper health, and does her best to avoid injury. As best as a crime-fighting vigilante can, anyway. Her inability to keep her damn mouth shut can definitely be considered a weakness as well.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? Mia is a goddamn *rockstar.* She was absolutely groundbreaking for the comic book industry considering her positive status, and her persistence is something I admire. Mia has a fighting spirit and doesn’t really take no for an answer, which is something I absolutely love about her. She’s also not exactly popular in the rpc, and I adore her.

IC PORTION; DETAILS —

WHAT BROUGHT YOUR CHARACTER TO SOKOVIA? Honestly? A bleeding heart. Mia always felt too damn much, especially when it came to people in need. The events that transpired in Sokovia had made her nauseous. It didn’t take long for her to get wind of the Nomads, and Mia thought maybe she could be of use, someway or another.

DID THEY SIGN THE ACCORDS? WHY OR WHY NOT? Absofreakinglutely not. The Green Arrow didn’t sign either, and that would be enough reason for Mia to be deterred in the first place. All in all, Mia did not agree with the Accords whatsoever. Vigilantes existed because the law was imperfect, because sometimes there needed to be a little extra oomph applied when things just couldn’t get done legally speaking.

PROVIDE 3-5 HEADCANONS RELATED TO YOUR CHARACTER: Despite her hatred of traditional schooling, Mia is an avid reader and educated in her own way. She hated the structure of school, hated having to interact with others her own age, hated having to get up before noon (and well, she’s always had an authority problem)...but she actually likes learning. She spends a lot of her downtime reading whatever she can get her hands on. Mia also enjoys video games, and may or may not stream herself playing at times via twitch or youtube. It’s an easy way to veg out and socialize without really socializing. Mia loves boxing, and does it often. She’s found it’s a good channel for frustration as well as a good way to train. In her apartment back in Star City, she has a punching bag set up in her living room and found herself at the community center often. Mia has an adrenaline rush addiction that she struggles with daily. She left her motorcycle back home in Star City, and finds she misses the rush of riding (way too fast) more than she thought she would. She’s looking into having it shipped, or finding a local one to fix up. Semi-related, she does all the maintenance on her motorcycle herself, having taught herself with repair manuals and youtube tutorials. MIa smokes like a chimney, though is trying very hard to quit. She knows it’s not the best idea, considering her health, but she just can’t help herself. She’s tried everything - the gum, the patches, replacing the habit with something else. She’s quit several times, but has always picked it back up again.

WANTED CHARACTER CONNECTIONS: TEAM ARROW! Roy Harper, Oliver Queen, Dinah Lance: These are Mia’s people. She might not necessarily always agree or get along with her adopted family, but Mia’s loyal to them to her very bones. She respects the Green Arrow and still affiliates herself with him, so I’m eager for interactions with a potential Oliver in the future. I’m also very eager for Arrow-lady interactions with Dinah! TEEN TITANS! Mia didn’t really have too-too much interaction with the Titans, but I’m excited for potential in Sokovia!

POTENTIAL CHARACTER ARCS: Give me Nomad things! Mia made the jump to help out in Sokovia more on a whim than anything. She’s very much a sidekick out of her element, but she wants to help. That being said, I could really see herself throwing herself into the local life? She would want to help on a smaller, more personal level. Help the kids with school, help rebuild someone’s house. She’s going to do her best to try to learn the language so she can potentially work in-town with the locals as well, maybe bartending. Maybe she can serve as kind of a liaison down the road?

CHARACTER BIO — (tw include: mentions of abuse, parental death, drug use/abuse, brief touchings on child exploitation/teen dating an older man/pedophilia, HIV)

Mia does not like to talk about her childhood. A quick overview would detail her father’s abuse of her mother, and her mother’s drug use. Her father used too, but drinking was more his style. Next would be her mother’s death when she was young. Her father’s abuse then turned to her instead, which she was forced to tolerate for several years. She was eleven when she ran away from home. Mia decided that she would sooner take her chances on the street than stay in that house any longer, and unfortunately, that was the fate she found. Living on the streets was still favorable to living at home, but it wasn’t without struggles. Mia was hungry more often than not, and often couldn’t sleep in the same place for more than a few nights in a row. A smaller-than-average homeless eleven-year-old certainly did bring in some sympathy donations, but it was never enough. The shelters in Star City were often full, and eleven was much too young to even consider a hotel or an apartment. She was twelve when she met Richard, who was over twice her age, and that was when things took a spin for the worse. She thought he loved her, he promised to take care of her, and she was too young and desperate (with very skewed feelings of what love was after all she’d lived through) to realize this was just abuse of a different kind.She was with him for over a year - sometimes out on the streets again, sometimes holed up in a seedy motel and for a few months, a scuzzy apartment. Richard gave her a taste of the drugs that had taken her mother, and Mia suddenly understood why her mother had been so willing to do whatever it took just to get high. But before long Mia was wondering when she would escape this, when things would get better, and thought maybe it would be better to be on her own again. He wouldn’t let her, the abusive pattern she’d survived as a child returning. Dependent on him for shelter, food and drugs, Mia felt more trapped than she ever had. Until she was saved by the Green Arrow. Mia immediately had adoration for the man that saved her life, and she felt ever-indebted to him for helping to get her off the streets, clean herself up and piece together her life. While he was reluctant at first, Mia began to train with him. This gave her life a purpose that she’d never had before, and Mia found herself feeling better than she ever had. She learned she excelled at archery with a little bit of training, and the scrappy fighting skills she’d adopted on the streets became more defined as she learned hand-to-hand combat skills. When not training or in school (something she fought tooth and nail), Mia spent the majority of her free time volunteering and later working at the Star City Recreational Center, and later the domestic violence shelter in town. Mia fantasized of eventually becoming a sidekick to the Green Arrow, even though he squashed that idea from the start. She would persuade him some way, somehow. Mia had just started to feel stable for the first time in her life when things took a downward spiral. It had started with a fever and just general feelings of illness, though things progressively got worse. She finally dragged herself into the clinic in Star City, and would find that things were much worse than she ever could have thought. What she thought was the flu turned out to be HIV, a permanent reminder of the mistakes she’d made and her time on the streets. The doctor assured her that while serious, the diagnosis was not the death sentence it had once been. If Mia was responsible and took the prescribed medications and took precautions, then her prognosis was very promising. HIV wasn’t curable, but controllable. And well, Mia had already been pretty successful at taking control of her life. If anything, her diagnosis was even more of a push for her to become the sidekick she dreamed of being. It took persuasion, but Mia finally donned the title of Speedy (the second), the sidekick to the Green Arrow. She took care to extra-hone in on her long distance fighting skills in hopes to avoid close-contact fighting and end up in a potentially extra-hairy situation. With Oliver’s insistence, Mia joined up with the Teen Titans.T his was done reluctantly, and Mia did not stay with the Titans long. She did, however, feel comfortable enough with them to disclose her status, and occasionally returned to help them on missions. Her passion was with Team Arrow, and that was made even more clear when working with others. The events at Sokovia were devastating, and MIa struggled with her decision making process for quite some time. She’d always been interested in refugee work - as she’d gotten older she volunteered with the Red Cross as well as with various agencies around Star City. The innate instinct to help those in need was strong, and it was pulling her towards Sokovia. Speedy was helpful, sure, but Mia was fairly certain that her experiences as Mia Dearden might be more helpful when it came to the situation at hand. She knew what it felt like to have your world falling apart, and she was more than happy to help others put their pieces back together.

EXTRAS —

Myers-Briggs: ESTP Hogwarts House: Gryffindor Zodiac: Aries Sin: A tie between Wrath and Pride

#srisingintro #not me realizing i never posted this oop

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snarksandsarcasm · 4 years

Text

Goblins

The Green Plague

Styx mentions he awoke in a dried-up lake bed after the Fall of Akenash. The cutscene at that point shows that it isn’t entirely true. A lot of the tower and its inhabitants got pulverized in the process of the fall but there are still big chunks of wall and stones in that dried-up lake bed beneath. The tree as well, due it’s magical properties, remained surprisingly intact, just got crushed and broken under the weight of the structures around it. A lot of amber vaporized (possibly poisoning the area making it very unsafe for non-Amber-creatures to enter), the rest came down in its liquid form to become a shallow lake at “ground zero”. The tree is not producing Amber anymore and will just rot away over the next couple decades.

Within that Amber lake the strange reaction of spawning creatures continued and rakash rise regularly. With every rakash risen the amount of amber decreases so eventually all amber is used up to create all these goblins. That is when the infestation of Styx-duplicates ends. (I think by the time of OOAM this has happened, and all goblins that remain are now those living their regular life, which would mean they could be eradicated if it wasn’t for some independent regular breeding goblins).

Since these rakash were born of the Amber, similar to Styx being reborn in the cocoon, they are fully functional living creatures, free from any mental connections to elves or even each other. But they are all made from the same base model and thus are all male, sharing the same genetics with limited conscience and intelligence. They are like rats… or dogs… following their instincts to eat without consideration and have a distinct violent aspect to their being. But capable of being taught, as Sarkyss shows us. OOAM goblins appear a lot more vicious, the SoD ones more like sad puppies that don’t know any better.

Ground Zero was left alone for a couple of reasons.

There aren’t any survivors other than those who were on airships at the time of the fall or not in Akenash in the first place.

The area got covered with raw Amber that isn’t easily dealt with by humans or other non-Amber creatures. The elves are now for sure not willing to help in any recovery efforts due to the death of their own kin.

There is too many rakash around that will tear any human or other being apart (they may have attacked and potentially eaten their own creator, but other than that they are not cannibals).

The area in general isn’t easily accessible. Akenash was already afloat somewhere in the mountains, possibly for secrecy reasons, far away from the civilisation going on in the mainland. The steep mountain walls and jungle forests probably don’t allow many people to live there and with the rakash roaming about I can imagine even that one big trade route is being avoided for a long time to come.

The Goblins

This is my own take on this but I want these little creatures to thrive as their own race and not be doomed to extinction in this world. What follows is a very short paragraph on how that came to be (and I may cover that in more detail in another time).

Styx had made use of a human the last decade before The Fall of Akenash and taught her some of the things he knew as a shaman, scholar and scientist. After the Fall, this human let’s go of the dream of ‘becoming an Orc once more’ and instead aims to make these new creatures ‘whole’. Nearby ‘Ground Zero’ she utilises an old laboratory of Styx and starts to experiment on female orcs. Ruthlessly and of all ages. (Sarkyss Predecessor!) After two decades the result are 10 - 20 female goblins. A destructive earthquake allows them to escape into the surrounding mountain forest. (Eve was left behind in the only, small cocoon grown to the tiny World Tree that decided to live after the Fall. She escapes some time later, when the other goblins try and fail to recover the small World Tree.)

This group of females lives hidden in the forests of the mountains. The other rakash are not immune to the presence of females and flock around them. The females have the upper hand in intelligence and communication and they run their tribe and developing society with iron fists, so to speak. They have very tribal structures, with the Eldest being the head of the tribe and surprisingly in these critical first years of their existence, disagreements between the females are rare as they share the same existential desires.

The males protect the females at all costs and do little more than hunt for food and wait nearby to be on hand to be a lucky chosen one for the next mating season. Breeding is strictly organised. One female may have several, but strictly the same partners. Their children don’t get to pick and choose. Partners are chosen according to the greatest genetic difference among them (even if they do not know exactly how they make that decision consciously) and cheating/adultery is met with violent death of the next child born to the female.

All knowledge comes from the Elder Females. Many things are instinct, such as knowing that shelter is necessary and being clothed helps to protect from the elements. But making tools and weaving etc comes from their orc lives and they slowly teach the males and their children in these tasks. Basic tools can be crafted and huts can be built. Leaving the tribe is generally forbidden but those who do despite of that, may never return or face being killed. So knowledge from the outside cannot come (back) in. The Elder females are very strict. Since the rakash are going to be around for some time, you may see confused young males wondering why their dads all look the same and can’t speak. But these mute forefathers are certainly always kept in loving memory of every goblin born.

These goblins are Amber creatures and use Amber from the growing Tree in the laboratory. However, they are not as dependent on it as elves are and use it surprisingly not to the extend they could. Thus, these goblins have a lifespan of around 80 years.

Eventually, with the help of Styx, this goblin tribe opens up more and allows knowledge to come in. Aiken brings in the craft of writing and drawing, Styx gives their leather and wood work a boost, Eve can teach them new hunting methods … and well, eventually the goblins start to have contact to other races and maybe a century later they have established trade deals going on and maybe another century later, the first goblins are allowed to enter a human or orc university. xD

Food

I think goblins are primarily raw food eaters and omnivores, with their preferred food being fish, chicken and other small animals and insects, as well as nuts, fruits, vegetables and mushrooms. While Styx and Eve can use fire to cook they actually rarely do so. Lesser intelligent goblins may also have discovered fire for cooking but them too, are not inclined to use it for cooking purposes. When any goblin ‘steals’ food, they don’t take the plate from a nobleman's dinner table… they grab the fruits and fish from the market stalls.

One advantage this has is their oral health. They rarely need to brush their teeth and just take basic care such as removing bones and other large food objects for healthy gums.

Food could be preserved by leaving it to dry, or coating it in a layer of thick Amber or submerging it in an Amber solution (pickled). But generally goblins don’t think ahead like that and don’t preserve food. They aren’t gourmets either.

Goblins CAN eat human as well (see rakash in SoD Prologue). However, they aren’t at all their preferred source of food. They are big and cumbersome to move, to prepare and eat. Preference always goes towards smaller animals.

Since all rakash can throw up stomach content to poison other food, they are naturally protected against most poisonous food that would otherwise kill the eater. Such as certain frogs or mushrooms that humans stay away from, have little effect on goblins.

Health

Since rakash are ‘born’ as adults, leaving the Amber environment behind, they grow old and die eventually. I set that at around 50 years. The Amber will help them over injuries and sickness but as they do not, like the elves, continue their exposure to Amber, they will lose that element of eternal youth.

Age of rakash: 50 years Age of “normal” goblins: 80 years Styx and Eve: Couple of centuries (their intensive training and knowledge allows them to ‘regenerate’ their Amber and use it’s rejuvenation qualities. Not forever, like the elves, but for a long time.)

Amber skills

Both males and females can utilise the Amber flowing in their body, albeit in different ways.

Females can secret Amber like spit in their mouth, which they can use to:

feed others with it (give them an energy boost)

thicken the texture of Amber and create a sticky glue (like bee propolis)

the thicker textured Amber can also be used as an antibacterial and wound-healing substance (that is why it is part of the health potion Styx mixes in SoD) and no-one bats an eye when a female spits into wounds or licks over them

spit on/lick other creatures to temporarily control them / read their thoughts (this requires a lot of training and intelligence)

Males and Females can:

Use Amber vision with a bit of concentration

Become invisible (after training)

Throw up their stomach content to poison

Styx alone can vomit a clone (and with is use the re-materialising through one of his clones skill as in SoD). This is probably linked to him being a directly mutated orc, first generation goblin so to speak.

For some reason, within Styx, the Amber does not display it’s ‘wireless Twitter’ function. This might be because the World Tree from which the Amber came from that is now running in every goblin’s blood, is no longer alive. There is no radio tower anymore, so to speak. Nonetheless, the Amber came from the same source and I think it does still create a connection between the users, especially if they were to actually exchange their own Amber fluids with each other, like during mating. It would be more of a sensual connection, where the emotions, pleasures and pains of the other become clear and part of your own for a limited time.

Mating and Birth

Goblins have an actual mating season at the start of the year. Females are able to get pregnant only around 1-2 weeks during that time. Of course, sexual contact is possible at any other time, too, but during mating season it can be a bit more hectic than usual. xD After around 6 months the ladies give birth to usually one child. Twins are possible but one usually remains underdeveloped and dies after birth. Young are born in a soft/solid amber cocoon, which must be opened straight after birth and is then consumed again by mother or father. This also means, there is no after-birth, it all comes out in one go.They are fed their mothers milk (with a good dose of Amber, obviously) until they are ½ year old.

When a female hasn’t conceived she would in the course of a day, get her period and discharge the empty amber cocoon. This also, she would eat.

While the act of copulation is a private one, the mating season as a whole is celebrated and goblins look with excitement towards the new matches made and the first timers in this this year. Similarly, since all females will give birth to the kids at roughly the same time, the Birthing Season is equally celebrated and well prepared for.

Goblins smell. Surprise. xD No, I mean, pheromones, invisible smells. Lone females, if they dare to travel (Eve….) will always be found somehow by the lads. It is a good idea not to pee anywhere near your resting place, or else the males will have sniffed you out in no time. Although, in all honesty, they just surround the female and start to protect her, bring food and make maybe some mild advanced outside mating season but that’s it. Females can have their sad-SoD-rakash harems.

Also, for males: Amber is part of their body and so also present in their semen. Whether this liquid causes harm to humans and other non-amber creatures, however, I haven’t decided yet. I think it doesn’t turn out as bad as Aaron’s disfigurement, since this Amber may not be the exact same as raw Tree sap. Still, contact with it might cause skin irritation, burning sensation, maybe also some form of intoxication similar to the drug abuse of Amber and other minor side effects. Another little detail: I suppose females enjoy male semen as much as males like the Amber breastmilk or spit of females. Gobs are truly all over each other.

Growing Up

Goblets develop quicker than human children, especially their motor skills. After around a year (when typically the next child can come) they are able to eat, drink, pee/poo, walk, run and climb on their own. Doesn’t mean they don’t need the supervision though. They are like small tiny chimpanzees, they like to play hide/seek, wrestling, brawling, making others fall etc. I think 15 is an age where they’d be treated like adults, the 5 to 6 years prior to that as the age of adolescence. Styx left his tribe at age 30, finally being regarded as an adult free from his father’s reign, but I think that signified more the intellectual independence to know enough of life now to make good decisions. The first century for sure, the goblins don’t ever get that freedom. You are part of the tribe forever, with your small, precise, restricted but safe place within it.

#Styx #styx: master of shadows #Styx: Shards of Darkness #my styx lore

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aureliobooks · 4 years

Text

DEADRUNNER — a slightly longer excerpt than normal

WARNINGS: blood, graphic injury descriptions, mentions of death and murder (below the cut)

“Asova,” Asra whispered. His face was tinged green beneath his already unhealthy pallor. “Your face.”

It was then that Asova became aware of the hot stickiness of blood that seemed to cling to every inch of his body. It was on his chin, in his eyes, seeping steadily from the cut near his hairline. It was coating his lips and tongue, his boots, his forearms.

Asra looked as if he was about to be sick. The addition of the bodies strewn before him in various states of mutilation likely didn’t help.

“You’re hurt,” he said weakly.

Asova glanced down at his right leg, which was bent awkwardly beneath him. There were two gashes across his thigh of varying depth, but neither looked good.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It would appear that I am.”

Asra’s hands were shaking, and Asova wondered if it was from shock or fear. Likely both. The poor kid had been through a lot.

“How do I—how do we fix it?”

Asova sat back, painstakingly straightening his legs with a low groan. “There are some medical supplies in my bag. I dropped it at the edge of the clearing.”

Asra was up and running before he had finished speaking, and after a few moments of panicked searching, he returned with the aforementioned bag. Asova took it and dug through it for a moment, producing a small flask, a tin of salve he’d been given by someone dear to him long ago, and a roll of miraculously clean bandages.

Not wanting to frighten Asra further than he already had, he used his own knife to cut the cloth away from his wounds, removing the brutalized pant leg and tossing it aside.

Asra crouched at his side, still pale. “What happened?”

“Lucky hit.”

“No, I mean...what did you do?”

Asova paused with the flask positioned over his leg. “I called upon my patron, as it says I must in my code.”

“You killed them?”

“I had to get to you. Otherwise we both would have died.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” Asova snapped, perhaps unfairly harsh. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I know what happens to a Deadrunner when they’re not aware enough to call themself back.”

Asra paled further. “A Deadrunner?”

Asova didn’t reply. He tipped the flask so that some of the sterile alcohol held within poured out over the wounds, washing away some of the blood and hopefully killing some of the bacteria that had undoubtedly been on the tip of the brigand’s spear.

“Asova,” Asra prodded nervously. “I’m a Deadrunner?”

“If you’re not,” Asova grumbled, “it’s going to be considerably more difficult to explain what just happened.”

Asra’s breathing quickened almost imperceptibly, but Asova glanced over and offered a reassuring smile, well used to the subtle cues of panic. He wasn’t sure how much good it did, considering the gore streaking his face. Perhaps verbal reassurance was best.

“It’ll be alright. I’ve known plenty of Deadrunners that have survived just fine.”

“You have?”

Asova dried the wound with a hiss and applied the salve before he could shy away from the pain. “I have.”

“Like who?”

“Mm,” Asova said, stalling for time. He propped up his leg, watching the blood seeping from the wounds with a knowledgeable eye. The one closer to his hip was deeper, with one edge torn viciously, while the lower one was slightly shallower but certainly problematic if he didn’t stitch it soon. They were close to a settlement—they’d have to make it there in one piece so he could get help. As much as he detested it, he knew this wasn’t something he could handle on his own.

“Like my mate,” Asova finally muttered. He offered the young elf the roll of bandages. “If you bandage this for me I’ll tell you about him. Make them tight.”

Asra eagerly compiled, wrapping the bandages with a firm—yet decidedly gentle—hand. Asova kept his end of the deal without hesitation.

“His name is Ilumel. He lives nearby, a short distance from the ranger camp of Eir Avra, where I often take shelter.”

Asra’s wide eyes stole a glance at Asova’s pain-lined ones. The ranger continued as if he hadn’t noticed.

“He uses his gift to help people. He sacrifices himself at places of great pain—murder sites or battlefields—and enters the in-between to find answers for clients. He provides names of assailants, details about deaths, even last words. He’s well-loved by those in his village, though his work takes quite a toll on him.” He had no idea why he was divulging all of this. Something about the kid, or maybe the pain radiating out from his thigh, made him want to continue. Ilumel was a name he hadn’t dared to speak for some time. It felt right to air it out.

“And he’s alive?”

“Very much so.”

“I thought rangers weren’t supposed to take mates.”

“We aren’t.”

“So you and Ilumel...”

“It’s a secret.” Asova grimaced. “Though it might be less of a secret soon. He’s the only one I know that’s near enough to help with this mess we’ve gotten into. He has the supplies I need to take proper care of these injuries.”

A cautious hope entered Asra’s eyes. “So I could meet him? Would he tell me about his Deadrunning?”

“I’m sure he would. He may seem a bit odd, but don’t let that put you off. He’s quite kind.”

#hhhhhhhh i've been messing around with worldbuilding all day but u can have this #they're bonding................it's fucked up but it's there #my writing #excerpts #eldara #(officially known as)#deadrunner wip #not to be confused with deadlock! which will also be getting a title change if i actually pursue it #blood #injury

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 5 years

Text

We’ll Carry On - Chapter One

A/N: Well, it’s here, everyone! The moment you’ve all been (unwittingly) waiting for! Our entry for the @ts-storytime Big Bang! This took a lot of work, but we hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it! Each new chapter will be coming out every 20 minutes, provided the schedule works properly, to save your dashes! ^-^;; We have sixty four chapters plus an epilogue to upload save us!

We’ll Carry On Tag

General Content Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Substance Abuse, Abandonment, Minor Character Death, Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation, Bullying, Homophobia

November 1st, 2017

“This will be your new home, Roman,” the man from Child Services said with a too-bright smile. Roman looked around. The walls weren’t rotting away, and the ceiling wasn’t falling apart, but something felt off about the place, like he wasn’t welcome. “Any last questions before you get settled in?”

Roman mutely shook his head. He was eleven years old, he knew when he needed to shut up, and he definitely needed to right now.

The man clapped him on the back and left, and Roman turned to the man and woman who he only knew as Mister and Misses Wright. Misses Wright’s smile dropped the second the man left. She directed him to the kitchen and shoved a mop in his hand. “You start cleaning,” she directed. “You can get unpacked when you’re done with your chores.”

December 20th, 2018

Roman shivered in the cold rain that had settled in to stay for a while. For hours, he had been searching for someone who could give him directions to the home he was looking for, someone who wouldn’t call the cops on an unattended child. The last thing he wanted was for his biological father to be in trouble for not supervising a kid he didn’t even know he had.

The sky was gloomy as Roman looked up, staring at the numbers hanging above the awning in front of the house. He looked back at the paper in his hand. Yes, this was the place. But what was he supposed to say? “Excuse me, Mister, you don’t know me but I’m your son and I could use a place to stay”? He didn’t want to impose.

And yet, here he was. Desperate enough to ask a stranger for help. At the very least, it had to beat the storm drain he had been sleeping in last night. He was fairly certain if he had to do that again he’d get rabies from a raccoon, or maybe a fox. And who knew how many rats lived in those things?

He had been staring at the house for too long. He turned away quickly, fully intending to leave. It was unlikely someone was home, anyway. It was the middle of the day, and though Roman couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, he knew it was more likely to be a weekday than a weekend. As he was walking away, though, he heard a door open and a man call out, “Excuse me?”

Heart soaring with hope, Roman turned around to find a man wearing thick-rimmed black glasses and a sweater vest run out of the house and to the fence. “Young man, are you lost? I couldn’t help but notice you were wandering around earlier. I might be able to help you.”

Roman cleared his throat and walked back over to the man, standing at the edge of his small yard. The townhouse behind the man was small, but looked inviting enough. This wasn’t a bad place for his father to live, provided this man even was his father. “Are you Mister Picani?” he asked, his voice trembling, betraying his worry.

The man blinked and adjusted his glasses. “Uh...yes. Who are you?”

Now or never, Roman supposed. “Uh...my name is Roman Jackson. I don’t know how to say this, but...uh...I think you’re my father.”

Mister Picani stood there in shock for a second, before pushing his glasses up his nose and frowning. “Where is your mother, then?”

Roman looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe, trying to form the words that refused to leave his throat. His eyes stung, and he couldn’t get the proper explanation to come forward, so he forced out the next best thing. “She, uh...she abandoned me, sir. Couldn’t take care of me any more.”

“Oh, dear,” the man muttered. “Well, no use standing out here in the wind and rain. Why don’t you come inside? We can talk more over a cup of hot chocolate.”

Roman felt his hammering heart settle just a fraction. “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to call me sir, Roman. You’re free to call me Mister Picani, or Emile,” Mister Picani said, walking back towards the house.

Roman followed after him, walking in and looking around. The house was small, but filled with warm light. The walls were littered with cartoon posters and photographs. One of them which was hanging in the doorway, was of two men, both in tuxes, standing in front of who Roman assumed was a Justice of the Peace. “You’re married?” he asked, pointing to the photo.

“Yes, that’s my husband Remy,” Mister Picani said with a fond smile. “He’s the entrepreneur of his own coffee shop in the middle of town. Have you heard of Sleep Easy?”

Roman shook his head. “No, sir.”

“It’s a play on the term speakeasy. The joke is that his coffee is so good, it should be illegal. Not to mention he’s big on irony.” Mister Picani shook his head. “I love that man, and I’m so proud that he followed his dream and started his own coffee shop.”

Roman nodded as Mister Picani looked over to him. Inside, though, he felt guilt eat at him. This man had a whole entire life without him interfering. He didn’t want to cause trouble, but it seemed like that was exactly what he was doing.

The two walked into the modest but inviting kitchen and Mister Picani gestured for Roman to sit at the island in the middle. He brought out milk for the hot chocolate and asked, “Do you mind if I microwave it? I want to warm you up faster, though if you want me to bring the milk to the right temperature in a saucepan I can do that too.”

Roman shrugged. “You can do whatever you want, Mister Picani, I’m not picky.”

Mister Picani smiled softly and said, “I know you may not want to inconvenience me, but I really don’t mind putting in the extra effort if you would prefer it that way.”

Roman fiddled with his hands, feeling his heart ache at the reminder of what his mother used to do for him, back when she was around to care for him. She would take extra steps to ensure that he got what he wanted, too. “The microwave works, Mister Picani.”

He nodded and put the milk in a mug, and then proceeded to microwave it. “We’ll see if Remy ever forgives me for this,” he laughed. “He’s very particular about making many different drinks, and hot chocolate is one of them.”

Roman shifted on his chair, saying nothing. He didn’t know what to say. His heart kept thudding, and he kept waiting to hear that Mister Picani was going to call the police, or Child Services, or otherwise cart him off to someone else, who would inevitably send him back...back there. The place he swore he would never go back to.

“So, tell me a little about yourself, Roman,” Mister Picani said, pouring in hot chocolate mix to the milk and stirring it with a spoon.

Roman took the hot chocolate gratefully and let his fingers warm up from the mug. “Well...I’m twelve years old,” he said hesitantly. “I...I went to school for a while, until the sixth grade. Then...then everything kinda fell apart.”

Mister Picani winced. “You’re about the age to be in seventh grade. Did your mother not enroll you?”

Roman swallowed. “No. She...she wasn’t around to. I had to spend all my time...I don’t like to think about it.”

“You had to spend it getting by?” Mister Picani asked. “Making sure you got food, water, shelter?”

Roman nodded. That was close enough to the truth. No one ever bothered to put him in school. After all, someone had to take care of the younger kids. Considering that the people who were specifically assigned to do that were either too drunk or too angry to do anything useful. “But...but I remember a lot of what I did learn before, and I’m hoping to get back into school again sometime soon. Uh...my favorite color is red, if that’s important at all, and I really love fairy tales. Princes and princesses and castles and dragons. I know I might be a little old for that, but...”

“No such thing as too old,” Mister Picani said with a smile. “All those cartoon posters and paraphernalia you saw are mine. I wasn’t even aware I have a child or children until today.”

Roman relaxed a little bit at that. Before he was always mocked for liking fairy tales, but at least Mister Picani didn’t judge. “Cool.”

“Indeed,” Mister Picani said, grabbing another mug. “I hope we have another hot chocolate packet around here...”

The front door opened and a booming voice called, “Emile! Honey, you are not going to believe what Miss Fleming said today...” he trailed off as he caught sight of Roman.

Mister Picani looked like a deer in headlights for a quick second before recovering. “Remy, this is Roman. He’s...uh...well, he’s my son.”

Remy stood there for a moment, and Roman felt like he was being sized up. Then, he broke out in a wide grin. “I told you so, Emile! I told you that you’d be a catch for any lady at the sperm bank! Small wonder someone used it!” He held out his hand for Roman to shake. “Remy Picani. Husband of the dork over there. You can call me Remy.”

“Roman Jackson,” Roman said, shaking Remy’s hand.

Remy turned to Mister Picani-or, they were both Mister Picani, so...Emile?-and laughed. “Emile, please tell me you were not microwaving milk for hot chocolate again!”

“Well...the kid looked cold, and I wanted to warm him up fast, so...” Emile shrugged.

“All right, all right. I’ll give you a pass just this once,” Remy said with a grin. “So, uh...where’s the kid’s mom? Bathroom, or something?”

Roman felt a sharp pang in his chest and his breath caught. “His mom’s no longer in the picture, Remy,” Emile said. “I’m honestly not quite sure what to do.”

Remy hummed. “Well, that is a predicament. How about you two get situated in the living room and talk for a bit, watch cartoons, whatever. Emile, I’ll make sure that you get your hot chocolate, and I’ll make some calls. I’m pretty sure Sarah McGee’s a social worker who could lend us a hand figuring out what to do.”

Roman felt an icicle of fear stab him right in the chest. He didn’t get away from there just to be sent back! “You’re...what are you going to do?” he asked, his voice once again taking on that soft, trembling tone.

“Kid, if you’re okay with it, and Emile’s okay with it, we’ll be taking you in, at least for a little while. Until we can figure out what exactly is going on,” Remy said. “Because I don’t care why your mother is no longer around. Everyone deserves a home.”

Roman’s eyes grew hot and he smiled. “You really mean that?”

“Remy doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean,” Emile said simply. “Come on, let’s go to the living room. We can see if there’s anything on TV you might want to watch.”

Roman nodded and followed Emile into the living room, getting settled on the couch with his hot chocolate. He curled up on it and took a long sip of the liquid, letting it warm him to the core.

“You know, you’re very lucky the weather is somewhat warmer outside than usual,” Emile said. “So close to Christmas, usually it’s dipping somewhere into the twenties, not in the low forties.”

“Cold is cold is cold,” Roman said, taking another sip. “I appreciate the hot chocolate.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Emile said with a smile, turning on the TV. “I have a couple cartoons saved on the DVR. Do you mind cartoons?”

“No, cartoons are great,” Roman said, taking another long sip of his hot chocolate.

Emile nodded with a smile, and pulled up Avatar: The Last Airbender to play, from the first episode. Roman was soon caught up in the show, finishing his hot chocolate quickly. He barely noticed when Emile patted his knee and got up. When the first episode ended, he put on another, figuring that Emile wouldn’t mind. By the end of the third episode, however, his fatigue was catching up to him, and he began drifting to sleep to the sound of the ending credits.

He fell into a dreamless sleep, hoping against hope that when he woke up again, that this wasn’t just some crazy dream he had thought up somewhere along the way that he had escaped.

Tag List (Only putting this on the first chapter to spare you guys the spam!): @loganpatton @lilbeanblr @kittyboof8 @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @sanders-trash-4ever @hamilspntrash @swords-and-kittens @phantomfander @narniasfinestavengingsociopath @rjmeta @ambersky0319 @anni-cat-flower @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @rose-gold-roman

#we'll carry on #sanders sides fanfiction #TS-Storytime 2019 Submission #roman sanders #emile picani #remy sanders #our creations #danger gays

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dantecampanas · 4 years

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hello all, i’m pepper and i have never been on time for anything, ever, in my life dsjksdkj, but i am literally so much later than usual though, i am so sorry y’all but to make up for my tardiness under the cut is some stuff about this mess, dante. it’s messed up ride so i hope you enjoy? also, like this if you want to plot and i’ll literally come sprinting okay.

BIO ; tl;dr basically craig kielburger, but make it dark

to start here is Dante’s pinterest board.

and here is a song that reminds me of him so much it may as well be his anthem but also this other song because i wrote his app to it basically, it reminds me a lot of him, more the vibe than the actual lyrics but still.

okay so Dante’s family is kind of inspired by the Quinns (from ‘You’ on Netflix), the Castillos (from How to Get Away with Murder) and like Henry Goulding’s family in Crazy Rich Asians.

Dante Isaac Campana was brought into the world in Madrid, Spain with a silver spoon dangling out of his mouth. You’d never guess from looking at him, what with his hobo chic style and generally unkempt appearance but it’s the truth. He came in this world out of a well paid surrogate as the second child of the famous Sofia and Gabriel Campana, and he wanted for nothing because for it. His parents made sure of that.

Gabriel was a CEO and Sofia was a wildly successful author, and from the moment Dante could breathe his parents had his whole life set up for him. After all they wanted their son to be successful and they planned to make sure of it. A hefty trust fund in his name, to be accessible at the age of eighteen. A place in the family business that he would fill the moment he finished university. They even had an arrangement for who Dante would marry eventually, before he was even old enough to understand what the concept of marriage was. It was all planned out for Dante without the slightest bit of input from Dante himself, and Dante was just supposed to accept that. The funny thing is, at first, he did.

After all he was young, and he had no reason not to. He loved his parents deeply, passionately, but honestly, that was how Dante loved anything. One of his very first memories of his life is of his grandmother. They used to feed the ducks together when he was a child. Dante would throw whole loaves of bread into the water and his grandmother would always laugh and laugh until there were tears building at the corners of her wrinkled eyes. And one day, the day of the memory in question, Dante remembers her sitting him on her knee, smoothing back his wild curls and telling him that he was born with a heart too big for his body. A heart too big for this family. Dante was too young to know what it meant at the time, but it stuck with him. And by the time he was old enough to understand it, he knew she was right.

The truth is the Campanas were cold. Dante for the most part was an anomaly. Because while his parents probably did love him in return, they had an odd way of showing it. Cold hands pressed to warm cheeks, thin smiles of approval that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Never the words ‘i love you’, or ‘i’m proud of you’, or ‘i believe in you’, but instead the heavy feeling of expectation. If you wanted love, you had to earn it. If you wanted them to be proud of you, you had to do something to make them proud. Not be a person to make them proud, no. You had to do something.

So when Dante was twelve years old he did. Not on purpose mind you. Dante wasn’t even thinking of his parents in his pursuit, only of others. You see, when Dante was twelve years old he, mostly accidentally, started a non profit. I say accidentally because that wasn’t really what Dante was setting out to do. Honestly, it all started when he met a homeless teenager not much older than him, sat beside them on the little street corner they begged on, and was struck by the overwhelming, gnawing need to help. To make things better. To protect them, because no one else was doing it. It started with Dante rallying up the children at his private school, and later those children’s parents, and later those children’s grandparents. Or maybe it really started when Dante climbed up on the stage one school assembly, took the mic from their principal’s hands and gave an impromptu speech on the cause. No, to be honest, it really started when someone recorded that speech and put it on YouTube. Because the moment that speech went viral, so did Dante and his charity.

Even today if you look up Dante Campana you will be assaulted by a myriad of articles and photos of young Dante giving impassioned lectures to interviewers, to audiences, to millions of people over livestream. It was just something that Dante was passionate about that became much bigger than he intended, but he didn’t mind. He was helping people. He used the money that the charity brought in to build youth shelters, and food banks, and rehabilitation centers, all for homeless kids. It was everything he wanted.

And for once, his parents were proud. They loved him. They didn’t say it, but Dante knew it from the way they looked at him. Like he was their pride and joy. (Later, he would look back on that look. It would strike him as disturbingly too close to how one might look at a shiny new trophy, and he would never be able to look at his parents the same way again.)

Dante only became aware of how conditional his parents love for them was when his elder sister started to slip under the pressure they put on her shoulders. Anya Campana was about sixteen at the time, and Dante, three years her younger, had to watch as his sister crumbled. Anya had always cared too much about what their parents thought of her, about impressing them and making them proud. It didn’t help that her parents made it clear that they would not accept anything less than excellence from her, their first born. Anya was supposed to be their champion. The head of the family once their father was gone. The pressure of it all drove Anya to the edge. At first the edge was just adderall. Later cocaine, just to take the edge off, just to make things easier. To help her focus. Dante remembers catching her in the act. Remembers her crying. Remembers being shocked still, and just staring and staring as his perfect sister literally fell apart at his feet.

It wasn’t long until the weight of their parents expectations had drove Anya to a full on addiction, all in the pursuit of their favour. But of course, when Dante’s parents found out about Anya’s problem, they had no sympathy for her. Only disappointment. That ‘slip up’ cost Anya her role. She could no longer be the head of the family if her resolve was that weak; instead the position would fall to Dante, and Anya would be sent quietly, and shamefully, to rehab. it was an eye opening experience for Dante, honestly. To see just how replaceable their parents saw them.

The Campanas brand of cold was also fake. Plastic. Sure, they smiled in the public eye and the relationship between the siblings at least was genuine, but the truth was Gabriel was cheating on Sofia when he thought no one was looking (Dante was. A story for another time), and Sofia had openly slapped each of her children across the face at least once, usually when she got a bit too much wine in her. The older Dante got the more and more he felt his love for his parents becoming more of an obligation than anything tangible. Something cold and plastic itself. And he despised it.

When Dante was fifteen, just after Anya’s second stint in rehab, he and his sister were spending the day together to catch up. All they wanted to do was get ice cream together, talk a bit. But those plans were foiled when a black indistinct car rolled up beside them, and before Anya and Dante could even put up much of a fight, they were both blindfolded and tied up in the back of the car. It honestly shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was considering the Campanas were easily the wealthiest family in Spain. But the kidnapping was traumatic and shocking to Dante, especially because of course all these men wanted was money.

Their kidnappers called his father with every intention to get said money within the day. They asked him for one billion dollars for each child, which was a lot of money, but not an amount that the Campanas didn’t have, or couldn’t get access to if need be. But it was then that Dante got the second big shock of his life. His father refused to pay. Dante remembers his blood running cold at the statement heard over the speaker. He remembers his sister crying. He remembers the kidnapper shoving the phone into his face, demanding he beg his father otherwise. To convince him to love him enough to pay for his life. Dante remembers crying so much it hurt. Before that day he didn’t know that was possible.

The kidnappers gave their father a deadline. He had a full twenty four hours to get the money, or they would be killing one of his children. Their father agreed, and so Dante and Anya were left in the hands of their kidnappers for a full day. Dante still hasn’t properly talked to anyone about what happened during that time, and he’s not even sure he can. Honestly, looking back, the memories of it all are all a blur. Like even his hindsight is blurred with his tears.

The hour came and their father was called. He was asked for the money and told that if he didn’t pay it, his daughter would be shot. Once again, he refused. Dante can remember the gut wrenching sound Anya made at the news. It was at the chilling mid point between a sob and a scream. He can remember crying himself, but trying to comfort her as much as he could with his arms tied behind his back. And because he was touching her, he can remember the exact moment Anya flinched from the gunshot fired into her stomach. He can remember the warmth of her blood over his skin.

Dante can’t remember much after that. It’s like his mind filmed that day with a fish eye lens and half a roll of film. All blur, until it cuts out. More blur, and then it cuts out. The next thing he properly remembers is being in a hospital bed for shock. He remembers seeing his parents there. And he remembers being filled with a hatred more consuming than anything he ever felt before. Apparently he lunged at his father in a moment of rage. He doesn’t remember it, but enough doctors attested to it for Dante to find himself with a semi permanent place in mandated therapy. Well, due to that specific moment and, you know. The circumstances.

Dante learned that day that to his father, he and his sister were of different value. Dante was worth more than Anya. He didn’t mess up as much, or quite as publicly, and with everything with his charity, the media loved him. He was smart, and charismatic, and maybe he was a bit sensitive, but he could grow out of that. If they lost Anya, so what? They had Dante. He would lead the family to greatness.

And Dante did. After an abundance of therapy of course, well, during an abundance of therapy. Despite it all, somehow Dante didn’t buckle under the pressure. He took some time off from school, but once he got back to it his grades were the same as ever. He spent some time away from his charity, but once he was ready, he threw himself back into it with a single minded focus. He made a foundation for Anya, his sister. His world. And then he moved on. Came back stronger. At least in the public eye.

Privately, Dante was furious, and disgusted, and grieving. His sister, his confidante and likely one of the two people in his life to love him unconditionally, was gone. And she was never coming back. And Dante would never, ever be the same. He remembers attending Anya’s funeral. Seeing everyone cloaked in the colour she always hated, crying over her and telling lies about how much they adored her. He remembers his mother saying how proud she was of her daughter. He remembers his father saying how much he loved her. And he remembers feeling nothing. He remembers getting up on stage, drunk, and numb, and he remembers looking hard at them all. He vaguely remembers telling them all to fuck themselves, but after that? The film cuts out.

Dante spent a lot of time leaning on his friends then. Hiding from the sharks that were the paparazzi. Dante’s pain was like a healing wound, and they were drawn to it like the animals they were. Picked at to see if they could get him to bleed again. How are you coping, Dante? Will you be testifying in the court case, Dante? How much do you miss Anya, Dante? There is footage of Dante ripping a paparazzo's camera straight out of their hands and throwing it at them. Or at least there was. His father got rid of it before it could truly make it to the press, and the paparazzo, well, he walked away with three new stitches in his eyebrow and a significantly heavier wallet. Dante, for his part, walked away empty.

The truth was, now Dante was plastic. The bleeding heart that he once was now sadly hollow. He played the part though. And he played it well. To the world Dante was the golden boy. Any mistakes or slip ups were covered up neatly by his father, or his mother, or both. And the legend of Dante Campana, child philanthropist, and hero lived on. Y’see, Dante’s mother wrote a book about the whole experience, and took some creative liberties. In the novel, Dante tried to save his sister. Fought his captors. Held her hand as she bled out. As sick as it is, Dante read it, hoping it might jog some of his memories from the whole incident. It didn’t, but it could have been true for all Dante knew. Didn’t make him hate his mother any less for profiting off of the whole thing.

Eventually, Dante graduated. Accepted a position at Ashcroft University. And then he was handpicked for the Imperium Society. And that’s where he met Lady Macbeth.

And It was like for the first time in three years, Dante was living his life in colour again. He fell, and he fell hard, almost immediately upon meeting them, which was as much of a surprise to him as it was anyone else. Yes, Dante had dated before, and had crushes but he didn’t necessarily believe in love. Not after his parents lousy display of the whole thing. But he met them and that changed. He was consumed by love. Driven by it. He would do anything for them, absolutely anything. And he made that very clear very quickly, and never wavered. Not once.

In the time that Dante loved them he was brought back to some semblance of his old self. He found his passion again. He found his happiness again. And he knew it was because of them. They brought him back to himself. They made him better. And the gratitude, and codependency, and love all stirred itself into a poisonous mess that was more adoration, or rather idolization, than love. What he felt for her was something all consuming and probably not entirely healthy, but something that Dante dedicated himself to, like a religion.

Which is why when they told him about the issue with Octavia Dante was so incensed about it. For the most part, despite previous outbursts, Dante was kind. A peacekeeper. A joker. A lover. But when it came to those he loved, after everything with Anya, Dante was painfully protective. He promised himself long ago that no one coming after those he loved would get away with it. Not again.

That said, when Dante went to meet with Octavia he did his best to be calm. To be levelheaded, and understanding, and kind. But Dante’s reputation must have preceded him, because Octavia didn’t seem to see any reason why she should listen to him. Dante was the artist. The charity guy. The hippie. He was about as threatening as a puppy, or at least his public image was. Her words were sharp, and her disposition was cold, and Dante wouldn’t have cared, he truly wouldn’t have cared if the words she spat were just directed at him. But the moment Lady Macbeth was brought into things, Dante snapped, Othello’s presence be damned.

The film cut out.

The next thing Dante remembers is the aftermath. The water bottle he’d bought to reuse, to spare the plastic, to save the environment, to save the world, now ironically covered in blood. His hands slick with it for the second time in his life. Othello’s understandable panic. The shock was thick as fog once again, and the next thing Dante knows he’s at Lady Macbeth’s door, eyes hollow and hands shaking around the water bottle as he fully realizes what he’s done.

He never meant to. It was an accident. He lost control. All he wanted to do was protect them.

But somehow instead they ended up protecting him. And leaving him for Othello. A large part of Dante knows that he deserves nothing less. That what he did is a crime that deserves a much larger punishment, one that Lysander unfairly took on for him. But his heart is heavy with guilt, and now heartbreak on top of it all.

As if watching Lysander go to prison for his misdeeds and witnessing Lady Macbeth and Othello in their honeymoon phase all wasn’t enough torture, well, then there was Octavia’s ghost. Which was truly the most painful torture at all. Every time she visits Dante just ends up with breaking down. Terrified, guilty and asking for her forgiveness. He’s pretty sure it’s not helping in the slightest though, and he can’t blame her for being angry. She has every right to be, and honestly Dante is quickly reaching the breaking point. He’s seriously considering just turning himself in to appease her, and to make things right for Lysander, and he would do so in a heartbeat if there wasn’t the risk of Lady Macbeth going down with him. So Dante is at a stand still. Miserable, and in pain, but doing his best not to show it to keep up appearances. Luckily it’s an act he’s been putting on for a good portion of his life, so he’s good at it. But he’s crumbling at the edges, and he’s not sure how much longer it’ll take for everyone to notice.

To cope Dante has been indulging in a lot of his sister’s old habits. Drinking. Drugs. The same mechanisms he used to cope with her death, but quit once he met Lady Macbeth. Now, without them, he’s just using leaning on them in an attempt to make things easier.

PERSONALITY ; god who knows dkjsdjksd dante is very fresh and new so he’s a bit of a mess in my brain and he will definitely develop into something new passed this point but

PASSIONATE! god he’s so passionate, like dante just feels everything on 10 one hundred percent of the time, especially since lady macbeth came into his life. The type to get teary eyed over a dead bird, but also the type to like stay up five days straight working on a project because he can’t get it out of his mind.

despite this used to think romantic love was a straight up myth lmao because of his parents relationship, so we love a contradictory king. a bleeding heart but also a philophobe, and now a murderer, wow what a resume. lady macbeth changed that a lot for him, so for like a WHILE dante like became the poetry writing, love is the answer, romantic which had to be a drastic change for anyone who knew him before

nurturing honestly? but only with people he actually cares about like juliet or lady macbeth.

but also impulsive, as we can see, like dante doesn’t tend to really think before he makes any decisions. he just does things man

thinks he’s funny! sometimes he is tbh. a bit of a good natured goofball generally. willing to do pretty much anything to cheer someone up

a big ol’ flirt just naturally, like he’s honestly very charming, but like so was ted bundy yk. also bi, but like all my muses are, so sdkjsdkj are we surprised at all, i don’t think so.

very touchy feely tbh because he’s a tactile person.

a live and let live kinda guy like actually,,, so close to a hippie it’s not even funny.

a bit promiscuous more so before lady macbeth came into his life and he became entirely enamored, and now a bit because he’s heartbroken and just looking for any sort of connection.

the most generous person when it comes to money and kindness. the type to sit down with a homeless person and end up giving them his jacket, five hundred dollars, and a new outlook on life as he leads them to one of his youth centers. Has actually thrown himself into his charity a lot more since Octavia’s death. Is kind of viewing the whole thing as penance.

the type to hold a grudge until the day he dies, but also the type of person who can’t NOT help someone who needs help you know. like he hates his parents but if his mother called him tomorrow like i want to see you one last time before i die, he would fly out to spain to see her.

very liberal. literally can’t talk to conservatives without wanting to physically fight them. has definitely gone to protests and gotten arrested for punching a nazi, but his father probably covered it up.

HEADCANNONS ; alright now onto the fun stuff

fun fact, was actually brought into the world via surrogate because his parents had a lot of trouble conceiving, like both of them were pretty much impotent. so he’s not technically blood related to either of his parents, neither was anya.

deaf in his left ear and has been all his life. it’s kind of difficult for him to hear a specific person talking in a crowd of too many people, especially if you’re standing on his left so he might straight up text you instead. also if you’re standing on his left side in general, he might turn to face you to better hear you. can speak multiple different sign languages including asl, bsl, auslan, and of course catalan.

has delightful spanish accent but speaks fluent english because of all the networking he grew up doing with his parents, also you know, very expensive private school. also is fluent in french, italian, romanian and portuguese, like just the romance languages honestly. he’s traveled a lot though so he can get by in a few other languages, which basically means he can hold a stilted conversation and ask where the bathroom is.

Despite his charity being his life and occupation kind of, at heart Dante is an artist. Like his art is everything to him and his is actually quite popular. He gets a lot of offers from people wanting to buy it but he can never part with anything he’s made so he always refuses the offers, no matter how much money the customer is bidding. It’s not like Dante needs the money anyways, so he has refused offers on grounds of menial things such as ‘i didn’t like the vibes he was giving off’ or ‘he looked like a republican’ or even, once ‘pretty sure i saw that guy in a dream once. god, he sucked.’ So most of his art decorates his dorm room instead, and he’ll even give some to friends for free. Dante actually wanted to become a full time artist once he graduated, along with keeping up with his charity but considering how picky he is about who actually buys his art, he’ll literally make no money, which is okay because again, he’s rich. Now though, he’s considering just pouring himself into his charity and forgetting about his art because, you know, penance dkjdf.

Actually learned to cook from his family chef, and is really, really good at it, like professional level good at it. He hasn’t really had time to get any actual professional training but he really wants to. He has absolutely snuck into culinary school very briefly before just to sit in on a few classes. Just pretended he went there and made a bunch of friends and he learned a lot of stuff, and even taught some culinary students a few things. He was eventually discovered, but then he made friends with the professor, and now he just comes by whenever he wants or has the time. That’s the kind of guy Dante is.

Honestly pretty good at anything having to do with his hands, like if he had a label it’d probably be the artisan. Dante is the type of person who knows nothing about like mechanics but can like fix something if you put it in front of him. Likes to make furniture as a hobby, so hit your boy up if you want a sexy chair. Also makes sculptures and does a bit of pottery, like he’s a jack of all trades when it comes to tactile things only.

Intelligent in the way that he just has a lot of pretty well informed opinions like if you want a fun fact don’t go to Dante but if you want a good insightful conversation he’s your man. Not like… clever at all though, like he doesn’t have a manipulative or conniving bone in his body, and it’s really hard for him to tell when he’s being manipulated or taken advantage of. He thinks with his heart rather than his brain honestly. Like if you’ve ever heard the story of the foolish traveler... that’s Dante’s fool ass. If you haven’t here it is.

A big defender of the environment. He was planning on launching a charity for that too, and honestly he’s probably throwing himself into that project to stop thinking about all this.

Has a bunch of tattoos, usually of his own art or other art that’s moved him. I imagine him with at least one sleeve that’s beautiful, and he’s probably starting another. Is seriously considering a neck tat. His parents would hate it and that just makes him love it more.

If you watch jenna marbles i want you to know that Dante is Julian in the kitchen and Julian in the kitchen only, but somehow everything he makes end up coming out near perfect anyways.

surprisingly has a green thumb? can revive almost any plant with relative ease.

never learnt how to ride a bike tbh, but does ride a motorcycle so?

Has taken to religion like a mad man ever since Octavia’s death, like he’s suddenly at church once a week. He tells everybody that it’s for his art, and that he just wants to study the stained glass, but really he’s praying for Octavia’s forgiveness. He’s pretty sure it’s not working in the slightest though.

Kind of salty that Octavia of all people is haunting him but he hasn’t seen his sister’s ghost once. Actually kind of believes in the supernatural and karma and all that, so he wasn’t too shocked by the whole Octavia coming to him in the night thing. Always thought that he could feel his sister watching over him so, now at least he has that confirmed.

suffers from black outs, but i feel like that was obvious in my little bio sksdjkjsd straight up has stretches of time that he has no recollection of. it tends to happen when he gets really angry or in really traumatizing situations but honestly people close to dante probably know that he’s just lost stretches of time like you could mention something from his childhood or even a few weeks ago (actually especially a few weeks ago) and dante would just be like... i don’t remember that. honestly has been feeling like he’s kinda going crazy since his sister died, so literally since he was like fifteen oof.

has been painting some pretty dark stuff lately like since the whole octavia thing, like just in tone and color. probably a bit reminiscent of the stuff he painted after anya for those who knew him then, but if you met him after lady macbeth then this is a drastic change because his art got very beautiful and full of life then you know.

#spectreintro #d.c. | bio.#i'm gonna just post this so i can stop looking at it #otherwise imma drive myself up the WALL

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