#like waaaay into the future

[llama--plumbobsims]

spent all day building an influencer house and it's cc free and i'm not finished yet but i'm kind of obsessed

#ts4 #the sims 4 #the sims #ts4 build #the sims 4 build #my build #sims 4 build #sims 4 house #i might use this at some point in my story #like waaaay into the future #but yeah #all the art you can see is cc free art off the gallery btw

[coquelicoq]

usually i don't have any problem not thinking about work when i'm not getting paid to do so, but i made a big mistake earlier this week and spent five hours today dealing with the fallout and still have not managed to resolve it, and when i clocked out it was actually with this vague dread about leaving it unsolved instead of relief that it's finally the weekend. like it's bad that it's the weekend because it means i have to stop working on it?? wow. gross.

#it's interesting because it's 1) a pretty bad mistake and 2) not the end of the world. and in the past when i have done something #for which both of those things are true i've like waaaay spiraled far outside of what is reasonable and proportionate #and just really beat myself up about it. and this time i'm not at all. i'm just like well that was dumb and the consequences are #unfortunate and i really wish i had made different choices before this. but i don't have any control over that so there's no use #crying over it. all i can do is take responsibility‚ take steps to prevent it in the future‚ and move forward #so that's what i'm doing. which strikes me as very healthy and a big step up from what i used to do #however i keep having to quash the impulse to open my work email to see if there have been any developments #which is CRAZY like i've always thought of that as workaholic behavior from which i am shielded on account of having #excellent work-non work separation but I GUESS NOT

[the-toasted-teacake]

Still having a breakdown over this ✌️

#this is the face of a lando who has suddenly gone from #'yeah someday. waaay in the future.' #to #'carlos? 🥺 maybe not not waaaay in the future? maybe more like... now?' #so bloody adorable #carlos and lando with kids overload the last week or so #it's killing me

[crowboss-whore]

I have a question, for you lovelies reading A Seer of Secrets.

So, usually, I try not to describe a lot of things when it comes to the aesthetic of the Reader. Mainly so you can throw your own aesthetic or your OC's aesthetic on them! Buuuut...

How would you guys feel if I were to draw Reader's mech? I mean their boots, their arm gun, and their future mech!

#A Seer of Secrets #Crow Asks #I have a few things that I KNOW will be written down solid for the sake of plot details #For instance reader is gonna have a forceful aesthetic change when a certain event happens WAAAAY later in the future #I mainly ask bc I know some people have these mega-cool ideas but I just really really wanna show off what I had in mind #It doesn't have to be canon tbh you guys can keep whatever design you had in mind #It's just for what I have bouncing in my brain like the DVD screen bouncer

[mydearesthrry]

honeyed bliss - h.s.

a/n: hi! here’s another one. post hslot harry, and dadrry, which should be a warning in itself. enjoy!

🎀 warnings/cw: nothing, fluff, ITALYRRY AND DADRRY. im a wreck.

🐇 pairing: husband!dad!harry styles x fem!reader

💐 wc: 800

“Babe, can you come here? I need to tan, but I can't get the tanning lotion on my back.” Y/N shouted sweetly to her husband, voice soft as she turned on her tummy. 

“Yeah m’love, give me two seconds. ‘M cutting up some watermelon for Daisy.” He called back, standing at the drink bar, a knife in his hand as he watched his daughter toddle around in the small area that he stood in. Daisy knocked on the doors that were in the square, knocking on the door to exit as she babbled quietly to herself. 

“Mumma, want mama,” Daisy pouted, perking up when she heard her moms voice. She stumbled a bit when she turned around to look at her dad with pleading puppy dog eyes, her axis of gravity not perfect quite yet. 

“Oh, y’want mama, baby? Okay, let’s get y’to mama.” Harry plucked her up off the ground and hiked her up onto his hip, scooping a couple blocks of watermelon into a yellow bowl. Harry pushed open the door to the drink bar, walking over to his wife who was laying down on a beach chair. His wife turned onto her side, reaching out for her baby who was already squirming in her dads arms. 

“Hi baby! You wanna come lay down with mama? Wanna sunbathe?” Y/N turned on her mom voice, babying her daughter. 

“Mama, mama, mama,” Daisy giggled, patting her mom’s face, a wide smile on her face, looking almost identical to Harry down to the dimples. 

“God, H. I can’t believe I birthed her, held her in my stomach for months, the whole nine yards, and she just looks exactly like you. Like, not even an inch of me in here. She’s got her Daddy’s curly hair, pretty green eyes, and cute little dimples… Don’t you, Dais?” She smiled, turning onto her back to place her baby on her thighs, Daisy’s head coming up to rest on her knees, her legs laying on her torso. 

“Guess so, m’love, but don’t worry, she still loves her Mumma waaaay more than her Daddy.”  Harry comments, munching on watermelon on the beach chair next to you. She turns her head to him and raises an eyebrow, and he smiles sheepishly. 

“Sorry,” he scratches his nose awkwardly. “I didn't mean that.” 

“Good, y’know she loves you just as much as she loves me.” She gave him a stern look, and he could see her eyes through her sunglasses. 

“Yeah, I know. Bad joke, didn’t land. Tough crowd, eh?” He smiled sheepishly. 

“Mmm, guess comedy isn’t for you, hm? Better stick to singing, pretty boy.” Y/N muttered before bringing her baby up to her chest, pressing small butterfly kisses to her head. 

“M’sweet girls, prettiest girls ever,” Harry grins, pulling your phone from underneath the throw pillow your head was resting on, snapping a few precious pictures. “Can’t believe ‘M so lucky.” 

Twisting his back to look behind him, he reached out to switch the bowl of watermelon for the camcorder, turning it on and recording his wife and daughter, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Today is July 26, 2023, a couple of days after the final Love On Tour show, and we’ve just gotten home to the Styles Villa in the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Here we have Mama and baby bunny in their most rawest forms,” Harry narrated, a grin on his face when he heard a sweet giggle emit from his wife’s chest. “Baby bunny’s sporting a cute swim set gifted to her from her favorite uncle, Uncle Alessandro, and Mama’s wearing a Gucci swim set as well, looking as beautiful as ever with the most beautiful and glowy skin-”

“H, shut up!” She guffaws, placing an embarrassed hand on her face. “Dais is gonna watch these one day and be scarred by the way you’re talking about me.”

Harry turns the camera so it’s on his face, “Little Daisy, if you’re watching these right now in the future, never settle for less than how I treat Mama. Y’deserve to be treated like a queen, m’soul, never ever settle for less.”

He flips the camera around again to face his girls, catching a tail end of YN’s eyeroll on camera. “Yes, sweet girl. I agree with Daddy, never settle for less.” She places more sweet kisses on Daisy’s head, cooing with Harry when a soft snore leaves their baby’s lips.

“Well, since y’asleep now, I think that’s a good place to leave it. We love you, Daisy. Byeeeee!” Harry waves, turning in his seat to have the camera face him and his small family. YN giggles and blows kisses, waving until Harry turns off the camera.

“We’ve got it good, Lovie.” He smiles, leaning forward to peck a kiss to her cheek, her temple, and then one on her lips, being cautious of the sleeping baby on her chest.

“Yes, we do.”

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry <3 #harry styles x y/n #harry styles blurb #harry edward styles

[zykamiliah]

the many ways shen qingqiu loves luo binghe

this was more or less inspired by this post, but because this is gonna be a personal opinion and i don't want to make a thread of it and inadvertently contest with the other two's points, I'm going to make my own post.

so i wanna start saying that "the moment one falls in love" is a trope that's waaaay too overstated. in my opinion. specially because falling in love tends to be something that has to do with romantic love most of the time, and it pretends to establish a sort of timeline, a point of no return, for ships and fictional relationships.

when the stories surrounding the characters are more straightforward, i don't really mind, since it makes sense for there to be an "Oh" moment when the character realizes they are in love. like, we know the moment lbh started to see sqq in a sexual light, and we can roughly add to this that the events of the demon invasion and the nightmare scenario are what sealed the deal for lbh. it helps that he's more honest about his feelings and the sexual awakening had already happened, and we can easily assume that from that point on lbh's feelings have a romantic-sexual side.

it still has other sides... because lbh loves sqq as a shizun, as a parent, and this side of their relationship, the master-disciple and parent-child side, is intrinsic to their dynamic; it's a conflicting element during their prolonged conflict for most of the novel, but at the same time, it's their default when they want to approach each other, it's the "safe zone".

but when it comes to sqq I think it's a much more difficult thing to ask: when does sqq falls in love? when is his Oh moment? Is there one, a conscious realization that he's in love? Can his relationship with lbh be described as "being in love"?

he loved Luo Binghe The Character

—the way a reader loves a favorite character, and fanboyed about him plenty before and after transmigrating. the shadow of what the little sheep he was raising would became was ever-present throughout those first 6 years before their meeting in Jinlan City.

but he loved lbh the character in a fanatical way that wasn't actually real... it was meaningful to him because he liked this fictional character a lot, but it's a safe love from the side of a screen.

he was compelled by lbh the character, by his tragic backstory full of angst, and by the ways lbh the character did things: he "rightfully" took his anger out in the people who'd hurt him and paid back for it tenfold. in a way, sy as a reader was also projecting himself in lbh the character.

in short, he loved the Idea of luo binghe, but not luo binghe as a real person.

he loved Luo Binghe the White Lotus Disciple

—and he loved him like a parent loves a child. yet, as I mentioned, he always kept in mind that this boy would grew up to be a very attractive and sexual man, and thus sqq expected him to have romantic encounters with girls around his age.

i know some people shy away from talking about this because everyone is paranoid about your favorite character being called a pedophile etc etc, but really, sy could be nothing farther from that, and whoever who says that has a very, hmm, wide definition of the word and it's probably just using the buzzword to hate on the character.

the important thing is that, despite sqq being aware that lbh is a potential sexual being and will become very sexually active in the future, he does not in any way sexualize his and lbh's relationship. Like I said, sqq would never abuse his power in that way, and he'd never get it on with someone he sees as a child, his disciple. that lbh is very much viewing their relationship with romantic and sexual lenses is a complete shock for him because of this, along with other reasons and assumptions (that lbh was straight)

the problem here is, precisely, that he treated lbh like a child once, and would go on treating him as a child later, post-holy mausoleum: disregarding lbh's agency, making decisions for him and without asking what lbh wants, since as the parent he obviously Knows Better, and taking responsibility for lbh's "bad behavior". the endless abyss was a decision he made without consulting lbh. he self-detonated because he thought that would be best for everyone, and he intended for his death to (among other things like saving the city and escaping prison) "make up" for his mistakes. in maigu ridge, he almost kills himself again because he thought that would be better for lbh.

he's self-sacrificing, protective, caring, and overall parental/maternal towards lbh, which has it's good and bad sides. for a long time, he loves lbh like a parent loves a child, and though this side of his love for lbh is not lost in the extras, it's lesser in the sense that the power imbalance is nullified, and the parent-child, shizun-disciple side of their relationship turns more into a comforting, safe roleplay that allows them to access intimacy and express their feelings (that infamous "if i was your mother" speech) than the entirety of their relationship.

and the thing is, he always loved and will always love lbh as a parent loves a child. and i think people uncomfortable with this fact have to get around to accepting that lol

he is subconsciously attracted to luo binghe (bingmei) the Man

we all know this part. sqq's descriptions of lbh's beauty are numerous and far too difficult to quote them all, but one that really stands out to me, because it proves the point, is this one:

[Shen Qingqiu] asked, “The important person you’re talking about, was it…a good-looking young man?” When he thought about it, he decided against suppressing his conscience and clarified. “Not just good-looking, he’s very good-looking, especially good-looking. Fair skin, pretty face, tall. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s exceptionally dark.” chapter 9: borderlands

if he was unaffected by lbh's attractiveness, he wouldn't need to "suppress his conscience" about it. also this description is just... describing lbh's smile from his own pov? a personal feeling? to a stranger? he has it bad.

he's repressing his own feelings, so it's difficult to point to a specific moment as the moment he realizes he's attracted to lbh... because he never has a conscious realization, and he's in constant denial about it. all the way through to the last bingqiu extra, the wedding extra, he'll continue using the same narrative: the Protagonist is Beautiful and Irresistible, so what can sqq do but surrender to him? It's inevitable, really. (hahahaha he can't help but love and be attracted to lbh. it says more about him that he could ever verbalize)

so yeah, sqq really has the hots for lbh the man. but he'll NEVER admit it, he'll never had an Oh moment. Not even when he unconsciously called lbh "husband".

i want to make a clarification: for a character like sqq, who care about his pride and dignity way too much and has internalized homophobia and sexism to the detriment of his own peace of mind and fulfillment, admitting that he enjoys sex is way too shameful. he's never doing it. he mentions being "drunk with lust" in the showdown extra; in the deep dream extra he gets enthusiastic and proactive, initiating sex with lbh himself very smoothly; in the RoC,SoBQ extra he initially asks to do it doggy style and then changes his tune and wants to see lbh's face, DESPITE being embarrassed about it, and his desire is described as wanting the spot inside him to be rammed. all of this are subtle hints of how he really feels about sex, despite his inner struggles with his pride as a man.

another clarification: the way smut is written in western space is not the same as the way is written in chinese novels. for example, some chinese slang put the the top as the one "attacking", as if sex is a sort of fight. there's always this implication that the shou surrenders to the gong. there's a clear distinction of who tops and who bottoms and the roles of husband and wife made by this distinction; pleasure is described differently: phrases like "scalp going numb", "getting goosebumps" are not particular to svsss alone; the way the bodies engaged in the sex act are described, etc. (it IS a different language with a different culture) so it's normal that most of us come out of the extras thinking the smut is not enjoyable for readers or the characters themselves. what is the difference between the mdzs extras and the svsss extras? that wwx, being characterized as a "shameless" person, is very vocal about how he feels during sex. he has no shame around sex, unlike sqq, who is in the opposite side of the shame spectrum.

sqq is still struggling with that part of himself, and personally I think it's very understandable that even until the end of volume 4 he still has a difficult time with it; it's not easy shedding the believes one grows up with.

which bring me to,

he loves luo binghe the Man, "romantically"

—and it's a love that conflates his parental love, his attraction, too, but that starts to develop mostly post-holy mausoleum: it's when the hand-holding starts, somehow, though it develops fulling throughout the extras, when they finally become romantic partners and explore sex together. mxtx traces an arc that starts with the showdown extra, goes through the deep dream extra that has sqq telling lbh that "Tonight I feel like... I live you a great deal" and ends in the wedding extra with sqq calling lbh "husband" unprompted; despite previously agonizing about his loss of face and dignity and the humiliation of it, his actions speak louder than his words and inner thoughts. because of this, functionally, sqq can be read as a tsundere.

but aside from the sex, sqq enjoys domesticity and spending time with lbh; he likes teasing him, conversing with him and going out with him to see the world. post-main novel they're equals in their relationship and treat each other with respect and consideration, even if their shizun-disciple roleplay prevails. by romance definitions, I believe they mostly fit them, even if their relationship is unconventional.

as for when sqq fell in love with lbh? i still don't have a clear answer. he's always loved him; this love evolves through time, bringing him and lbh closer together. personally, i don't think it's not important. sqq loves lbh, and that's what matters.

#svsss #zykamiliah-svsss #bingqiu #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #had this post in my drafts. feel like now is a good time to post it lol

[ghouljams]

I’ve been wondering something about BumbleBee (my nickname for Cowboy!König’s darling. Because her horse is named Honey and also just cause she seems clumsy like the bees that bump into my windows all the time). Why is she doing….whatever it is she’s doing? She seems to not have any experience whatsoever with animals (or maybe it’s just horses), doesn’t have any basic knowledge of her own surroundings (I’m guessing on that, since she didn’t recognize that the one snake was a garter snake and harmless), and just overall seems kinda new to this.

I love bumblebee, that's so cute. Ghoul stamp of approval. König calls her "Hummelchen" specifically because of Honey and her clumsiness. 

So the author’s note here is that the house/farm is her grandparent's. It's her inheritance and she's sort of half fixing it up while she's living there. She is a city transplant who is truly making a new life for herself after the sort of really messy divorce you only get when you were high school sweethearts that got married waaaay too young. He was not good to her. Like she lost everything and is slowly rebuilding her life with Honey(and König).

We're going to pretend that this is König asking this question so I can do some cute fic. Man wants to know what's up with his future wife and is willing to use basic interrogation tactics to do that. This is pretty immediately after Bee gets cleaned up.

The question hangs in the air between the two of you. Your lips are still pressed to the mug in your hands, halfway to sipping the coffee offered to you. König stares at you before leaning forward against the table.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me." He says, back tracking. You settle your mug on the table.

"No, I'm… pretty clearly not used to this," You say tapping your fingers against your mug, "I get why you'd be curious."

König thought of the neat stack of papers he had on you in his closet. Your entire life laid out on printer paper and background checks. An entire dossier, everything he could find on you. He wasn't curious, he wanted to know your thoughts. Facts were only useful as far as he could make conversation, and he couldn't ask about anything private you hadn't told him yourself, even if he did know too much about you.

"Truth be told I'm not really sure what I'm doing out here, it's not like I have any dreams of farming or animal husbandry." You smile at your mug, the warmth is comforting, König is comforting, "but I didn't really have anywhere else to go, so here I am."

"Nowhere else to go," König half asks, you nod.

"Yeah, I mean, after I split from-" you cringe, not wanting to say their name, it's fine König knows it either way, "I sort of lost everything but the house and Honey."

"Scheiße," König mumbles to himself, eyes hot and angry, how anyone could put you through the hell you’d been through was beyond him. If it was him, he never would’ve let you go, never would’ve forced you to that breaking point. If it was him…

But now it is him, or it will be him. You look so sweet and kept sitting across from him in his oversized shirt, biting your pretty pink lip and staring down your own wobbly reflection in your mug. 

“It’s not so bad,” You assure yourself, “I have the whole house to myself, and I can go into town whenever I want, and I’ve got Honey to keep me company.” And me, König thinks to himself, you’ve got me too.

“If you ever need help with anything,” He offers, and you smile at him, a half shy thing that still lights up the kitchen like sunshine.

“I do seem to need a lot of help,” You laugh a little. König nods, and you reach across the table to smack his arm, "You're not supposed to agree with me."

"Sorry," his eyes are so pretty when he smiles, the way they crease and sparkle just for you makes your stomach flip. Maybe it won’t be so bad living out here with König just down the street. You could use a good friend.

#Cowboy!König #Wow this is so cute except that König has her underwear in his pocket #creep(affectionate) #I realize I just posted him being a stalker on the highkey but here's some DL stalking #könig x you #König x reader #konig x you #konig mw2 #konig x reader #the way I keep going yeah reader insert and making a pov OC #you're all enabling me that's the problem

[bonefall]

Is Sandgorse still abusive in BB? If so does he still save Sparrow? Idk I think it'd be a neat thing for Talltail to brood on and move past once realizing the truth. Like just because your abuser did a "Good Thing tm" doesn't mean you have to forgive them or that all of a sudden it excuses their past a tion towards you.

Or did you remove this plot beat entirely? If so I don't blame you :P

Weird that Tumblr search isn't giving me all the stuff I tagged :/ hopefully after finals are done I can compile a 1st draft/The Story So Far for the rework of Tallstar’s Revenge

It's now called TALLSTAR’S COLLAPSE. It is actually a story I am rewriting with tragedy in mind. It's about Talltail fleeing WindClan with his starcrossed lover, Sparrow, only to eventually be drawn back to it where he becomes a perpetuator of all the things that made him leave.

To answer your question; Yes, and. Sandgorse is abusive and there's a LOT of nuance to this situation. I'm not sure if he still saves "Sparrow" though because I have waaaay more of a point in mind with Tallstar’s tumultuous relationship to him.

Summary of changes,

Tallstar's Collapse

Sparrow is the Clanmew name Jake takes when his group interacts with WindClan. His first language is actually a dialect of Townmew!

(Also Firestar has no known father in BB)

His group is nomadic. They go from place to place trading goods. I need a name for both them and their cultural "cluster" but in my head, Jake's family is the Algernauts because Algernon is the current leader

It's important the Algernauts are extremely endearing because leaving them is VERY painful

(and something i want to frame as the wrong choice for tallstar, emotionally)

WindClan is in a very sensitive period of its history. Before Tallstar was born, Heatherstar began the Mothermouth Moorland War, to take a very large parcel of land from ShadowClan. A good 1/5th of it.

Naturally this is a huge project and incredibly ambitious. Sacrifices Must Be Made

The sacrifice she has chosen to make is the death of tunneling. Because she's smothering it.

Tunneling is PEACEFUL, defensive at best. You can't dig them in a floodplain, they would be useless for holding the Mothermouth Moorland territory

Tallkit is born into a terrible position. Son of the head tunneler, mother in a terrible depression, and Heatherstar trying to pry a wedge between the "future" and the "past"

Im also planning to change his name. He was born Slowworm-Kit, which has a connotation of cleverness in Clanmew. To bully him, Shrewpaw calls him Wormtail, because Slowworms drop their tails if pulled. It means "you will get trapped in a cave-in, and when they pull your tail, it'll fall off"

But it doesn't translate well into English... so I'm not sure what his Heatherstar-given warrior name would be. Wormwing or Wormleap maybe, like he "defied fate" to become a wonderful moor-runner...

Or maybe the prefix is Drop? Droptail as the mean bully name and Dropflight as the warrior name...

Anyway, when he returns, Heatherstar welcomes back the extra claws and honors the lesson he learned with "Talltale." In Clanmew this is "Story-travelled," his leader name meaning "Tale-star."

Anyway. Back to the cat drama

Talltail (name pending) is in a tight spot. I kind of want to show everyone being a victim except Heatherstar herself, who has all the power in this situation.

Not that it excuses anyone

Sandgorse is watching something he loves dying, an ancient tradition passed down for generations. He is trying to force his son into a position he shouldn't HAVE to occupy, but his child is the one thing he might have any control over

(Until Tall breaks it ofc)

Tallpaw was just a kid. He needed to take out his bullying and the stress on something, and that was usually his mother and the concept of tunneling

Palebird has been completely neglected by her mate as he focuses on the person he WANTS his kid to be. She NAMED a Fading Kit, a serious social taboo, and even the support of the nursery and Woolytail can't pull her out before Tall's kithood is over

Heatherstar is using Tallpaw as a political pawn and Tallpaw is too young and hurt to realize it. He was given to her sister, Dawnstripe, and endlessly praised for his skill and talent in a time where he NEEDED positive feedback

Which is making his relationships with his parents worse

All the while, there's VIOLENCE. Regular raids and counterstrikes. Cats die and get injured, and it only escalates as Tall gets older and Cedarstar is reaching the end of his lives, hoping to end the conflict before then

And in all this chaos and uncertainty, there comes Sparrow.

Just a trader and an honored guest, there's been lots of these nomadic visitors since the time of Windstar herself, but they've become quite rare.

When Sandgorse dies suddenly in that collapse (TITLE DROP) Talltail has the push he finally needs. It's too much. He can't process this

Sparrow begs him to leave with them, they don't even need to confront anyone, just come!

IF IT SUCKS HIT DA BRICKS

I have tons of really nice little things planned for this part of the story. It's several chapters of Talltail being free.

He engages in the funeral rites of Wee Hen, asking if he may sit vigil for her. His new family is honored to allow it, Reena even tries to do it too and falls asleep

(Little sister energy)

They meet all sorts of people and go to many places. Talltail learns that the world is vast, and there's an endless amount of knowledge out here.

It all starts crashing down when him and Jake find a litter of abandoned kittens, and become parents.

They're a few moons old.. around the same age as his halfsibs back home.

It starts bringing back memories. He wonders how they're doing. If they made a nice grave for Sandgorse...

The sudden longing for his own mother strikes him like lightning.

For the first time in eons, he feels GUILT over leaving. He thought it was over-- he's living his own life now!

But what if they're hurt? What if there was a battle and he couldn't help? What if his mentor died and he didn't even know?

What kind of a horrible son doesn't even say goodbye?

The problems that made him leave seem so small now, and the homesickness is like acid leaking from his stomach, dissolving his guts and leaving him hollow

He's raising kits who will never know what it means to earn a title, or have a permanent home, or--

(Any of the other things he should have learned don't have meaning outside of clan culture. Things they wouldn't miss.)

He cherishes the memories he makes here, raising children with his mate, but something turns inside of Talltail. Like the groaning ache of a hundred stones on top of a decaying mineshaft

The REAL collapse is this. An existential crisis Talltail can't escape from.

And eventually, it comes tumbling down with one last, horrible nightmare.

In his dream, he came home only to find the sandy camp abandoned, the dens decrepit, full of musty scent and cobwebs.

Sandgorse was there. And they talked.

His dad was gruff as always, disappointed. But he didn't say anything the real Sandgorse would say.

The nightmare said, "You really did turn out like me. We both left your mother when she needed us. Turned our backs on our leader. And now we're both dead to WindClan."

Tall wakes up crying. Jake is there to comfort him, but the conversation they have is sad.

Jake tries to tell him that's all not true, and even if it WAS his dad, his dad sucked and would only say that to hurt him!

But... Tall can't believe it. Jake's right but also wrong. He IS all those horrible things.

And...... how can jake ever Understand? He does not know the Bonds of a Clan cat

(thought terminating cliche. Outsiders Cant Understand Our Bonds.)

He stays a few more days, but that nightmare was the end. And everyone sees the change.

The kits are apprentice-aged. He stayed until they would be old enough to keep up with the Algernauts.

And he says goodbye. He won't ever leave without saying goodbye ever again.

Jake says it doesn't have to be goodbye, he'll always love him, and they can visit! They can see each other again!

And Tall says yes. That this isn't the end. It's... see you later, my love.

(...but they both know how violent it's getting between Wind and Shadow. It isn't safe to visit.)

It is the end. But neither can admit it.

But after Tall is a fair distance away, one of his kits tackles him.

POSSIBLY Post-Tallstar's Collapse

Not sure if I'd put these in a novella or still make it part of it, but these are all directly related to the fallout of Tallstar's Collapse

Most likely is that there would be overlap between this and Brokenstar's Cataclysm, so the same events would be seen in different perspectives.

The kit's name is Fly. Tall has to wait for him to catch his breath and stop crying before they can talk.

Fly already lost parents before. He says he knows he can't make his dads stay together, "But PLEASE, papa, let me choose where I go this time!"

How could he say no? How could he send his son away after a plea like that?

He told him it would be hard. That he would be trained. That there would be dangerous fights.

Fly didn't care, he said he could be strong. He could do anything he needed to.

So... Tall took him to WindClan, where he became Flypaw. He became the warrior he promised he would be.

And Tall didn't notice how much the kid was changing until it was too late. Flytail took to it as if he was Clanborn-- but had to work twice as hard, fight thrice as viciously.

Though Talltail was graced with an Honor Title and open arms, he'd adopted his greatest rival.

Fly and Tall started competing for deputyship as soon as they finished training apprentices; Heatherstar had a fondness for the two of them.

In the end, Talltail won the spot by springing into action and saving Heatherstar's young nephew, a little golden tabby, from an adder.

Flytail continued as one of the more aggressive warriors in the Clan, surviving increasingly violent and bitter battles, until it came to a head in Heatherstar's Last Stand.

Her final battle as an old leader was a gruesome, definitive curbstomp in the last strategic point ShadowClan held above Carrionplace.

One of the losses was Lizardstripe-- neck snapped in Flytail's jaws.

Runningnose, and by extension, the oak-tree to his long-shadow, Brokentail, remembered this. Especially when Runningnose's father Mudfoot collapsed later that year.

As Talltail took leadership from the dying Heatherstar, a familiar regretful guilt wormed into his belly.

His son Flytail stood with a bloody mouth, eyes wet with sorrow, looking down at the leader Talltail once loved almost as much. Appreciating her sacrifice.

(secretly he didnt choose Deadfoot as his deputy just for his honor title or the battle move he invented... he chose him because there was a shocked, sorrowful look in his eyes at the fallen shadowclan cat. Sympathy seems more honorable in this moment.)

Tallstar is a wise leader... but his fatal flaw is naivety. How could he think he'd bring his son into WindClan, and not see the boy grow into a ferocious Warrior?

And naivety is what he displayed when he offered Raggedstar a peace deal. WindClan would keep the land, but they would pay a small tax of rabbits over the winter.

It was unprecedented. It was merciful. It was stupid.

When the winter was over, what would stop them from pushing further south?

Would they trade back the frogs and the flax, come summer?

On the blood and bones of so many warriors? As if giving up was ever an option?

Brokentail killed his father to prevent him from taking the deal, and reawakened Ripplestar's War Tactics.

BURN the peat. KILL the prey. OFFENSE is defense. A dead warrior is 10 less claws. A dead apprentice is 1 less warrior.

Stolen kittens are 1 more warrior on your own side.

Tallstar paid the ultimate price for letting Flytail follow him home that day. On the night of the massacre, Flytail went down fighting alongside a mate and a daughter. Dogpiled by Tangleburr and her squadron in revenge for Lizardstripe and Mudfoot.

Tallstar's granddaughter Stoneclaw, made a warrior and sitting for her vigil on that night, was the sole survivor of the little family.

The event stopped her from speaking again, like she's still sitting vigil.

Tallstar is a character who almost broke free of the control of the Clans. For a brief moment of his life, he was free.

He thought maybe he could change things a little, protect his Clanmates from the battles by being part of them, have the Mothermouth Moorland and protect the peace at the same time. But you CAN'T.

You can't fix broken systems without fundamentally changing them. He thought he could be a nice warlord and that would work on the Clan whose territory he had inherited. Power acts through people just as much as they act through power.

And that's Tallstar. He who travels the world, yet is never able to go far enough. Always falling just a little short of the point, believing that love and mercy is enough while blissfully ignorant of the pressures of pride and power.

Into this role, as a successor to this leader, Onestar is unwillingly thrust.

#BB!Tallstar #Better bones au #BB!Flytail #Tallstar's Collapse

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny, while out exploring the Infinite Realms, gets caught up in a wierd evil scheme to clone...a robin? Okay, strange but hes dealt with weirder stuff. Nothing really prepared him for finding a little newborn baby amongst all the empty pods and computers he was destroying.

He picked it up carefully and soon discovered it was a girl. Phantom, knowing this was very much not a bird, started looking for answers while the baby rested in his arm. Robin turned out to be a kid who looked around eight or nine...or he was just small. Either way he was waaaay too young to take in a baby and anyone who dressed up like a bat and let thier kid run around with them at two in the morning to fight serial killers and terrorists in the city that is the embodiment of late stage capitalism probably isn't a good fit for a child.

So he turned to the child and muttered, "Guess I'm a dad now." before taking her back to the Infinite Realms. He named her Asteria after the greek titan goddess of the stars.

She was so inquisitive and wanted to grab and investigate everything she saw. She was smart and ridiculously bold, almost reckless, which made it easy to pass her off as his and telling his sister that he had a fling with a tourist and she told him the baby was his. He even presented a fake paternity test to her and then silently waited for her judgment.

She just sighed.

Danny didn't hate being a father but man it was tiring. They had moved away from Amity Park after thier parents and Vlaad "passed away" which was code for Jazz murdering them in cold blood after...the incident

He and Sam stopped being friends after they had a bad break up, but Tucker was his best friend, even all these years later. Valerie still seemed to come and go too. Danny was happy just being a single father.

Until it happened.

Asteria started coughing. He didn't think anything of it at first. Kids got sick all the time but...it never stopped. Danny had taken her to doctor after doctor but no one seemed to know what they were looking at. They all said something similar, that it was some sort of genetic disease involving her lungs but they had never seen anything like it.. they even asked to record this for future medical studies. He agreed so long as it was within reason and wasn't invasive.

The cough just kept getting worse until one day she had a fit so bad it sent her to her knees. She had to stay on the ground coughing as Danny frantically patted her back and tried to comfort her. By the time it was over she was sobbing uncontrollably and hugging her teddybear to her chest as Danny held her.

Danny decided he needed to go back to Gotham. If this was a genetic disease then it must have come from that Robin guys family, right? He didn't want to have to go to him directly, it had been four years since he took her and its possible the guy might sue him for custody. Or the Batman will. Or they might kidnap her and he would never see her agia-

Danny took a deep breath. He was not going to talk to the furry patrol. But he was sure that someone in Gotham had to know what this was.

---

Leslie got a knock on her window as an ungodly hour of the night. She opened it intending to yell at someone, but when she saw that unique look of desperation on a young man's face while holding a little girl in a light blue princess nightgown the words died on her tongue.

The man said he couldn't go to a normal hospital or doctor as they would have questions he couldn't answer and her sickness isn't something he had ever seen before. She was adopted and her disease was appearently genetic. He even offered to give Leslie samples of his blood for study since he heard she liked to study metas.

She made sure he knew this wasn't necessary and that she didn't want him to feel forced before taking the offered sample.

Asteria began a slow recovery after that. One where neither of them could leave Gotham until she was completely cured. Whats more is that Asteria would need medication for years to come. Money wasn't an issue. Danny would just need to find a reliable form of transport between dimensions.

Unfortunately for him, Leslie discovered the "Altered Lazarus water" in his blood samples and notified Batman.

#fanfiction prompts #prompts #danny phantom #danny fenton #dp x dc #batman #robin #tim drake #you could also have it be jasons kid #if you wanted #red robin #danny is just like: oh a baby with no where to go? #danny: well my life is ruined anyway why not add a baby to the mix #danny has self esteem issues #danny wont let batman and birdboy see the kid #custody battle? #if you use jason instead of tim you can say it was jasons angst that made danny not tell him about the baby #cause he would have been a similar age to danny in this #which is 15ish

[joelsgreys]

the road ahead l preview (j. miller series)

a/n📝 in honor of hitting 4k followers this weekend, I decided to post a little glimpse at what I have been brainstorming: a full length series for the to do the right thing universe. I have been toying around with this idea for a while now and to be honest, I am really terrified taking on such a big challenge and writing this story, but also kind of excited too? part of me feels like I’m going to be in waaaay over my head but oh well lmao.

the first chapter is still a draft, but this scene is complete. what do we think? should i do it? please let me know your thoughts!

“Frank?” You knelt in front of his wheelchair and placed a gentle hand on his knee. “What is it?”

“We need you to take Gracie with you,” Frank told you, softly. His blue eyes had gone red, brimming with tears that he was trying his absolute hardest to hold back. Behind him, Bill stood there with his hand on his partner’s shoulder and you could have sworn that he was fighting back tears too.

“What?” You and Joel hissed out in unison. While you couldn’t see him, you could imagine the look of shock on his face mirrored yours as well.

“We need you to take her with you,” he repeated.

You stared up at Frank, your eyes wide in pure and utter disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

“Whatever this illness is, it’s progressing fast, way too fast. Look at me. The last time you were here, I could still walk. That was what, just a few months ago?” Frank let out a small and humorless chuckle and shook his head. “I’m getting worse with every day that passes. I can’t do anything for myself, let alone for Gracie. I’m in the most excruciating and unbearable pain and the reality is that I don’t have all that much time left.” He paused, hesitating for a moment before saying, “If I’m going to die, then I’m going to die in peace, not in agony.”

Your heart sank deeply, realizing what he’d meant by that.

“What about Bill?”

Joel’s gruff voice came from behind you, strained and tight.

“He can’t raise her alone. And besides, he’s made his choice to go with me.” Frank put his hand over his beloved partner’s hand, which was still resting on his shoulder.

You glanced over your shoulder back at Joel, who just stood there, the color drained from his face.

“How could we put her through that?” You asked, your voice thick with emotion as you turned back to look at Frank. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it will be for her to go with us?”

“She’s right. We’re goin’ across the fuckin’ country to get Ellie where she needs to be,” Joel reminded them. “We don’t know what kinda shit is out there or what we’re goin’ to run into. So how the fuck do you two expect us to take along a fuckin’ child?”

“Ellie’s a child,” Bill pointed out to him.

“She’s fuckin’ fourteen, not three—”

Frank held up a hand to stop him.

Finally, a tear slid down the side of his face. “Look, this isn’t a choice that we want to make, Joel. But let’s face it. I’m sick and Bill is old. Gracie will wind up alone.” He swallowed harshly, his eyes meeting yours. “I know you just wanted her to be safe, and sure, maybe she was safer with us here than in the zone for a while, but I don’t think that we thought this all the way through. I don’t think we looked far enough into the future. At some point, Gracie was going to lose us both.”

You turned and looked into the living room where Gracie was showing Ellie her favorite teddy bear.

“What’s his name?” Ellie had asked her.

“Teddy.”

She snorted, ruffling her hair. “Real original, kid.”

Gracie giggled, playfully swatting her hand away.

“I know she loses either way.” Frank’s hoarse voice garnered your attention once again. “I know it’s an incredibly dangerous risk, taking her with you. But it’s either that or she winds up alone.”

“We took care of her for as long as we could,” Bill said, quietly. “Now it’s your turn.”

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller series #joel miller angst #pedro pascal characters #;tdtrt #;tra

[shinjisdone]

Hello! I saw that your request is open so if you don't mind could i ask for a Jack or Ace's version of Fem!MC and friends?👉👈 I love the one you did for Deuce, I have a soft spot for the first years boys 🥺Thanks in advance 🖤

Oh, Deuce is great and deserves the love! You have good taste.

Gonna choose Ace for thsi since his suitor suit and galla outfit SCREAM for an female!mc and friends version!

Gonna go with three cards/events or else its gonna get too long ;;

Female!MC and Friends - Ace Trappola

Ace. Trappola. Sigh.

This guy is...surely...certainly...something, alright.

The way he speaks, the way he behaves, the one-of-a-kind smirk he wears...it's all just "Ace".

You knew that from day 1 when he teased you relentlessly and even got you and Deuce in trouble. Your prediction that he would keep getting himself and you in trouble still rings true.

Although, you cannot deny that he...seems to have grown fonder of you in a way.

When He...Proposes To A Ghost?!

Oh no. This is too funny.

Quite the predicament Idia (and your entire dorm) has gotten into but you never thought you'd see the day where Ace - ACE - would...dress up in a suit with slick hair and...a ring in his palm.

You try not to laugh, really, really hard - you really, really try not to but...just LOOK AT HIM!

Actually, laugh to your heart's content cuz this guy would have done the same if you were in his shoes. Aaaand for all the other things he'd tease you for in the future.

Yeah, yeah...go ahead and get yer sides sore, you'll see that Ace will sweep that egotistical princess off her feet!

...Even if she doesn't have those anymore.

Besids, what's there to laugh about? Can't you see how he dolled up to be the 'perfect, ideal prince'?

In fact, with a sneaky, toothy grin, Ace is sure that he already made you fall for him right then and there when you saw him in this get-up! Go on, admit it, it's okay. It's like love at first sight...he just needed to look his best for you first!

If you brush him off and say, hah, 'in your dreams', then prepare to have him hang on your shoulder until he has to go and steal the heart of the bride (which he is sooo confident in). Ace will smirk and cackle, poke and provoke you until you just HAVE to admit how wonderfully good-looking he is right now! Oh man, you are just brimming with jeaously that you aren't the one proposed to by Ace, right~? Right~? C'moooon, just admit it!

He'll swing by like a hero, hold your hand and pretend to kiss your knuckles and whisper these stupid, corny lines he read in a manga once - and IF YOU DO BLUSH AND FLUSTER (DO NOT!) YOU CAN BET YOUR LIFE SAVINGS THAT ACE WILL SNAP FROM FAIRY TALE PRINCE TO BAFFONERY PEASANT AND LAUGH AT YOUR FACE

Did you just reaaaally fall for that?! OMG OMG how come he never noticed that you get all flustered like that so easily????

New weakness aquired.

Ace will exploit it.

However, if you play along, you will certainly make HIM blush. What the...??? H-hey, that was just a joke...don't you know we are actually fake proposing here? H-haha...weirdo.

And if you pretend to be Eliza for practice and Ace has to act and say all those things to you? Uh, dude, I mean, l-like thanks for the help but...aren'tchu takin' this waaaay too seriously? Ace got this, you don't need to...you know...

Ace will at first tease you if you try to get he attention of the bride too by wearing a suit. But, well, he will definitely deny of having glanced at your direction if you catch him...

A dress, however? Blushes a bright red, red as his suit. Whoa, whoa, aren't you going a bit too far? Like, way too out for this? You should be wearin' something like that for your real wedding. Not a fake one...(that is to a ghost and not him...)

Anyone with eyes can tell that Eliza is not Ace's type, so if you ask him, he might need time to think. He'd glance at you from time to time and grows a bit nervous under your gaze...

He'd give you an vague answer.

When He Impresses Fairies...

Ugh, seriously? Does he have to make a show for some selfish fairies while wearing this?

Well, at least you are here to join him in the humiliation. Shared pain is...uh, double the gain?

Whatever, Ace can pull this off with your aid. In fact, he might feel more motivated with you by his side, especially if he sees you as another 'audience memeber'.

You are one of his biggest fans when it comes to his magic tricks anyway, right? So having a familiar face here in this show eases him.

These white robes though...as annoying and odd as they might seem, they kinda make you two look like a magic duo! Not bad! And hey, when he looks at them a second time, they ain't soooo ugly anyway...

Well, they certainly look good on you...

The flowers are the confetti on top. Kinda cute to see these butterflies flutter all over yer head. Just don't let them nestle in your hair!

Actually, as dumb as this is, you two CAN act like a magic duo! He is The Great Trappola (roll the r) and you...! Eh, his assistant. Any great magician needs an loyal assisant!

Not like you can do magic anyway, hehe...

Be amazed at his awesome tricks and praise them with jazz hands! Just make him look good.

Y'know, Ace wasn't sure why the clothes were this royal white anyway...but now that he thinks about it, with the flowers and accessories...you kinda look like a fairy. A non-palm-sized fairy! Haha, maybe that'd be the kind of stuff they'd wear if they were as big as you and him...

Heh, you could maybe even be their fairy princess! Or their fairy queen! Go on, tell 'em off and have you two be excused~ OOh, go tell them to serve you two and give extra special attention to the magician guy!

...Oh! H-hey, don't get this the wrong way. Dummy, it's not like you got some ethereal, fey-like beauty about'cha or somethin'...hey, don't laugh! Be glad that The Great Trappola (roll the r) compliments you!

When He Is Stranded At an Island...

Omg, for real, he and everyone else is stranded on this lonely, beautiful, tropical beach whatever shall they do - SIKE THIS IS THE BEST IT JUST MEANS EARLY SUMMER VACATIONS!!!

Are you kidding him? He can have earlier summer vacations on a beach with (almost) no one to bother and berate him?! (Aside from Riddle). This is the best!

Screw learning. No matter how his grades are, he deserves this!

Will definitely take it easy the minute he lands there. Might even berate you to NOT take this seriousy and just relax with him~ The upper classmen will take care of this~

Ace is gonna take advantage of this and drag you to any relaxing activity that there is. Swimming, collecting shells, building sandcastles, cracking coconuts open...

This is a one-in-a-lifetime chance! He ain't gonna miss this!

Realy likes his outfit and will compliment yours too! Dressed like this, how can you not just take a few vacation days?

Kinda wants you two to match? Not in a cute couple way but more like a 'we-are-so-rich-and-the-bosses-here-look-at-us-match-with-our-superiourity' kinda way.

In fact, this could a way to make amends for the winter vacations last time. You know, with *whispers* Jamil-senpai's overblot? yeah, that.

Ace may not be able to show you around his hometown but he can help you have a good time here! Just follow his lead!

He is surprisingly very attentive here. Making sure you are okay and have fun at all times...it's nice.

He'll make things into competitions like collecting the prettiest sea shell or building sandcastles together. Ace will like swimming together the most though.

Jokingly taking his shirt off and flexing but if you were to do the same thing or wear something more skin-revealing, he'll shut up quick. C'mon Ace, get it together...this isn't the frist time you've seen a girl in a swimsuit...or swimear in general...but...you aren't just some random girl...

He'll get it together, don't worry. It just...takes time.

#request #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #ace trapolla #ace trapolla x reader #female!mc #female!reader

[radiance1]

Back on my bullshit with the Eastern Dragon Danny and Phoenix Vlad au:

So basically, Vlad decided to go to sleep for a while, inside a modified coffin built to withstand him and all that. So, he tells Danny a specific time to wake him so that he could resume his duties as Duke.

Why did Vlad decide to take a really long nap? Because he was extremely tired of ghost zone politics and decided to just go fuck it, I need a nap.

The deadline he needed Danny to wake him up at is relatively short in ghost terms really, just about a period of 40 years, he's currently 20, so at the end of this he should just be an even 60. Which would give him plenty of time to finish forty years of work before his rebirth cycle kicked in again.

He gave Danny the key to said coffin, with its specific magical signature and everything. So he expected and trusted that Danny would awaken him within a span of forty years, perhaps a bit earlier if push came to shove.

Then he just went to sleep.

Danny doesn't like his decision to just, up and go sleep for forty years, only because he would have to be the one doing the paperwork but its like, whatever he guessed. Do Danny was now actually handling the paperwork and navigating ghostly politics once more!

Joy...

He was buried in work for a fair amount of time, sometimes literally, and had to kick it back for a bit before going back to work. He felt like he was forgetting something, though...

A key appeared under a stack of papers that he just worked through, a veeeeeeery familiar key that he was sure had some kind of importance based on that itchy feeling in the back of his skull.

Eh, it's probably not important.

Welp, back to work!

Danny worked in silence for a bit, before getting up and slamming his hands on his desk.

OH FUCK, VLAD!

It's been waaaay more than 40 years last he checked, enough time that Vlad must've rebirthed inside his coffin already by like, a lot of times by now.

Considering that 5 millenniums have passed.

Well, shit.

So he hid the key in his hair, shifted, and flew off to Vlad's domain to wake him up. But when he got there, weeeeell, let's just say that Vlad's coffin was. Well.

It was gone.

Now, you see Observants. He had a totally reasonable explanation for this, you know. It was uh, well, you know, he just, ya'know?

He just, kinda, forgot...

He'll get him back! He swears! He just, need to, ya'know, find the guy!

Couldn't be that hard!

Another five millenniums later, he felt like punching his past self for fucking jinxing future him! The Observants were literally breathing down his neck to find the guy, and he didn't want to go back to doing paperwork either!

His salvation came in the form of a summoning, one he answered and finally, finally found the location of Vlad's coffin. He honestly got extremely, he didn't want to face paperwork again, so he asked these group of heroes to help him find this specific coffin in exchange for whatever they wanted him to do.

And he's Ancient damn thankful he did cause oh boy, cause like 2 days later he was presented the coffin that was just sitting collecting dust in some magician guy's house that was apparently passed down throughout generations that the Justice League managed to get their hands on.

So he opened it, and literally had to catch Vlad, who fell out of his coffin and looked like a literal 10-year-old. Did Vlad's temporary retirement plan include his deadline of 40 years being stretched by 9,960 years? No, no it did not, and unlike the previous ghost king, he was not unaffected by the length of his sleep.

So forgive him if he had to relearn how to do basic body functions, his memory foggy, and his powers were a bit outta wack.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp

[mylovelies-docx]

Sorry, I Love You - Part 9

Oh wow, a new chapter? Who'd have thunk it.

My posting schedule is all off and I honestly don't know if I can get it back under control. I have no idea when I'll get time to sit down and write and when inspiration will strike, so I can't assure weekly updates. But I'll try my hardest to get this story out! I have future chapters written, it's just that I have no way of connecting them right now :/ Oops.

Plot: You and Bucky have a good thing going - best of friends that also have more than a little chemistry between the sheets. Everything is fine until you develop feelings for the man who doesn't want a relationship. What will happen when Bucky finds out?

C/W: Ah shit, here we go again. Angst, arguments, jealousy

Word Count: 2,250

Tag List: NOW CLOSED! If you'd like to keep up with this story, please follow my blog and turn on notifications! ❤️ you :)

[Prologue][Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4][Part 5][Part 6][Part 7][Part 8]

Some moments are easier than others. Sometimes you feel like you’re not pining like a love-sick teenager enough to think that you can actually do this – you can actually be friends with the man you love.

But then there are moments like tonight.

A few weeks have passed since community get-together, and you and Bucky are the new kids in town. Everyone drops by to say hello, leave you with enough food to last the winter, and invite you both back to their homes for dinner. It’s all very sweet, and you would appreciate the hospitality in any other situation.

But the amount of mothers trying to marry their daughters off to Bucky is insane. 

Several have not-so-subtley seated Bucky next to daughters of marriageable age, while everyone else is silently discouraged from interrupting their conversations. It skeezes you out when the girls are barely out of their teens, but most of the girls are around your age or older. Morality-wise, that’s a whole lot more appropriate. Internal monologue-wise, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh doesn’t even begin to cover it. What you feel whenever he laughs at something they say, or looks at them with his intense blue eyes – it hurts. That��s how he used to look at you, once upon a time. Like his life wouldn’t be the same without you in it, like you’re one of the most important people in his world.

To be fair to Bucky, you probably read waaaay more into it than he ever meant. And you only ever really saw that look come out when you were straddling his waist and grinding hard on his cock, skin mottled with his teeth marks and wearing his metal hand as a necklace. 

Stop, stop, stop, stop!

Anyway,

You’re usually placed next to older, widowed relatives, as most of the young men in the town have already settled down and popped out a few kids with their spouses except for Petre. Tessa foists the two of you together at every possible opportunity, hoping you’ll hit it off and decide to get married in the near future. 

Petre is nice, smart, cute, but not really your type. You’re convinced that you’ve only ever had one type and he’s off-limits. But Petre’s company is much more enjoyable than the sad, lonely older men they try to pair you with – it never feels great to be compared to someone’s long lost love – so you don’t mind having someone around your age to talk during these things.

Speaking of.

“It’s a nice night, yeah?” Petre comments. The night is warmer than expected, but you and Petre are still bundled up in your coats as you stroll through the dead copse of trees near the latest dinner party. The sun had set only minutes ago and the stars are making their presence known. There’s next to no light pollution in this area, so you always take the time to admire the night sky when you have the chance. 

You often take walks with Bucky up and down your street as a way to decompress after your shifts at the HYDRA facility. After the first week or so of being everyone’s errand-runner, they’ve slowly built up your workload to include calculations and deductions based on redacted data – it’s not as much information as you’d like, but it’s enough to build a foundational understanding of what the experiment was about.

You hum in agreement and continue walking. It’s about time to turn around and head back, but you can’t bring yourself to return only to watch Bucky flirt with the pretty girls that were also invited.  

“Is something the matter?” Petre asks you.

You startle out of your petty, jealous thoughts. “Hm? Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong,” you reply with a smile.

“It’s just that you seem very distracted tonight,” he responds.

With your hands in your pocket, the only thing you can do is shrug your shoulders. “Just tired, is all. It’s been a long week at the office.”

“Ah, I know the feeling,” Petre commiserates. 

All of the sudden, a wailing, piercing shriek ricochets between the tree trunks and reverberates in your ears. Tensing with adrenaline, you take two steps forward, ready to intervene in whatever events are unfolding in the darkness.

Before you get much further, Petre reaches out and takes hold of your elbow. Turning you around, he starts leading the way back. You try to tug your arm from his grip, but he holds firm.

“The cry of a vixen who is looking to mate. They’re rather vicious creatures this time of year, foxes. We don’t want to get in her way,” Petre deters.

“But…” you begin, looking back over your shoulders and watching for unexpected movement among the swaying branches. “It sounds so real.”

“Terrifying, really. I was just as concerned when they began, as well.” Petre gives you a tight smile and relaxes his grip slightly when you stop trying to pull away.

“What do you mean?” you question.

“What?” Petre’s eyes flash around quickly, looking through the woods that surround you.

“‘When they began’. What do you mean by that?”

“Ah,” Petre replies. “When mating season began.”

There’s no more discussion on the eerily accurate sound of a woman in distress. You can only trust that Petre would know the local fauna and their habits better than you, since you’ve never spent an extended period of time in areas such as this.

***

The neighbor’s house finally comes into view. A lone figure stands silhouetted against the porch as they lean against the railings, their arms braced against the banister and posture rigid. When you get closer, you realize that the figure is Bucky. 

You can’t see his face, but you can feel his eyes on you. And apparently Petre can as well.

“He doesn’t like me?” Petre asks.

“Why do you say that?” The question puzzles you because Bucky has no reason to dislike Petre. He’s been incredibly helpful so far, allowing you to ask as many questions as you want about himself and others and he doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. In fact, you feel as if you and Petre have become friends.

“It just seems like he’s never happy to see me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that – James just has RBF,” you reply nonchalantly.

“RBF?” Petre replies.

You laugh as you and Petre climb the stairs, only now realizing that he still has a hand on your arm. You’d forgotten all about it, but you miss the slight warmth that permeated through your jacket when he removes his touch. You turn to look at him, but Petre is looking away, his hands now deep in his pockets. Turning your focus onto Bucky, you see him watching Petre, his eyes squinted.

A large smile returns to your face as you reach up and grab Bucky’s chin, squishing his cheeks and making his lips pucker from the pressure. “This –” you say triumphantly, “is an RBF.”

Bucky glares down at you and swats your hand away. You cackle at the perfect example of Resting Bitch Face™ in front of you, throwing your head back in joy. When you right your posture again, you can see a small smile on Bucky’s face as he laughs along with you.

“Whatever,” he murmurs. He shakes his head in exasperation before circling his arm around your shoulders. Bucky begins dragging you back down the steps you had just ascended and you grunt in protest. “It’s time to go,” he says simply.

“Ugh, you’re so rude,” you say to him. Craning your neck as much as possible, you look back towards Petre who remains on the porch. “I’ll see you later!” you call backwards with a wave. Petre raises a hand in return, face hidden in shadow as Bucky’s had been.

Focusing back on the road in front of you, you can practically feel what little mirth Bucky had drains away. Looking up, you notice that his jaw is clenched and a hard look has entered his eye.

“What’s wrong?” Now you’re worried that something happened to Bucky while you were gone that has put him in a bad mood. Did someone say something to him? Did one of the women reject his advances? You can’t see who in their right mind would turn him down, but not everyone feels the same way about him as you do. But if it’s the latter, the guilt you feel only slightly outweighs the relief.

“You don’t think you’re spendin’ too much time with him?” Bucky says between clenched teeth.

A frown appears between your eyebrows as you continue to look up at him. “No?” you respond. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Ofcoursehedoesn’t,” Bucky mutters under his breath, but you can still hear him.

You slide out from under Bucky’s hold, his agitation sparking flames of your own. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You don’t think you’re leadin’ him on a bit, Y/N?” Bucky asks you.

You scoff. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You’re always hangin’ around him!” Bucky quips back. “You’re flirting with him and walking out of parties together. All these people, Petre included, are going to think you’re pitching for an engagement.”

The hurt and pitiful feelings from earlier tonight come flooding back. Only this time, instead of feeling them for what they are, you combine them with the anger his comment brings. How dare he accuse you of leading Petre on? As if he isn’t doing the same thing to all those girls?!

“And what about you?!” you yell, the last word ripping its way between your lips and setting your tongue ablaze. “You don’t think you’re stringing all these girls along behind you? You don’t have any intention of getting into a relationship with any of them, either, do you?” 

As the words escape, you remember how Bucky sat you down and asked for a friends-with-benefits situation. Said he wasn’t ready for a real relationship, but tired of one night stands. How the two of you could help each other out since you weren’t seeing anyone either. The old resentment towards yourself and how you let yourself fall for someone wholly unavailable whiplashes back into your mind after months of repressing it. 

If he could ask that of you, does that mean he’s asked someone else? You usually arrive home later than him, but on some occasions that you are released early, he’s not there. Instead of asking where he’s been, you had just let it slide since it could have been construed as possessiveness. Like your feelings – that Bucky believes to be long gone – entitle you to his life. You hadn’t wanted to risk anything at the time, but now your mind can’t help running wild at the possibilities.

“It’s not like I’m screwing his brains out every time we’re gone!” You shout at Bucky. You had been walking down the road away from the house party which was on a street with few homes, so there’s nobody around to hear your fight. “We’re not in the bathrooms having quickies, he’s not fucking me against a wall, or bending me over his motorcycle! He hasn’t proposed we fuck around with each other until someone better comes along!” 

Your chest heaves with the effort of expelling these vicious words from deep within your heart, and you can feel a burning beginning to creep behind your eyes. You hate getting angry – hate that any strong emotion makes your eyes well with tears and makes you look weak. And in this situation, you are weak – weak against Bucky, weak against yourself, weak against the knowledge that the one man you’ve ever loved never felt the same way and never will. Your inability to keep yourself from falling for someone you knew you could never have? Your jealousy that he is probably sleeping with one or more of the women in town? That makes you weak. 

And you can’t stand to be weak in front of Bucky again.

“Newsflash, Buck: I know how it feels to be lead on by you and it fucking sucks!” You lower your voice slightly and take another step away from him. “I know that wasn’t your intention, and I didn’t feel that way at first, but that’s how I feel now.”

“You were my best friend, Y/N – I didn’t want to lose that!” Bucky exclaims. “And I genuinely thought we were on the same page!” He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands over his eyes before saying, “And seeing you run off with Petre all the time just reminds me of us – how we’d always sneak away to get some time alone. It’s just –” He drops his hands and sighs heavily, looking up at the star-studded sky and then back down to you. “I’m jealous.”

“You’re jealous?” You ask incredulously. “Why?”

“Because –” You can tell that he’s struggling to get this out, and if he hadn’t started this argument and accused you of wronging Petre, you might have been more receptive to what he’s saying. More understanding. But right now, your anger swallows all empathy and hope that his words would usually supply. “Because that could have been us,” he breathes. Bucky takes a tentative step in your direction, but freezes solid at the icy glare you send his way.

“No,” you say flatly, “No, it couldn’t have. You made that abundantly clear when I asked.”

You turn your back on him and start running, ignoring the sound of your name as you leave Bucky behind.

Part 10

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #sorry i love you

[higanbana-writer]

Wavering Gaze

Pairing: Kyōjurō x Gn!Upper Moon!Reader Prompt: [Soulmate AU where one of your eyes is the same color as your soulmate’s.] Kyōjurō has finally met his soulmate. But what was he supposed to do when you're an Upper Moon and he, a Hashira? C/N: Just Shinjurō being an ass during his brief screentime. A/N: Hoo boy. I was originally going to just make this a two part series, but I got a bit carried away and the 'second' part ended up being waaaay too long. So, three parts it is! Part: 1, 2, 3 (coming soon)

“Follow your heart, Kyōjurō.”

Those had been his mother’s last words to him and Kyōjurō knew that she’d been referring to his soulmate. How could he not? Though he had been but a mere child then, he could still notice all the grief his mismatched eyes caused his parents – namely his father. He saw how often Shinjurō would cast subtle glances at the eyepatch that hid his soulmate’s eye from the world. A conflicted expression would always rest upon his face whenever he did so, although Kyōjurō could never tell what exactly lay behind it. And he noticed it, how often his father would remind him more than he did with Senjurō, that demons were the enemy who preyed on the innocent and deserved no mercy. But he didn’t mind the extra reminders, always wholeheartedly agreeing with him.  

So, why had his mother left him with those final words? He’d always clearly expressed that he had every intention of following in his father’s footsteps to become the next Flame Hashira, and in doing so, rejected the very notion of his soulmate. Every time he picked up his practice sword to train, with the sole goal of being able to protect the weak, he was following his heart. Not once had he wavered over what he should be doing. So…why? He had puzzled over her words for the longest times.

He never harbored any grievances towards the fact that his soulmate was an Upper Moon. Sure, hiding his eye all the time was a bit tiring and troublesome, but it wasn’t your fault. After all, it hadn’t been as if you’d specifically picked him to be your soulmate. And it weren’t as if you had caused him or his family any harm. He had absolutely no reason to hold any personal grudges against you.

As a matter of fact, even though he’d see your eye reflected back at him on the occasions that he’d take off his eyepatch and gaze into the mirror, he always felt a strange sort of detachment. To him, you were simply a demon whom had taken many lives and needed to be killed for the future safety of many others. Perhaps your eternal life would be ended by a demon slayer before the two of you would ever meet, or perhaps Kyōjurō himself would be the one to end you. Soulmate or not, it was his duty to protect all the precious human lives out there from the likes of your kind.

At least, that’s what he’d told himself throughout his entire life. And yet, as you stood there before him, hesitant but captivating smile on your lips, all of that shattered into tiny pieces.

Kyōjurō had wondered from time to time about what you would look like, but never did he expect you to be so enchanting. Everything about you was perfect. Were you truly a demon? It seemed more fitting to call you a celestial being.

He stared at you with a wide eye, the right words to say completely eluding him. Then, all of a sudden, an intense heat flashed through his left eye. Though it was an extremely strange sensation, it was far from unpleasant. Still, he brought his hand up to his eyepatch out of reflex and you, almost simultaneously, did the same while lowering your head.

When you looked back up at him a few seconds later, hand dropping away from your face, he inhaled sharply at what he saw. Your eyes, which had appeared as those of a human mere moments ago, had now reverted back to their original demonic look, unnaturally vibrant with kanji etched across them. It felt so odd, seeing the eye that had been his since birth returned back to its rightful owner. However, the thing that shocked him most was the rank displayed on your right eye.

Three?!

Out of all the Upper Moons, his soulmate had to be rank three. That meant that as of the current moment, he had the fourth strongest demon in the entire country standing right in front of him.

“Is…Is something wrong…?” You hesitantly asked, not seeming to realize what had happened, but certainly noticing the way he was looking at you.

“Your eyes are, uh…” Still reeling from the shock, Kyōjurō wasn’t quite sure what to say. He tapped a finger against his eyepatch, “I can see your rank.”

Panic flitted over your face at his words and you immediately turned your face away. The next time you look at him, your eyes were back to their human appearance. The two of you stared at each other in silence, each trying to guess the other’s thoughts and waiting for them to speak first. Well, this was turning out to be one very awkward first meeting between soulmates.

“I, err… I apologize that you had to see that?” You ended up being the one to speak first, though you sounded completely uncertain about your own words.

Were you really Upper Moon Three? Were you really a demon that had killed numerous people? Your entire demeanor seemed so… So human-like. Looking at you, all he saw was someone elated at finally meeting their soulmate, someone who wanted to create a good impression and yet was nervous about making a blunder, someone who feared that their soulmate would reject them. All of those were emotions Kyōjurō would attribute to a human, not a demon. He couldn’t even sense a hint of malice from you.

But the memory of the kanji engraved across your eyes flashed through his mind, proving to be a harsh reminder that he couldn’t afford to let his guard down around you. Though he intended to question you about your motives behind acting so docile, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so when he saw your hopeful expression. Quietly clearing his throat, Kyōjurō gave you the brightest smile he could muster. “Come on now, you shouldn’t be apologizing during our first meeting! Besides, you have absolutely no reason to do so in the first place, especially since it was effect of our soulmate bond.”

Your face lit up at his positive response and in that moment, his heart melted. He watched as your gaze then drifted past him, trained on a large, noisy group of people passing by. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly in annoyance and though he found that simple action to be strangely alluring, he couldn’t help but feel alarmed for their safety. You were a demon after all. Who knew what you were capable of? His hand tensed, ready to draw his katana if needed.

Much to his relief, however, you eventually looked back at him and suggested, “Shall we go to some place quieter, er…?” Trailing off, you tilted your head with a questioning gaze.

It was then that he realized he had yet to give you his name, and you yours. “Ah, I am Kyōjurō Rengoku, the Flame Hashira.” He gave a slight bow as he introduced himself, not missing the way your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Since he knew what rank you were as an Upper Moon, he thought it fair to let you be aware of his position in the Demon Slayer Corps. And if this piece of information changed the way you viewed him – such as being a threat that needed to be eradicated immediately, soulmate bond be damned – then it would be better to get it out in the open now, rather than later.

After a moment, you simply mirrored his bow and said, “It’s such a delight to finally meet you, Kyōjurō. You can call me [Name]. As you might have noticed earlier, I'm Upper Moon Three.”

No surname, he noted. Then again, none of the demons he had encountered before seemed to have one either.

“Well then, [Name]. Shall we?” Kyōjurō extended his hand towards you and upon seeing your puzzled expression, added, “Since it’s very crowded around here, we should try to avoid losing each other.” If neither of you intended to kill each other at that moment, then it would only be proper to behave as a gentleman towards his soulmate.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with that, then…”

As he began to withdraw his hand, you hurriedly grabbed it. “No no! It’s a good idea.” Your skin felt cool against his own and though you seemed slightly flustered by his sudden suggestion, you also appeared quite thrilled.

Thus, the two of you set off through the heart of the city, remaining hand-in-hand while scouring for a decent place to rest and talk at. Eventually coming upon a teashop with few costumers – which you had pointed out – it was settled between you both to go there.

So there he was, sitting across the table from you with a cup of tea in his hands. You had gotten one for yourself too – much to Kyōjurō’s surprise, as he thought demons were unable to consume human food or drinks. However, whenever you brought your cup up to your mouth, you simply wetted your lips instead of actually drinking the tea. Was this your way of trying to be considerate and make him feel more at ease? Well, he was probably getting ahead of himself, but it certainly made for an unexpected and rather heartwarming thought.

Neither of you spoke for a while, simply taking in each other’s appearance. And then, with your gaze lingering on his uniform, you asked, “Were you in the middle of working?”

Kyōjurō shook his head, taking a sip of tea before replying, “I had actually just finished a mission before we met.”

“Ah, I see…” You pursed your lips, not sure of how else to respond. It must have felt odd for you, hearing a demon slayer – and a Hashira, no less – talk about killing your brethren through a calm conversation over tea. Shifting uncomfortably, you then brought up your next question. “Do you intend to fight me?”

He raised an eyebrow, finding your choice of words interesting. Do you intend to fight me, instead of, do you intend to kill me. Were you implying that you believed yourself to be much stronger than him, therefore there was absolutely no chance that he would be able to kill you? Well, he may have been a mere human, but he was by no means weak.

Although his answer should have been an instant ‘Of course!’, he instead shook his head once more, gripping his cup tightly as he answered, “…Not for now, no.”

Guilt had begun to grip his heart before he’d even finished his sentence. Just saying those four words were like a betrayal to everyone he knew: his mother, father, brother, master, fellow Hashiras, the rest of the Demon Slayer Corps, as well as all of its fallen members. And more importantly, by not killing you the very instant he'd met you, he had turned his back on his position as a Hashira and condemned innocent people to die by your hands in the future. Kyōjurō knew all of this and yet, somehow, for some reason unknown to himself, he couldn’t quite bring himself to kill you.

Clenching his jaw, he didn’t realize just how much strength he’d been putting into holding his cup until it shattered, hot tea spilling over his hands. You gasped, immediately reaching over the table and using your sleeves to wipe the liquid off his skin.

“They’re red.” With a concerned tone and a knitted brow, you carefully took his hands into your own and examined them. “It looks like you didn’t cut yourself, so that’s good.”

When a server hurried over to see what the noise had been about, you requested for some cool water and a clean cloth so that he could soothe his hands. Kyōjurō had tried to protest, saying that it wasn’t a big deal and he felt fine, but you stubbornly insisted.

“Humans are such fragile creatures. You have to take care of yourself or you won’t know what will happen.” You huffed, almost sounding like a nagging spouse. As Kyōjurō let out a small chuckle, you wetted the cloth the server had brought and began gently dabbing it over his reddened skin.

“Please have some faith in me, [Name]. I’m sturdier than you think.”

With a light laugh, you playfully teased, “Right, tell me that after the next time we’re able to have tea without you burning yourself.”

Kyōjurō exchanged an amused smile with you, the mood now more relaxed and lighthearted than before. The two of you continued to chat and though touching on various topics, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the both of you to refrain from bringing up any subjects on the conflict between humans and demons. Time passed quickly and before either of you knew it, dawn was rapidly approaching.

Glancing out the shop’s window, the grin you wore from his joke mere seconds ago began to fade.  “…I should probably get going now.”

Kyōjurō looked out as well and when he saw the sky’s dark beginning to gradually lighten, doubts which he’d managed to distract himself from through his conversations with you started to flood back in. If he wanted to, he could easily try to keep you here until the sun’s first rays were able to reach you. That’s what he should be doing as the Flame Hashira. And yet, something in him held him back. Was it guilt? Sudden fear of losing the soulmate he’d just met? Perplexment at how different you were from how he’d imagined you? He couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact emotions that prevented him from drawing his blade and all he could do was sit there, watching as you procured a small bag from within your sleeve.

The clinking of coins sounded from within the bag as you plopped it onto the table. His eyes widened when he realized what your intentions and he immediately began reaching for his own money.

“No, please let me-“

You raised your hand to stop him. “I insist. Consider this as my thanks towards you for giving me your time tonight.” The corner of your lips tugged back up into a playful smile at his reluctant expression and you added, “But if it makes you feel better, then you can repay me by meeting up with me again some time. I know your schedule must be busy with the kind of work you do, so when you have the time, come find me at that abandoned shrine near the western outskirts of the city.”

Not waiting for his response, you rose from your seat and bowed in farewell. “Until we meet again, please stay safe, Kyōjurō.”

Though slightly taken aback by your sudden rushed demeanor and having not been able to properly agree to your suggested rendezvous, he quickly got to his feet and bowed in return. “I pray that our next meeting will be as harmonious as this one.”

“…Indeed.” Was all you simply responded with before you hurried out of the shop, now in a race against the rapidly approaching sunrise.

Kyōjurō sat back down as he watched you go and remained there long after you’d left, all the while mulling over the soulmate bond he shared with you and the consequences that would inevitably result from it.

———

“Useless!”

A sake cup smashed against the wall next to Kyōjurō’s head, splattering its contents onto him. He didn’t even so much as flinch, however, simply letting out a soft sigh as he gazed on at his raging father in a steadfast manner.

Shinjurō gritted his teeth, his foul mood further spurred by the irritation he felt towards his eldest son’s calmness. He jabbed a finger towards Kyōjurō’s left eye, which no longer remained hidden away behind an eyepatch. “You come home, flaunting the fact that you’ve met your soulmate, and you’re telling me that you didn’t even kill them? You had an Upper Moon in front of you and you let them go.” Banging his fist on the table in front of him, he raised his voice into a shout. “You let an Upper Moon go! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Then, he suddenly quieted down as quickly as he had began yelling. Letting out a resentful scoff, he sneered at his son. “You’re always sprouting crap about doing your duties as a Hashira and protecting the innocent, but look at you now, going soft over a demon. Well? What rank are they? I bet they’ve killed more people than all of the demons you’ve killed combined.”

Kyōjurō pressed his lips together, knowing that his father was right. Even now, as he sat in front of his father to be berated, he still felt conflicted over his choice of letting you go.

Taking no notice of his silence, Shinjurō took a large swig from his sake bottle before continuing on his rant. “You know, when you were born, I worried that other slayers might call you a traitor. Looks like I worried for nothing, since you really are one now. But who cares, right? Go ahead, continue being a Hashira! Whether you bed a demon or not won’t matter, since every other person in the Corps are fakes, just like you. All their breathing techniques are just cheap imitations.” He grumbled the last part, downing more sake at his rising anger. “And while you’re out there, parading around with your hypocrisy, why don’t you go dragging the Rengoku name through dirt? Help yourself in trampling on the family’s honor too! Go against everything that Ruka-“  

Shinjurō abruptly stopped at the thought of his late wife, a shadow of grief crossing over his face.

“Father-“ Kyōjurō began, only to be interrupted.

“Get out!” The older male snapped as he turned his back to him, emptying his sake bottle in an attempt to numb the old wound left on his heart by his wife’s passing.

Knowing that there was no use trying to carry on their conversation, Kyōjurō rose to his feet.

“Please take care of yourself and try not to overdrink.”

Leaving his father with those words, he exited the room. As he slide the door closed behind himself, a loud shattering noise could be heard coming from within. No doubt it was Shinjurō smashing the sake bottle out of anger towards Kyōjurō’s parting words.

Kyōjurō heaved a deep sigh as he briefly leaned against the wall near the door, tiredly closing his eyes. He’d expected this reaction when he decided to tell his father about his soulmate, but there had been the smallest spark of hope in him that Shinjurō would be more accepting of the news. He couldn’t help but wonder how his mother would have reacted, had she still been with them. Would she be as disapproving as her husband? Or would she have been more accepting and understanding?

“Brother?”

Senjurō’s timid voice suddenly broke his chain of thoughts. Opening his eyes, Kyōjurō pushed himself off against the wall as he smiled brightly at his younger brother. “Senjurō! What brings you here? If you’re looking for Father, I believe he’s just left to buy some more sake. I might have put him in a foul mood, though.”

He let out an awkward laugh and Senjurō shook his head. “I, um… I heard what Father said to you…”

Kyōjurō’s smile faltered for a moment. Well, their father had been loud. It’d be hard not to hear him, even from all the way down the hall. “Ah, pay him no mind. You know how he can get when he drinks.”

“I…I know. But…” The youngest Rengoku fidgeted, wanting to say something but seeming uncertain about it. However, at his brother’s encouraging gaze, he worked up his courage and came out with it. “I-I trust you, Brother! No matter what Father says, if you think what you’re doing is right, then you should keep going with it! Even if Father disapproves, I’m always here to support you!”

Caught off guard by the unexpected consolation, Kyōjurō blinked. His gaze then softened and he reached out, ruffling his brother’s hair. “Thank you, Senjurō. It makes me happy to know that I can rely on you.”

Senjurō’s cheeks reddened and a small, but happy smile appeared on his face. They stayed like that for a minute, enjoying the brief bonding time between brothers. That was, until Senjurō abruptly leaned in and sniffed him. His nose crinkled slightly as he drew back, “You smell very strongly of sake, Brother.”

“Do I?” Brows furrowed, Kyōjurō sniffed the parts of his hair and clothes where sake had gotten splashed onto earlier. “It doesn’t seem very obvious to me.”

With a small laugh, Senjurō shook his head and took hold of his hand, beginning to drag him off to the washroom. “Come on, I’ll help you wash your hair. And while I do that, you can tell me all about your soulmate!”

Kyōjurō obediently followed his younger brother, his lips stretched out into a grin. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze, feeling at ease now knowing that no matter what choice he made towards his future with you, Senjurō would always be there for him.  

———

The following week, he met up with you at the abandoned shrine as planned and you had greeted him so happily, as if you hadn’t actually expected him to show up. Though Kyōjurō had arrived feeling uncharacteristically tense, not quite knowing what to anticipate from the rendezvous, the endearing grin you gave him put him a little more at ease.

That night ended up being rather similar to your previous meeting, with the two of you just chatting and getting to know each other further while enjoying a beautiful view of the stars twinkling above. It would have made for a rather romantic date, had Kyōjurō not remained on guard the entire time. He kept his wariness well hidden behind an easy-going smile, ready to defend himself the instant you decided to launch a surprise attack on him. It was true that at that moment, you lacked any animosity towards him. However, demons were fickle creatures who would kill at the simplest flick of a switch and he didn’t know when or if your attitude towards him would change.

But lo and behold, not once did there come a time where Kyōjurō needed to draw his blade and the two of you ended up parting with the promise of another meeting. And thus began the frequent trysts between you and he. With each night he got to spend with you, his guard began to gradually lower and his relaxed façade soon became genuine.

At some point, he stopped wearing his eyepatch whenever he met up with you. While he still wore it around others, like his fellow Hashiras to prevent them from asking questions, he figured there wouldn’t be any harm in going without it around you. It was much more comfortable, plus he could see better, and you seemed to enjoy seeing him without his eyepatch. There were times when he’d find you just randomly gazing into them and when he asked you about it, you told him how you loved his eyes and how comforting they seemed – like warm, gentle flames in which one could easily lose themselves in. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t been flattered by your words.

Being only a city away, the shrine was located at a convenient spot to get together. It was far away enough from the Rengoku estate that someone would have a difficult time following him and finding out about you, and it was close enough to get to – well, it'd be hard for an average person, but Kyōjurō was far from average. Not to mention, it had long been abandoned so people almost never came by. That being said, the two of you began going on dates in the city and the neighboring areas. Night festivals quickly became a favorite date spot for you guys and you'd often go whenever there was one. At some point, it became a mini competition between you to see whom could win the most prizes.

As an avid sumo fan, Kyōjurō would often invite you to watch matches with him. He took no offense when you declined, as everybody had their own preferences. But he’d always be delighted when you went to watch with him. After all, who doesn’t love sharing the things they enjoy with those close to them?

When he told you that he enjoyed eating sweet potatoes and salt grilled bream, he underestimated the effects it would end up having. Not too long after he'd shared that small bit of information with you, you had presented him with a bento you cooked yourself. Kyōjurō eagerly accepted it, touched that you had gone out of your way to make it for him. However, he neglected the fact that you were a demon whom had lived for centuries and hadn’t eaten a single morsel of human food during that time. So when he took a big and unsuspecting bite of your glazed sweet potatoes, he almost died.

Kyōjurō appreciated the fact that you had cooked for him, he really did. But your cooking was, to put it bluntly, absolutely horrible. Glazed potatoes were supposed to be both savory and sweet, not overwhelmingly bitter. Was that also a hint of sourness he tasted?? And the texture. Oh god, the texture. It was a mixture of mushy, hard, and even just pure goop at some parts. He had always thought he’d be able to love every sweet potato dish he came across, no matter how bad they may have tasted. This however… Could it even be classified as edible?

Well, no matter! You had been so proud when you presented it to him and he refused to let anything you gave him go to waste. Once he’d gotten over his initial shock, he finished his bite, gave you a big smile, and shouted his usual ‘Umai!’. Then, he turned his attention onto the included salt grilled bream. It looked good, just like the sweet potatoes had. Question was, would it taste as bad? Though hesitant, he took another bite, albeit much smaller than the previous one. Thank goodness he did, because it was somehow worse than the potatoes. Had you mixed up the salt with sugar? Because eating that one bite of fish was like eating a bowlful of sugar. The flesh was also crunchy and he was certain it wasn’t because of the bones. He was also quite sure you had forgotten to descale the skin before cooking. But just like with the sweet potatoes, he forced himself to gulp it down and attempted to finish the entire bento. It went relatively well, until it didn’t.

“Oh my god, Kyōjurō! You’re turning green!”

With a horrified gasp, you snatched the box away from him. Though he’d tried to take it back, insisting on finishing it, you refused to let go of it. Instead, you had declared that you would keep trying until you were able to create a dish that he would find delicious. And while Kyōjurō was moved that you were determined to put in so much effort for his sake, at the same time, he couldn’t help but dread the impending assault on his tastebuds.

For the next three months, every time he was able to meet up with you, you had a fresh batch of potatoes and fish waiting for him. Sometimes you’d change things up and cook other dishes, but they were always as bad. Kyōjurō still ate them all though. As much as you’d allow him to eat, that was. You didn’t allow yourself to be fooled by his shouts of ‘Umai!’ and would always stare intently at him as he ate. If his eyebrow so much as twitched, he would find his meal gone from his hands in an instant. And finally, the day came when the contents of his bento actually tasted like real food. It was, at best, just enough to be considered as decent, but to Kyōjurō, it was the best thing he’d eaten. He may or may not have shed a happy tear or two, which may not have been a very good idea, as upon seeing that, you were once more filled with determination and had declared that you'd make it your goal to master cooking all of his favorite foods.

———

One night, out of curiosity, Kyōjurō had asked you what your Blood Demon Art was. He hadn’t actually expected you to tell him though. After all, even if the two of you had grown close, you probably wouldn’t want to reveal what your fighting techniques to someone who was technically your enemy. But to his surprise, you’d happily answered and even went as far as to actually show him, withdrawing a pair of mai-ougi* from inside your sleeves. You explained that while the fans themselves were weapons – with the edges being as sharp as a blade – its true power lay in what was painted on them. Each fan had a different painting on them and whenever someone looked at them, they would be hit with different effects depending on which they looked at. To demonstrate, you opened up one and allowed him to take a look.

At first, all Kyōjurō saw was a painting of a woman dancing with a mai-ougi in hand, the background a sky of gold with faint cloud patterns. It was a beautiful painting, but nothing special particularly stood out to him. That’s when it happened; the moment he locked eyes with the woman, his surroundings instantly changed and he found himself on a stage with a golden backdrop, four women with appearances identical to that of the woman in the painting lunging at him from every side. The edge of their fans glinted dangerously and just as he drew his weapon to fend them off, he suddenly found himself back in reality with you, the previously open mai-ougi now closed. You grinned at him as he tried to calm his pounding heart, clearly proud of your Blood Demon Art.

“They’re clearly much better than those metal slabs that Dōma lugs around.” You had proudly proclaimed, although it was more to yourself than to Kyōjurō.

He had no idea who you were talking about but decided not to probe into it when he noticed the extremely fierce look in your eyes. Instead, he asked about the effects of the other fan. Happy to show him your powers once more, you spread open the second fan and revealed a painting of a daimyō* sat atop a pitch-black horse against a blood red background, tessen* in one hand. When Kyōjurō’s gaze met with the one in the painting, rather than finding himself in a different environment, he was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of fear so great that it immobilized him. Now, Kyōjurō was not a man who would typically freeze from fear. And yet, it took a great deal of willpower to even just move his eyes enough to tear them off the painting and free himself of its effects.

If there was one thing he had to say about your Blood Demon Art, it was that it was as every bit dangerous and powerful as he’d imagined, if not more. Though the painting had influenced him for no more than a few seconds, to him it’d felt like much, much longer. Had he been in a real battle with you, he most likely would have died the moment he froze up. Or who knows? Maybe his survival instincts would have kicked in and override the mai-ougi’s powers. Well, battle or not, it was good to know what exactly you were capable of.

Once Kyōjurō had regained his composure, you suggested that the two of you have a sparring match –with you fighting with your fans closed, of course. He immediately accepted, not wanting to waste the opportunity of being able to fight against an Upper Moon without it being a life-or-death situation. In the end, he lost the spar as expected. However, he found his loss to be an extremely fruitful one, as he’d been able to notice the weak points in his own fighting style much quicker than he normally would have by sparring with his fellow Hashiras.

Needless to say, it quickly became a common thing for the two of you to have random sparring sessions. Sometimes you’d be on the offensive with him on the defensive, and vice versa. Either way, Kyōjurō would always be able to learn a thing or two from each spar and you would also give him advice from time to time. Although you hardly gained anything from doing this – maybe except for familiarizing yourself with the Flame Breathing style – you were always more than happy to spar with him, glad that you could help him get even stronger.

———

Kyōjurō truly enjoyed spending time with you, cherishing every moment he could. Yet, no matter how many happy nights he shared with you, he couldn’t ignore the guilt that had rooted itself so deeply into his heart. Guilt that he felt towards neglecting part of his duties and at the thoughts of how many people fell prey to you the longer he left you alive. It became someone of a frequent occurrence for him to remain awake for hours during the times he was supposed to sleep, plagued with all sorts of gut-wrenching emotions. But no matter how much the guilt continued to pile up, he couldn’t bring himself to kill you. He finally understood now, what it truly meant to have a soulmate.

A soulmate wasn’t someone whom the universe had randomly picked out for him and whom he was obligated to love. A soulmate was someone who complemented him better than anyone else out there, who understood him and accepted him for everything he was, who stood by and supported him, and so much more. His better half, if you will. The universe was only there to help make identifying his soulmate easier; it was up to him whether he chose to love you or not. And Kyōjurō did. He loved you.

He didn’t know exactly when he had begun to fall in love, but by the time he realized it, he was in too deep to turn back.

He could still remember how clear the sky had been, each star twinkling like jewels and the full moon’s light bathing everything in a soft silvery glow. The two of you were on the shrine’s engawa to admire the view, his head resting in your lap and your fingers running through his hair. A comfortable silence filled the air between both of you with the occasional chirping of crickets being heard from off in the distance.

Basking in the peacefulness of everything, he closed his eyes in bliss. You continued to run your fingers through his hair for a short while, stopping when you quietly spoke, “…Kyōjurō?”

He hummed softly in response.

“I love you.”

Kyojruo’s eyes snapped open and when he looked up at you, he found you gazing down at him with a tender expression. Well, that was certainly one very sudden confession. Though the two of you had been intimate with each other for a while now – such as being physically affectionate, going on dates, and even buying gifts for each other that only couples would normally exchange – neither of you had ever vocalized your feelings towards each other. Even then, while he’d acknowledged to himself that he liked you, he never quite dwelled on the thought of whether he loved you. After all, it would unacceptable if he, a slayer of demons, were to fall in love with a demon, wouldn’t it?

And yet, after hearing your words, he knew without needing to think about it or question himself.

Sitting up, he brought a hand up to your cheek and gently caressed it, leaning in until your lips were almost touching. He paused, wanting to give you time to push him away in case you didn’t want this. All you did, however, was lean in into his touch as your eyes fluttered closed with anticipation. That’s when Kyōjurō closed the remaining space between the two of you, softly pressing his lips against yours. Your lips were cold against his, just like the rest of your body. But as you kissed him back, all he felt was a gentle, yet passionate warmth. In that moment, he let all his doubts and concerns melt away, instead allowing himself to be overtaken by his feelings for you and conveying those emotions through the kiss.

Eventually pulling away, he rested his forehead against yours and gazed into your eyes with adoration as he softly murmured, “And I love you, [Name].”

———

*Mai-ougi are folding fans used in traditional Japanese dances *Daimyō were feudal lords who used to serve under the shogun *Tessen are also known as Japanese war fans and have varying looks and purposes

#kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku #kyojuro #rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #soulmate au #gender neutral reader

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Honey Lemon Crescendo

Pairings: Trey Clover/Vampire MC

Summary: The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you. 

The days you pray for the abolishment of your abhorrent form are rare in the centuries you have lived since your family's death, and your turning. Sharpened claws and teeth, the hellfire of your gaze are concealed for your own convenience, you tell yourself, especially as you enroll into NRC. The tonic of human affairs rarely interested you, yet when you find the truly curious case of Trey Clover, someone who is made only of that plain sort, you cannot help but to promise yourself one conversation, some several hours of the thousand thousand you have lived to taste what it is like to be treated, and be human again. But you're a fool, and a hypocrite‒ you find yourself breaking that promise over, and over, and over. Your fragile resolve frays at every sunbeam smile, every ringing laughter of his. 

MC is a vampire, unique magic is telepathy, being able to unconsciously hear everyone's thoughts 

Notes: Once again I am alive lol. Barely. Just finished my first semester in my Master’s program so I’ve been experiencing a bit a burn out, so I apologize if this isn’t my best work. Also, every time I'm like "hm is this too much trauma?" But then I remember the child murder, kidnapping, and child endangerment that's canon in twst and I'm like ooh wait right nvm I’m good. Fits within the canon. Anyways, I would have liked to explore the concept of BPD and its allegorical connections to Vampirism more in depth, especially due to the social sigma associated with it‒ but I feel that it would be waaaay too long for a one-shot if I did so. 

Also, all stand alone quotes that are in italics represent inner thoughts (with some exceptions depending on your personal interpretations)

TW: References to depression, references to religious trauma, exorcism, and cults; references to child abuse; survivors guilt; referenced to verbal abuse; anxiety; panic attacks; slight mentions of eating disorders/disordered eating (suppressing appetite); BPD 

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

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

“There is no sin within this child. Only the devil which lives within them.” 

Those were the words that had prevented your burning during the trial, among other things. 

Perhaps it was also the way you would keep your claws obscured under thickset leather gloves, conceal your crimson gaze under obsidian shades, or the terror that seized you every night that left you so evidently unraveled in all of your unforgiving guilt and abhorrence for your new form. The pity that could be provoked by the wetness and flush of a child’s face was something many adults in the future instructed was a bias you should have been more grateful for‒ as it triumphed over whatever horrors people held when you spoke a decibel too loudly to show your sharpening fangs, moved too swiftly to confirm the power that swelled within you like simmering, spoiled blood‒ pungent, and nauseating.

It reminds you of the smell at the state of decomposition you found your family in when you returned home from a several day trip with your cello instructor‒ and the smell of its mouth when its sharpened teeth lurched towards your neck, before you felt the metallic taste drip cold into your gasping mouth. 

It was first the elongated fangs. Then came the claws, the lack of reflection, the original color of your eyes draining, replaced with a bright vermillion. The enhanced senses and physical power were less noticeable‒ but the subtle power that swelled in your hands when you broke skin and meat with your own grip upon your arm did not go unnoticed by the Supreme Leader who examined your body and soul during your trial. 

“This thing should be useful to me, I hope. I was right to send that “Cello Instructor” with them to take care of business here. I’ll continue my divine plan as usual.”

The words themselves terrified you. Should you run? Hide? Die? Where would you go‒ with your small feet and hands? What could you do? The more oppressive horror lay in the confirmation of the whorling suspicion inside of your small, ten-year old mind that your new form allowed for telepathy‒ the exact “usefulness” the Supreme Leader had suspected lapped inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it, days later, when you read the color of the townspeople faces‒ their leering eyes and curled lips, squeezing their children close behind them‒ back towards your home, set ablaze by their torches and oil. The scramble of noise wasn't needed to confirm their disgust of you, but it came anyway. 

“Hideous.”

“Demon. Probably killed that poor family.”

“That disguising appearance‒ must be the child of the devil.”

“Murderer. Things like you deserved to be burned. Supreme leader is truly a blessing to take care of such vile things.”

You cowered at their stares‒ but you remember considering it distantly for a moment, even in the midst of your situation. That night you had been found by shaking candlelight, your mouth drenched with blood and fear, palming numbly at your family's cold bodies. You couldn't blame them, you supposed. The townspeople feared you. You feared you. Stay with me . The Supreme Leader told you. And you did. 

He defended you during your trial with a kind smile, tying the rope around your wrists loosely with gentle hands, spoke softly of good deeds, good gods, all forgiving and loving. When he convinced the council to graciously join his family , you didn’t run. 

“Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You shakily rolled the breath that seized in your lungs, your small hands clutched in a prayer against the heartbeat that thundered against your bones. 

“How pitiful child, that you choke on your sorrow. You, abhorrent creature, abomination of god‒ let me love you .” 

“Let me be your god.”

He held a copy of Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Vampires of Wonderland in his hands‒ he pressed a finger onto each part of your body, comparing it with his‒ what made him human, and what made you not. He gifted you your own room‒ different from all the other children, deep at the belly of the earth. The cobblestone walls reached high into the heavens where you could not see, even with your enhanced vision‒ the light falling just where your vision could reach. One of his attendants presented him with a pair of cuffs, made specially for your size. The ones they had did not yet fit you. However, he placed them on the ground‒ crescent smile and blackened eyes. You would not escape. 

You kept your secrets for a while‒ despite the unquenchable jealousy, festering sin, and violence that sprouted abundantly in the minds of his chosen advisors, who pinched your skin and snaked their cold hands under your shirt. In your ever dwindling, coastal town‒ you'd seen denial was the first reaction to loss. You'd felt a modicum of humanity in your ruthless rejection, letting the inner noise of others curdle in your mind. 

Their words on the surface stuck of cheap, saccharine perfume, ones you recognized in the town's alleys and such. Yet you swallowed your nausea down, digesting their words one by one. You still had faith then, capable of religion . So easy to fool back then‒ you think now‒ children rarely doubt the material world. Why would people hurt you on purpose?

You were still a child then‒ an infant in vampiric years.

“ Don’t you want to be loved by god?” 

“To be useful to god?” 

"Useful to me?"

“They’ve done so much for you.” 

“I’ve done so much for you.” 

“Don’t you want to repay that?”

You revealed it all, in your childish trust, and his soft hands. You thought perhaps, that adults, despite their true intentions, would help you somehow. Belief in good will. Faith. It grips you with force. 

It wasn’t all violence at first. But you began to fear the day where their actions would finally twist into something reflective of their actual intentions. That day came rather quickly, or so you think. Time did not matter in the small confines of your chambers below ground. The bloodletting, lashings, the vivisections were then all to vanquish the spirits that germinated inside your sinking flesh, possessing you to reveal such “impure things” in front of the people. Purification , he called it, no matter how many times you dried your throat from apologies, or promised you would do better next time. Next time I will speak your truth. God’s truth . You say the way their desires for a monster began to shape every laceration, every break of the bone. 

Still, you couldn’t be their monster, nor a human. It seemed that the seeds of sacrilege had been sown firmly into you, and flourished each passing decade in its grotesque power. 

The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you. 

You’d beg through a dried throat and spinning vision for forgiveness and to appeal your usefulness‒ you knew the moment the priest resumed his kind smile, gentle hands, and his flowery voice‒ that he had found a use for you. Work for me , he said‒  and you obliged. He held your hand again, with a firm grip, and brought you to trials, his grand meetings with thousands of his followers‒ and you’d do his bidding, pointing a shaking finger at “non-believers” and spies‒ watching closely, where the supreme leader’s eyes leered and narrowed in order to anticipate your next move of survival . By then, you had learned to tune out a significant portion of the noise of people, to live in ignorant bliss for the few hours he would spend mending your gashing wounds, let you fiddle around with your cello that had survived the angry mob that burned down your family’s bakery, and home. Soft touches, sweet voice, he spoke. 

"Good child, one of god, of forgiveness, of love. "

And you could tell he had meant it‒ knowing that when he lied to you‒ he always clasped his hands unconsciously in prayer. If there were opposing intentions twisting below his perfumed words that you had somehow failed to pick up with your trained senses‒ you couldn’t be bothered to unravel them. It was just nice. To be held again‒ forgiven . By someone at least, if not yourself. You were good. You were good again. 

Decades pass‒ the people and the landscape move and breathe. It was only a matter of time your hometown would dwindle into a ghost city, being built on scrappy mines and poor fishermen, controlled by a con-man and his desperate believers. Even with nothing to lose, the remaining residents exiled you. Perhaps it was their humanity that they grasped onto with that final action. 

You stand against the passing aches after aches‒ drinking it all from your chalice‒ vessels gilded with gold and hammered with human desire, sitting high to the heavens on altars to hold the blood and wine offered to the gods. You’d been hollowed much like that grail, gouged from the sharpened image of your still, immutable face against the shifting harmony of the world you could not enter. You have no reflection, no face, no name people would call out to take shape as your own, no proof of your corporeal form but your own, cold touch. And the hunger. The hunger seized you at every moment‒ aching through the gums of your fangs, and pounding your heart with the lifeblood that chased it. You were at least alive in your 

You'd fashion something from the use you'd have to other people. A frankenstein skin stretched over your bones. You still feel the Supreme Leader’s gaze hollowing your senses. 

"It's like they're reading my thoughts."

"Those sunglasses and gloves, what are you trying to stand out? So annoying."

"Why don't you read the atmosphere for once?"

"Arrogant asshole."

"What are you, pretending to be all high and mighty."

"Liar."

The noise never stops completely. But you've learned to shut the world out, better now with the advancements on potions and ear plugs‒ courtesy of the Night Raven College’s curriculum‒ hands free to grasp at every opportunity to prove you had existed in some way‒ a being that was real enough to feel the light of gods' love and forgiveness. Useful. Good. 

“How did you know I used browned butter?”

Light‒ feather soft, honey sweet music that streams into your mind. 

You always sat alone in the end. There was a composition to everything, as you saw it. And you had perfected the score of distance‒ being able to orchestrate a friendly, carefree facade, an absolutely stupid and undoubtedly shallow passion, pruning the space between you and the world. A gothic mirror to parody themselves, so they could not truly look at your monstrous, yet absent form‒ something you were sure would absolutely rupture the thick skin you've fashioned together out of pieces of the real people unlike yourself. You'd break apart into nothing but dust. 

It was like the volume, moods, and rhythms created in the scores you played‒ you charged the room with boisterous laughter and directed the eyes at that, instead of your fervent efforts in composing the most fantastic detachment. In the end, you were almost giddy to see that no one saved you a seat, or spared you a glance when you slipped outside for a cigarette wedged hungrily between your fingers. The nicotine was enough to starve off the ache beginning to turn swiftly to nausea between your wobbling footsteps, and you were glad, you think, to have served your use in the social spiral to be afforded a moment of peace. 

Or, you thought. 

“Huh?”

“You forgot your prize.” The boy in front of you thrusts a frosted cupcake towards you, prompting you to switch the cigarette to your other hand to receive it. In the subtle moonlight, you see the sugar melted into the cream glitter a bit when you inspect the pastry. 

He adjusts the hat on top of his green head of hair as he continues. “The competition to see who could guess all the ingredients in the cake correctly‒ you won, it was perfect, actually.” 

You stare at him dumbly and you find yourself scooting over to make space for him. His eyebrows are tilted in a way that made his face a little sorry, a little roguish‒ a combination you found curious raised above those soft honey lemon eyes that hung like that summer fruit above the lush curve of his lashes. 

“So‒ how did you know? I’m curious.” 

You exhale the rest of the smoke resting in your lungs. “I…used to know people who were bakers. Their secret ingredient in their famous brownies was browned butter. I’ve eaten so many trays I’ve come to know the taste. The rest is just luck.”

He laughs. Not like you had seen out of the corner of your eye when he had been talking to all those people, but a loose, genuine chuckle. “I’d hardly call it luck‒ you got the measurements down pretty close. Impressive, if you ask me. May I ask‒ are you a baker?” 

“I…” You find yourself smiling through the cigarette pushed to your lips, careful not to show your teeth. “I used to be. I used to spend a lot of time there, they must have rubbed off me.”

How long has it been since you’ve thought about them? You could remember the distinct nutty smell from the pounds of brown butter your sister was in charge of making‒ the click click click of your mother’s footsteps as she worked from the counter to the rack of trays, preparing the bread dough for proofing. Your father in the background, fiddling with the radio, beaming when he heard a recording of your cello performance on the morning radio. Warmth, sunlight. The beat of your heart, and the heat of your blood. 

“You’ll have to give me the recipe then. I’ve been looking for a good brownie recipe.” 

A moment to contemplate if you should end this conversation here. Something switches inside of you, perhaps a remnant of that warmth you remembered. 

“You have something to write with?” 

His face flowers gently into a brightened expression before he pulls out a small notebook from his breast pocket. 

“...Thank you.”

You hum apathetically to work through the dreadful loom of warmth you feel when you hand the paper back to him with the recipes you’ve committed to memory from your laborious days at your family’s seaside bakery. The smoke still hanging in the air shifts sharply when you stand, and you flick the cindering cigarette to the pavement to stomp it out. You can tell there is more he wants to say that sits bubbly on his tongue, but you turn towards the door leading back to the Heartslabyul dorm before the words can take form through his smile. 

There’s a moment that you stand by the door where you reflect on what you saw of him while he was inside, mingling with other humans. 

“You should loosen your shoulders more when you smile, like that." Under his hat, you see his eyebrows raise up in slight surprise. Surprise isn't enough, you decide, and add, "If you want to convince people." 

You hope those words leave him a bit cold, a bit cruel that he doesn’t come seeking after you anytime soon, feeling the scramble of thoughts threatening to pool into your ears through the plugs. It’s all noise to you. You step inside once more‒ feeling a little less sick, a little less raw to be able to orchestrate again. 

Trey finds your handwriting as pretty as you were in the noise of the room, inspecting all the curls and loops of each word. It takes him a moment before he notices what you left behind. 

“They forgot their prize…” 

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

The next time you meet him is during band practice. Or, more precisely, hear him would be a better descriptor. 

"Have you seen (Name)?"

The thick walls of the storage room muffles his voice, but you still hear it loud and clear as you lean against the door, cello in hand. 

"I just saw them a minute ago. I think they went to run a few errands or something since the school festival is soon." Carter replies. 

"Ah it seems like I'm on a wild goose chase. I'm starting to wonder if such a person even exists…" 

“They’re everywhere and nowhere all the time.” Carter chuckles. "I didn't even know you two were like that."

"Hm. I guess. We only really talked once." He hums. 

"But I'd like to get to know them better ."

The sharp inhale you suck in makes an audible sound when you hear those words brush the back of your neck. You press the palm of your hands flat against your ears in panic to prevent any sound‒ voices, noise, the world‒ all of it, from entering your mind. 

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet‒ 

You time his steps, the pleasantries he's likely throwing at the rest of the members, the time it takes for him to get far from your radius of power. Slowly, you release your hands from your head, and take a few moments to gather yourself before exiting the room. 

Carter is the first to notice you. "Eh? (Name)? Since when were you there?" 

"Since 10 minutes ago, dear. I told you we were going to take a break from group practice today and do individual practice today didn't I? We've been rehearsing so much for the festival I figured we could take a break for today."

"Really?? How did I miss this? I totally just sent Trey to the wrong place." 

Lilia continues to tune his bass. "You were on your phone when (Name) briefed us on the schedule 3 weeks ago, Carter." 

"I wanted to do a group rehearsal today! I feel like I finally got the hang of the last couple measures this time!" Kalim interjects. 

"Don't pout, my dear president." The hand you place on his head is as gentle as ever. "You can practice without a vocalist for today, can't you? I have a lot to catch up on the Monstero Lounge gig I have coming up." 

You bid your fellow members goodbye, dragging the instrument all the way to one of the empty classrooms. 

Finally, a moment of peace. 

You shuffle through your folder, fishing out the piece you had picked to play for a talent night that Azul had insisted you come and play at, excitedly chattering about how it was going to be brilliant for business. 

Chopin's Cello Sonata in G Minor, Largo . 

The cello sonata was one of the composer's last pieces. It was spectacular to you. A final, dazzling eruption before dwindling to the mere echoes of what had once been there‒ a fantastical piece with a pressure combed through every measure that would well an incomprehensible rawness that began at your chest, and would weave through the fibers of your throat that clenched in its emptiness. 

But perhaps it was not so incomprehensible‒ humans in your life had been much the same. The ones you held dearly would rupture from this world, leaving you empty, aching with the sharpened, receding fragments. 

When you slip off your gloves to press your bare fingers against the strings, you try not to let this thought consume you. 

"But I'd like to get to know them better."

Bitterly, it seeps. 

You know it's wrong‒ the piece is supposed to be for a simple, ten minute performance‒ a monotonous activity of human affairs that you would be pleased to check hastily off the list with a presentable smile and lightness. However, the decades you have lived until this day weigh upon you at once, spinning your hands in such a way that threads your grief heavily into the mellow air. The murky rust of the setting sun swells with the florid volume of your own misery, and the silence of the world that ripostes it. 

The song falls softly, a slow stroke that gradually quiets until there is nothing. A diminuendo‒ to shatter, to finish. There's a small comfort, that unlike living things, the scores that stood on the iron music stand could be revived time after time, on trembling strings and resin scented maple. But, not much. 

The flesh at the back of your eyelids are sparked with purple and blue stars as you squeeze your eyes shut, head leaning against the body of the cello to steady your breaths. It may have been the dizziness steadily climbing from the ache of your empty stomach to your head, but you felt like you were swaying in that concoction of color and bursting light. 

"Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You're afraid that if you open your eyes, the world may still be there. The noise, it will still exist, and reel you in‒ tangling you among its grotesque allure until the moment you reach towards it. Then, it will furl inwards, somewhere far from where you could detect it. The air feels sharp in your lungs‒ you feel like if you take too much in, you’d burst. The bow splinters in your hand, drawing blood. 

"Pretty ."

A voice strikes through your bleakness, a gentle, but clear sound. 

Trey stands at the center of your view. His face holds a glossy look for a moment, before he shakes his head and apologizes. 

"Sorry‒ I just‒ I just heard you in the hallway, I thought you sounded really…" He laughs, shifting his gaze to the side. " Pretty ." 

You look down at your instrument, and notice your bare hands, you remember you don't have your sunglasses on either. The cello echoes when you lean it against the desk, turn away from him to slip on your gloves and glasses. 

You clear your throat, feeling each word stumble in staccato breaths.  "Ah. Well. Um. Thank you. It's all, rather, very wrong though."

"Wrong? But it was incredible." 

"Pretty."

"Pretty."

"Pretty."

The thoughts that enter his mind that churn into yours are ignored best you can before you swivel, veiling yourself in your disguise once more. "Perhaps wrong is not the best term. It's not tasteful for the audience, I suppose. There was no control."

"Control?" He parrots. 

"Yes, you know." You wave your hand in flutter movements. "If someone like me performed like I just did‒ ha! I’d become the laughing stock of the entire school. " You clasp your hands together. "Now, darling. I must get going. Did you want to marvel at my music some more, or is there anything else you needed?"

You work quickly to gather your things, expecting Trey to leave after you've dismissed him. But when you drag your cello case around to leave, you see him still standing in the doorway, leaping towards your hand that rests on the cello case. 

"Can I help you? It seems heavy."

"I'm alright. I've dragged this thing around this school, I am perfectly capable‒" When you go to lift the full weight of the instrument however, a dizziness digs into your temples, nausea quickly following suit. 

"Oh‒ are you alright? Are you not feeling well? Let me at least help you with your instrument back to your dorm."

You stare at him, feeling your power rise within you, waiting for his thoughts to flood through your system‒ a confirmation to your suspicions you filter every person through, to pick them apart. 

“You’re hurt.” He goes to examine your hand, you pull back. 

"They don't look so well. Maybe they need something to eat? I should whip them up something after I help them carry this back to their dorm. Hm. Yeah. That sounds good. Something hearty."

Those words are inspected with great skepticism in your mind before the dizziness takes over, muddling your brain to a jumbled mess. Whatever, you think. He seems harmless enough. 

“Fine” As soon as that curt response slips from your lips, you cringe internally. You clear your throat, attempting to redeem yourself. “I’ll take up your offer if that's alright with you. Pretty boy .”

He seems to hold the air in his throat when you give him that name, before he releases it in a puff of laughter. "Pft. Alright, yeah. Let's get you back to your room before you spout any more nonsense."

"Me?"

You're a bit taken back from his internal response. But you trail behind him, the weight of the nausea lifting slightly off your steps. 

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

"What kind of cocoa powder did you use?"

"I think…just the regular brand stuff."

"Use Dutch processed next time. If you activate it correctly, the alkalizing process gives the batter a richer color and flavor."

He had somehow used his devilish charm to string you into this, you tell yourself, sipping on the tea you brewed for the both of you. But it would be rude to kick him out of your quarters without a proper thanks. You're no longer human, but you'd at least act civilized. 

The tea has run a bit cold from the two whole hours he's managed to rope you into a conversation on baking techniques‒ slipping out the same notepad and pen he pulled out that night you met, and a box of various pastries and baked goods that he seemingly prepared out of nowhere. Truthfully, you weren't supposed to eat human food without proper sustenance from blood‒ however the look he gave you had absolutely pleaded that you do. So, how could you refuse? 

You clear your throat to break through your endless flood of doubts and excuses. "I heard you were looking for me during band practice. Now that you've wormed your way into my life by bribing me with sweets‒ what did you want from me?"

"Oh!" He pulls another, smaller box from the bag you saw him rummaging through for the sweets laid out before the two of you. "Ah‒ I forgot about this. It might be a bit melted since there's ermine cream on the top."

The simple white box is opened, revealing a similar cupcake that you (purposefully) forgot the night you met him. 

"It's not the same thing‒ it might be better actually‒ I used buttercream last time but it's pretty heavy so I substituted with ermine cream this time." He remains composed but you can tell something is bubbling below it. "Tell me what you think." 

" I'm so excited to see what they think…I worked hard on this recipe since it seems it wasn't up to their tastes last time."

You make a face when you hear his thoughts, wondering how absolutely normal someone can be. “You mean to say you came all the way here to deliver me…this cup cake?” 

"Yes I mean‒ I don't mean to pressure you into eating it, obviously." His eyebrows bunch upwards in his usual sorry expression. "I just. Wanted to hear your thoughts. Since I haven't met someone this knowledgeable on baking techniques at this school."

People usually had ulterior motives when approaching others with gifts, kindness, words slathered in polite niceties and compliments. You eye him suspiciously as he calmly sips his tea, scribbling away in his little notepad.

Drawing a little closer to him, you lean against the table, feeling the heat of your crimson eyes when you concentrate your magic to wade through the noise‒ pulling the thread of his thoughts from it all. It requires a bit of power through your ear plugs and rising nausea, but you manage to unravel it. 

" I'd really like to get to know them better. Friends, maybe . Cater says I should get out there more, this is what he meant, right? "

It was impossible to ignore the truth of the matter‒ that the person sitting in front of you is so absolutely unbearably bare, plain. You'd thought you'd seen clarity before, in how salient the cruelty of people was, but you had been wrong. No doubt this was true clarity‒ the candor of normal, mundane life that you normally blocked out with the rest of the noise of the world. The tonic of human lives rarely interested you, but it seemed like all this person was, and it seeped deeply into his treatment of you. Normal, bare, plain. 

Human . 

It was so baffling you could not suppress the smile that spread on your lips. 

Ah, maybe just for today, you think. Just this one conversation. Just one moment, and I'll forget the taste of human life again. 

"Hm, alright. Just this once, pretty boy ."

The sugary cream melts instantly in your tongue, and the airy sponge is sweet when you swallow your determination to forget this honey sweetness he brings. A hint of vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, spice, and everything nice. You let it settle deep in the dark of your belly, feeling the warmth still lacing through your blood from the tea you've sipped with him slowly cool under your flesh. You devour it all, with his words and smile, hiding it deep inside so you can’t remember its sweetness. 

But the honey you've added at his request still runs golden sweet on your tongue. You roll it through your mouth, trying to extinguish the taste, but it spreads further, coating your throat as you swallow it. Unlike the contents of the cupcake, it runs raw against your flesh, and you must wait until it seeps deeply into the fibers of your throat before it dissolves. 

The hours pass as you talk with him, but the sweetness does not fade. 

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

"You alright?" 

The silvery tone of your voice breaks through Trey's thoughts. He had been lagging behind the Heartstlabyul group to take a break from all of the frenzy of today. The responsibility, the pressure. You'd been with them a moment ago, mingling as you always did, but now you've slowed your footsteps to match the slight drag of his own‒ something he's sure you've noticed. Heat tingles at his cheeks‒ he doesn't know whether it's from the way you've broken his image so swiftly with your keen eyes, or if it's from, simply, your thoughtfulness. For him, of all people. For him. 

"Yeah, fine. Just tired. Today has been such a long day with these underclassmen." 

His laughter rings clearly, even though the obstruction of your ear. With each note emanated from his lips, you feel it slipping through the cracks of the foundation of your feeble resolve, crumbling so endearingly that you smile sincerely when he speaks. It had been disgust, revolt at first, feeling the distance between your world and his inching closer and closer‒ but before you could notice the absence of nausea stinging through your chest and stomach, you felt the feather-lightness of your own smile chiming with his own, completely eclipsing the discomfort you had felt previously in the proximity to other lives. To him. 

"You need to relax more. Stop fussing over these no good children." You massage his shoulders in a playful manner. 

He feigns pain then quirks that smile on his face‒ you know the one, the one where he bunches his eyebrows and laughs with the back of his throat. In that moment, you're as confident as ever, charging him with laughter‒ letting your inhibitions lose. Control didn’t matter, for a moment. The world doesn’t seem so sharp at that moment, like you were going to tip over the edge. 

When the pads of his fingers brush against your fingers, all that sense you had withers so easily in your chest. Through his shoulders, you can feel the vibration of the hum he emits in agreement, a musical accompaniment to the warmth that radiates from his hands. 

"Maybe. They're good kids. You're right‒ maybe I do need to relax." You retract your hands from him, allowing him to toss his head over his shoulder. "Any tips?"

The seconds you weigh out whether to lie or not seem to shorten with every moment you spend with him. "I guess…music. I like to sing some of the warm-up pieces I used to know.” 

"Warm up for what?"

"Ah for the…church choir." 

Liar . 

He makes a face, an airy laugh escapes your nose. "What?" You ask. 

"...you just don’t look like a religious person.”

You look down at your feet, a slight smile as a comfort to him. “I haven’t been in a while. I don’t think I’ve had faith in anything in a long time.” A quiet lull in your words. 

Your stomach turns. It's always a look of pity, or some casted look that drags you as some pathetic creature, cold and inhuman. The words die in your throat, you quiet your breaths, feeling then stick to the prickly flesh of your lungs and throat. 

“I get it.” 

But the look Trey gives you as he digests your words is a sadness as sincere and clear as water. It was not such a clawing, dried look that transformed you into something you didn't want to be. Instead, he swallows your words whole, as they were, his gaze reaching far beyond the pain. His sound‒ clear as a summer's day, dotted prettily with the honey lemon droplets of his gaze‒ finds you. 

“I got you.” 

A tranquil, silvery symphony‒ each sweetened thread weaving itself magnificent, deep within your nerves. It takes everything to pull yourself from it.

"Now, I have the perfect blend of tea for you then, darling. It goes wonderfully with those lemon shortbread cookies you made yesterday‒ absolutely divine."

Quick to shake the feeling off, you mask the dread of warmth with your usual stupid passion and fire that carves an expression of slight surprise into Trey's face, just for a moment. But it surprised you, instead, to see that it dissolved completely, and replaced with an elated burst of laughter. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and many more for you to do the same with the words he says. 

"You're actually a really good person, (Name)." 

The feeling returns, swiftly. 

You don’t want to breach into the borders of his mind, but you found yourself reaching for the silvery thread of his sound from the noise, picking apart the gray mess of things to find that glimmering thing. Your mind had learned the scent, the exact hue and melody of his inner voice to be able to pluck it so naturally from everything else, and you were growing fearful that you had committed yet another thing to memory that would eventually be lost to time. But the words that you hear from him‒ you think it will consume you for the rest of your eternity. 

"God. You're wonderful."

It nearly chokes you to hear such clarity in that declaration. Foolish . You think. Only a fool would say such a thing. You fix the shades slipping down your face, turning your energy to block out any sound and voice.

"You flatter me, my dearest." 

Lucid, pure. His voice. His laughter. It wasn't just noise to you anymore. You think of what chord his voice would be, how it would sing against your fingers on your cello. Or perhaps a heavenly instrument would be more befitting. 

"But you've got me all wrong."

You smile. Perhaps you were the fool. 

A few weeks later, he admits: "Truthfully, I tried to avoid you best I could before we officially met. Because of your blase attitude and the rumors about you‒ I thought I wouldn't mesh well with people like you."

"Is that so?" A wolfish smile curves onto your lips, eyes turning crescent. You fiddle with the flier for the monstero lounge show coming up, debating whether or not you should have really accepted Azul’s request. "It seems most people think I'm that way." 

"Yeah. But I'd like to think you opened up to me a bit, and I discovered something about you that made me want to talk to you. You're real strange, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm the weirdo? I'm not the one whose hobby is brushing their teeth."

"Dental health is important." He states matter-of-factly, before his hardened look is broken with a breathy laughter. "But really. I would have liked to be friends earlier in my life if I had just known you were the way you actually are."

You remember his words, turning your eyes downwards. "I'd really like to get to know them better."

Hesitation curdles in your mind, but the words come instantaneous, eager to his statement. "Which is?" Perhaps too eager, you shrink. 

He hums, thinks for a minute. "Just‒ kind ." He says. "I never noticed before, but you're always making sure people are included, checking on people. It's like a sixth sense‒ you can easily pick up what people are thinking, but also feeling. Like a guardian angel or sorts."

You stare at him with a blank look, a breath in your lungs that doesn't make it past your parted lips. Then, gaze downwards, again. 

"I wish more people would know how much good you have."

It takes great effort not letting his words sink deeply into your heart, constricting it. Sometimes, when you replay the scene in your head at night‒ an inevitable occurrence when he's on your mind‒ you try your hardest not to let it well something inside you so floridly that it bleeds heavily in your chest, and sprouts the salt in your eyes. But, it does. Idiot , you think, if only you knew what I really was.

You make a noise, unclear yourself as to your response to his statement, crushing the flier in your hand. Attempting to redeem yourself, you casually begin rolling the balled up paper in your hands, giving Trey an exasperated expression. 

“What’s that?” He points to the paper. 

“Oh‒ nothing. An Azul thing. Or a Monstero Lounge thing. Whatever, I’m probably going to bail on it anyways.”

“An Azul thing?” The hint of disappointment in his tone confuses you. “Oh! the Monstero Lounge show that’s coming up? I’ve been looking forward to it‒ you’re bailing? Don’t let Carter hear you say that‒ he’s been talking about wanting to be in it for weeks.”

A smile quirks on your face. “Has he now?” 

Trey nods. “Why are you bailing? I thought you had a real passion for playing?”

“Performance is another matter. You know, the difference between baking for yourself, and baking for other people.” Trey nods in understanding. “Besides, what makes you say that?” You make a face which fails to fully contain the disgust towards yourself. Passion. It curdles on your tongue. 

“How do I put it…You…” He pauses, thinking. In a moment, his words flood forth. “Your expression seems heavier when you’re playing. But, maybe a good kind of heavy. You always seem light and bubbly, but now that I think about it, you never talk about yourself.” 

“I don’t.” You confirm, a sweet smile. 

“You don’t.” An averted gaze. “I never asked.”

“How unusual of you‒ mother of Heartslabyul.” 

“So,” His gaze pulls you in. “What’s your favorite color?” 

You take a moment to reply, a bit surprised that he would actually follow through with his words. You’re reminded of the reason why you were so taken with him in the beginning‒ despite his sheepish deflection of compliments, despite the playful smirk that curved on his face‒ his words always matched his actions, his gaze, his expression. 

“Yellow. A lemony, summery yellow. Reminds me of the flowers my sister used to grow.”

“You just have one sister?”

“One and only. My older sister.”

“I’m envious. I’ve always wondered what it was like being the younger sibling.” 

You chuckle, searching the vast landscape of memories stored inside you. “You know‒ teasing, fighting, hand-me-down clothes, the like. But I love her, especially when she makes her brioche bread.” 

“You’re close with her?”

Time, space‒ the difference between you and the world, him. It comes in waves as always, flooding you, and your hands which search for distant memories. You’re not sure if it was his ignorance towards your nature, or plainly his presence that seemed to pull your discorporated humanity closer to you once more. 

“Very. She’s my rock. She was the first to encourage me to pursue music.” 

“Do you play other instruments?”

“Of course. Cello, piano, guitar, accordion, harp, violin, flute…” You trail on. 

The conversation goes on, until the two of you notice you’ve been walking around the campus, completely separated from the others. You laugh about it. 

When you separate, you watch him walk across the hills, his form roaring against the sunset. There’s a twinge in your stomach, which you swallow with great effort. The distance between you and him seemed like it didn’t matter for the vivid moments you spent conversing with him‒ but now with his back towards you, as he headed towards the light‒ the feeling wades back. You search through the flood as you always do, but you cloud your own vision when you look back to the things you said, the faces you made, the memories you shared. Blackened, like yourself. The sun hisses against your skin. At times like this, you’re reminded of your stunted development‒ you had forgotten what the sun does to creatures of the night. 

It scorches your retinas as you look at the heart of the sun, but you let it‒ reminded of the sweetness of his honey lemon eyes. 

Bitterly, it seeps.

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

Every time Trey stands by your door, for some reason, his nerves rise to the surface, tingling at his feet and the hand that raps at wood. He doesn't understand why his body gets this fussy every time‒ he's seen you a dozen times before. That crooked, fanged smile; the delightful way your hands move in conversation, the charming little way you hum when pouring him tea (2 sugars, a touch of cinnamon, just the way he likes it)‒  these are all things he's almost gotten used to that he doesn't feel near faint when you grace him with such pleasures. 

" Pretty boy ."

He remembers the nickname you call him, along the standard " darling "s and " my dear "s you seem to call everyone else. Just for him, you've fashioned something that can instantly unravel him, much like now, as he waits in front of your door with fresh pastries. He feels special when you call him that‒ but it feels good, unlike the times he tries to undermine himself under a barrage of flattening statements that stomp out every potential for expectations . Like he could make a difference, a change in anyone or anything. He’s just a normal guy. Nothing more. Riddle was a vivid reminder of that.

Except when he’s with you‒ it feels extraordinary. 

The millions of things that seem to arise out of conversation‒ the sheer possibility of what wonderful things he can share with you beats like thunder in his chest, reaching the tips of his ears where they flush. That fullness he felt before returns‒ the only way to alleviate it it seems is to converse and spend time with you. He hopes the redness at least dies down when he's around you, all his senses seem to fly out the window when you're by his side. 

We're just studying together. That's all. He tells himself. 

He secretly holds his breath when you open the door with the creak‒ but he releases it when his lips part in surprise at your state.

"O-oh. Hello, Trey." Rather than your usual, slurry, elegant demeanor, your voice scrapes against your throat‒ the sound coming small and frail, something Trey had never associated with you before. Elegant, honey-like, and sure of yourself‒ it was never like this. Diminuendo , he remembers from you, and his favorite piece that you play. Like you'd depart from him, where he could not follow.

You fix your glasses, feeling them slipping on your nose, before you run your hand through your knotted hair. The cigarette wedged between your fingers weaves smoke between the two of you, mixing with the smell of alcohol on your breath. "I'm afraid something came up, darling. I have to cancel today, I'm sorry I didn't ring you in advance." You go to close the very small gap you've allowed yourself to open‒ Trey stops you before you can. The bold move surprises even himself. 

"...You're sick? In that case I could‒"

" D-don't touch me." A crackle in your voice, fear striking your expression. "A-apologies. No. It's fine. You musnt do anything for me." 

"But I want to?" 

The prickly air that had been kindling on the inside of your lungs flares all at once at that moment, puncturing something inside.

"You don't know what you want." You spit.

" Oh‒ what?" 

"I said you don't know what you want. But allow me to make it easier for you. You don't want this. So go away‒ get out of my sight ."

Hellfire. It stains you. 

"I‒" He swallows the lump in his throat. "I-I don't understand?" 

"I said . Get away from me, Trey ." His name comes cold on your tongue. He feels it coil around his spine. 

What are you saying? 

"But‒"

You launch the door open, almost breaking it off the hinges. The crimson of your eyes glow in your power as you bare your fangs, clawing the wood of the door with your sheer grip. A lurching feeling wells inside you, as you grow in size, in power, in sharpness. All the qualities that separate you, from him. 

"I SAID GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."

You don't recognize your voice. Trey's feet crumble from underneath him as you tower over his form. With the fear that seeps into his eyes, you decide it's enough, and shut the door with a slam. 

You swallow the breaths that come faster than you can handle, looking down at the chips of wood that embed into your nails and fingers, beginning to bleed. You lean on your table, raising one hand to grasp at the root of your hair, catching a glimpse of the crimson glow that emanates off your eyes. The hair that falls in front of your face cages you in that bloody vision‒ red, and violent. 

This is what you are, it's what you've always been and always will be. A monster . Fanged, clawed, hideous‒ thick, violent strokes of inky black on one of those books the priest used to carry around with him. Swirling into a void so corroded of color‒ the truest black‒ immortalizing your revolting form, permanently baring your fangs, carrying hellfire in your eyes and throat that you’d swing senseless with an animal violence. Fixed in that abstracted abyss, forever‒ eternal as you are. How pitiful that you choke on your own sorrow. 

You fall into a rage, your body dragging itself by the spine‒ swinging your hands and legs throughout the room. A sound tears from your throat, far from a human cry. Music scores from missed practices fly, used plates and cups tumble to the ground, chipping. Your ashtray falls heavy on the grand piano that sits at the center of your room, slamming down the heavy lid, reverberating the strings, hammering into the air a chaotic symphony of ash and disorder. 

For a moment you think to pick everything up, tidy yourself up and make amends with Trey‒ but you know the drill by now. In a week, you'd come to terms with yourself again‒ all the things you make and destroy‒ and sever yourself from this place, and its people. In just seven days you'd swallow the bitterness of your own self as you always had, clean your mess, throw the pieces you'd broken away. It ends all the same. 

Before you know it, you have a half empty bottle in hand, the days old wine weighing heavily in your palm. You twist your body furiously in attempt to rupture the surfaces of rage you have rising like fire inside of you, to at least reach to the gnawing feeling inside your chest. But it grows even restless, even hungrier‒ eating away at the breath in your lungs and the beat of your heart when you come face to face with your reflection. Nothing. 

What sort of monster doesn't have a face? 

You couldn't have even be given that, to be remembered and touched‒ even if it was fear and abhorrence‒ to exist as a creature who is seen, and heard on their own. You were merely an image created by others. 

Control‒ you never had any of it, ever since your mouth was held open by its hinges and forced to down that creature's blood. It was laughable to even call yourself a musician, a conductor, a person. There was not a moment in your life where you had genuinely orchestrated the fullness of musicality, or anything. When you plucked on the strings of your cello‒ it was always just that. Noise. There was nothing inside of you that could transfigure that dead noise from the strings into something meaningful, something that could exist in the realm of adoration. Loved . 

Don't you want to be loved?

How could you be? You're just‒ this . 

Crumbling to the ground, you sob, remembering the fear laid plain on Trey's face. 

Surely‒ he’s gone. If you had ever held him in that way, at least. Arm’s length, prickled air‒ you had been weaving this inevitable goodbye yourself. Regret curdles heavily in your stomach as you bring your knees to your face on the floor.

I was doing so good. I was good again‒ I am good. You clench your jaw, imagining those portraits of violence from the Supreme Leader’s book. A realization‒ fuck . Nausea rises to your throat. 

You want to sleep. Or drink. Or smoke. Something to sedate you out of this emptiness clawing itself all over your insides. 

A knock startles you out of your daze. You assume the door is broken by the sound of the rusty hinges creaking open, the light of the hallway pouring behind you. A silhouette‒ but you don’t want to be found, or seen. You stay quiet, hoping he just leaves. Forever, maybe. 

“(Name)?” 

His footsteps creak against the floorboards, inching closer and closer. You wish you had the energy to tell him to leave again. Instead, you bury your face in your hands. 

You hear him shuffle a bit, close to you on the floor. 

His breath tickles the hairs on your arm, his voice reaching far into your head, the vibration from his throat rippling to your empty chest. “I’m not leaving.” 

With some kind of divine courage, you speak. “Why won’t you?” 

He shuffles closer, lacing his fingers through your tangled hair. “Because it seems I like you too much.” 

“You’re a fool.”

You were the fool. 

“Birds of a feather flock together.” He says, matter of factly. “Because you’re an idiot if you think I’m just going to leave you here. You…” 

You feel him swallow, pausing his hands to hold your head at the crook of your neck. “You’re special to me.” 

“I’ve got you.” 

It feels like you're being enveloped completely by him‒ his smell, his sound. It smells faintly of candied violet, vanilla, and your honey lemon blend of tea. Trey thinks it complements well with your smell. Old books, and well-read letters tucked preciously into cookie tins. Faintly, iron. 

In a shaky voice, you apologize. Over and over. "I-im so sorry.There's something wrong with me." He rubs your shoulder, measuring his movements carefully so as not to overwhelm you. "I'm sorry I'm this way. I-I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean to send you away. I want you here. I-I'm sorry. I lied. I’m a liar.” 

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. We all have our things‒ we’re human, right?” 

You cry harder. "No, you don't understand."

"Are you fae?" He asks, looking at your pointed ears and teeth he'd seen in the students in Diasmonia. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're still‒"

Wonderful . 

He chooses his words with care in your state. “- my friend.” 

You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. "N-no. I'm nothing of the sort. I-I…" Everything is so unbearable‒ you're unbearable . Your fangs pierce into your lips when you bite down, suppressing the wailing pressure that threatens to leak from deep inside your throat. It burns all the way down when you swallow it, only leaving you with a portion of your dwindling volume. 

" I'm a monster ." You spit, looking directly into Trey's eyes‒ like you did moments before‒ hellfire stirring within them. The palms of your hands face him, framed with the sharpened claws of your hands that spot with blood from the splitters still embedded within them. Slowly, you furl them onto yourself, drawing red upon your palms when they ball into fists. "A vampire‒ like the ones you know from books and stories. That's me ."

That is all I am. 

Your vision blurs, and you tuck your limbs into yourself as if you brace for impact. 

Instead, softness‒ honey lemon eyes, sweetness, golden. 

"You're hurt."

You make a sound through your sobs when he takes your hands. Impossibly soft, feathery under your own, he picks the sharpness out of them. The blood is wiped away with his handkerchief, staining the light clover green fabric with blots of red. Now it's dirty , you think. I’ve poisoned it.

"You're not a monster." He says, unfurling your hand further, prying apart your sharpened fingers from your palm. They twitch at his words.

"I tried to hurt you‒ send you away.” You feel like your throat is going to collapse. 

He’s quiet for a moment, you can see him roll his saliva through his mouth, and the doubt and anxiety which passes across the movements of his downwards eyes. A barbed look‒ you feel it prickle familiarly against yourself‒ so you ever so slightly inch your pinky towards his hand that rests near your own, making a small gesture with your pinky to intertwine it with his‒ I’ve got you .

A heavy breath pushes past his lips. “People do that all the time. I get it‒ I mean‒ I know how it feels to be anticipating the color and tone of people’s faces. I grew up doing the same. From a certain point‒ you can kind of sense when people begin to tear themselves away from you‒ like you thought they would do eventually‒ it’s kind of a relief, isn’t it? To confirm that the distance you were placing between people at least did something .” 

You nod, giving him a small quirk on the lips to agree. He continues. “I’m really just a normal guy‒ you know? I don’t really have the power to change things, or have an effect on people. Like you do.” 

“Me?” 

He hums, rounding his expression with a small curve on his lips. “You light up the room. You charge everyone with a certain energy. A je ne sais quoi .” He jokes‒ you laugh. “It’s probably a lot of pressure, a lot of fear. But you face it. I like that about you.” 

“ I’m not like you .” You hear from him. You want to remind him‒ you're a fool. 

“You-” You gulp. “You do that for me too. You light up my day. But‒ I don’t know. I feel bad feeling these things. It’s like I can’t wait, you know?” 

Trey scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “Can’t wait for what?”

“I can’t wait. For the moment you‒ or people‒ leave, like you said. I’m always anticipating it. I digest people inside of me‒ pick them apart. I’m really not a good person. Sometimes there’s just something inside of me that switches when I’m faced with anything pointing to people confirming my suspicions‒ like I’m always tipping off the edge. I don’t know‒ people are…” A baited breath. “Bad. And I’m something a lot worse.” 

Trey takes your hand again, drawing circles with his thumb. 

“I don’t know who I am. I have no reflection, no substance, no form‒ nothing . All I know is that I’ve been emptied to carry this filth that terrorizes me‒ and whenever I lash out at it, I end up hurting other people.” The afternoon light that weaves in between the curtains illuminates a streak of dust and smoke in the room. “My story ends all the same. Like any good fabled monster.” 

“What if this time it ends differently?” 

A weary smile wobbles onto your lips. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” You stand, dust yourself off, and offer a hand to him. He accepts. 

“It will.” His assertiveness almost surprises himself, but he reminds himself why‒ it’s you . 

“Why‒ aren’t you certain?” Bitterness seeps your tongue.

“You’re the reason for it. You’re all that.” 

There’s a feeling that wells inside you that replaces the tension that slips from your shoulders‒ something a tinge sour, sweet, and warm. You don’t search for the underlying tones and clandestine beats of his words. Clear as day‒ you accept this feeling. Hesitantly, you lean against him, soaking with the feeling that seems to also radiate from him. 

“You’ll stay today?” 

Trey feels you relax against him.

“For as long as you'll have me.”

He doesn’t let you go.

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

"I've never seen snow before I came here." You watch the soft speckles of white float gently down from the skies. "I'll never get tired of this scene."

Trey slows his pace a bit, so you can linger on the white landscape. "Really? Not even in the Queendom of Roses?" 

You nod. "The island I lived on before I was exiled was exceptionally warm. I wasn’t allowed‒ ” 

Quickly, you shift your words. Control.

“-I wasn’t much of an outside kid, on account of the whole sun thing before potions could handle it. And after I had left I hopped from one island to another‒ most of them were too warm to have snowy weather. And when I visited the main island it was always during the warmer seasons.”

You remember the supreme suggesting warm climates‒ quiet, sunny peaks in the outlands, away from people. Those suggestions grew on you with time. You liked warmer climates anyways, . The room you had at the temple had always been cold and damp, the only light that would peek through snuck in through the stone that had eroded over years of negligence. You shiver. 

"I don't like the cold, too much. But the snow is beautiful." 

You suddenly feel wool, warmth on your neck. Trey fixes his scarf on you, you almost jump away, but after the initial moment of surprise, you relax into his scent that has melted into the wool. Lavender . He always smells like sweet floral, you note. It reminds you of the patches of grass and wildflower that would sprout sparingly in the parts of your room where the sun would kiss‒ the dew that would form on them like opals would be sweet like the fragments of light that wove in soft petals on the hard stone flooring. When you touched that light refracting in honeyed rays in those small drops of water the morning chill brought, you could remember a fraction of your humanity. Summer like a warm blanket and the crickets that chirped outside while you and your sister sat beside the window sill, giggling at the lantern light. The verdant coolness that swept the bakery while you helped your papa prepare the bread rolls for proofing. Silly, small things. It could make you cry, even now, as Trey diligently wraps the scarf around your neck. 

“...You were exiled?” He chooses his tone, his words very carefully, softness like velvet honey. 

You smile, a shape meant to comfort him. “I was. My hometown was very poor. People needed something to believe in, and they already had their hero.” Supreme leader, in his gilded cloak. "You're going to catch a cold‒ and this scarf‒ it's from your siblings, is it not? I feel bad, you shouldn't give stuff so easily to people." Despite your words, dive your nose deeper into the yarn, threading your claws carefully within the chunky pattern. 

"I’m warm enough‒ besides, you wear things like this well.” He finishes fussing with the scarf. The warmth that had welled into the wool from his skin melts into you like cotton candy‒ sweet and soft. “And you’re cold, aren’t you? If I catch a cold I’ll just have you take care of me.”

You press your cold fingers onto his bare neck to hide the rosy heat coloring your cheeks. With a shiver and a smile, he yells "Hey!" while laughing. 

"Well I guess I have no choice then.” 

A moment of silence after your laughter dies down‒ Trey hardens his expression. “You’re still shivering. The blood supplements haven’t helped?” 

A sigh pushes through your nose. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t feel too keen on asking hospitals for donations either. I’ll be fine, pretty boy.” A curt smile curves onto your lips to reassure him. 

Trey makes a face. “What if you get sick again?”

The smile you wear tightens. “I’ll be fine .” 

“It’s worrying.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

The silence of the snowfall roars against your ears when he says‒ “What if you fed off of me?” 

The dense crunch of your footsteps packing the snow stops as your chest rises and falls with a thickened rhythm.  

“Don’t joke about such things.” 

“I wasn’t.”

"Then don’t say stuff like that. I said I don’t need it." 

"But you do! Look at you! You're emaciated‒ a few days ago you were barely standing!"

"That's‒"

"It’s not healthy, you know. You need blood to survive."

“It’s scary to see you like that.” 

You’re genuinely taken back from his internal voice, a slight treble which rings against your ears. “I don’t understand. Why would you be scared?” 

His answer is instantaneous, exasperated. “Because you’re my friend.” 

You bite the words climbing your throat. As much as it pained you to see Trey like this, you could not swallow that thought threatening to simmer through your lips, a burning notion that had engraved itself into every piece of yourself. 

I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need I don't need‒ 

"Why won't you accept this offer? Accept me?" It chokes you to hear him like this‒ but the familiar nausea that seizes your throat overpowers it. 

Because I could never make up for it. Make up for it being me that you choose. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You won’t.”

“ Fuck‒ yes I will!” You hiss. Quieter, you muster. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will. I’m made that way.” 

His silence drives a hot coal down your throat‒ prompting you to push down that blackness that gnaws at you. 

“Sorry‒ I‒” A release in the tension of your shoulders. “I apologize. I was just…overwhelmed. It’s a serious proposition‒ you really shouldn’t take it so lightly. I haven’t interacted so much with my own kind but from what I heard, it would be almost a lifelong commitment. At least for you that is. When you die, I will..." You attempt to swallow the tightness in your throat- a hunger. "I will not forgive myself." 

“I’m sorry‒ I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We should talk about it more‒ alright?” He rubs circles with his thumb across your skin, and you feel the ridges of his fingers drawing shapes. “But if it’s regret you worry about‒ know that I would never regret spending my life with you. At any capacity.” 

There were stories you heard of centuries after you were reborn as a vampire about beautiful things spun by poets and artists. To reach to the monster‒ approaching it with gentle softness rather than stakes and silver. Risking sharpened teeth with lethal maws, defying the hardwired fear and repulsion against something that has tremendous capacity for violence. Saintly, divine touch. You had deemed it one of the most beautiful things‒ sublime, and completely unfathomable to you. 

But when Trey reaches to you in that moment‒ in your moments‒ you think‒ this is what it is. This is what it must feel like to be touched by something beautiful. This is what it must feel like to be touched by god. You almost understand the Supreme Leader, in a way. You understand faith ‒ it’s a terrible thing. 

He cools the tindering hellfire in yourself with his touch. It burns as a searing stake through your chest. 

He doesn’t let go as you walk through the ashen landscape.

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

He makes you promise you’ll talk about it. And you do‒ hesitantly accepting his proposition with a box in hand. 

“I think it’s a good time to give you this.” 

The smell of oak flushes his nose when Trey draws closer to inspect the intricate honeysuckles that weave through the wood. 

It’s an old, tattered thing‒ something given to you when you were young by your parents. The flowers were meant to be a gesture of nostalgia and deep affection‒ and you manage to remember the fragments of your mother’s many sayings‒ something about always been meant to be with you, how she felt a strange sense of reunification when she had bore you and your sister. 

A bitter taste spreads on your tongue when you move the box towards Trey, and the contents inside clack against the wood. How furious she would be if she knew what you had done.

"What is it?"

“ Insurance .” you answer, quickly. 

He gives you a confused look before taking the box into his hands, opening the rusted latch on it. You only hear the eroded hinges creak as he cracks open the chest, the speckles of rust falling onto the table. 

You made sure there would be enough to pack the box‒ but it seems that there is still some air when they rattle against the walls of the box. Sharpened to perfection‒ you hope they won’t wear down too much from this motion. 

After a minute, there’s the same sound again, then the closing of the box before it’s shoved towards you‒ back fully in your vision once more. 

“I don’t need this.” Strained, his voice comes thickly between his constricting throat ‒ a similar feeling proceeding to his chest, flaring at the ends of his fingers which tuck tightly into his palms. 

The face he makes worries you. 

For him, of course, but for yourself as well. You're afraid you're going to break right then and there, throat etched in silent shame‒ but you pull yourself together with a sharp, willow breath sucked into your lungs. You feel the air settle cold on your tongue, and it almost shakes. 

"It's just insurance ." You say, opening the box. A wooden stake is rolled across the table to him. He averts his eyes as if it burns him. "If the time ever comes‒"

"If it comes?" The voice pounding heavily at the back of his throat raised with his breaths. He parrots your words angrily. " If the time comes? Then what‒ I have to kill you? I have to be the one?"

"I would like it to be you, yes."

He gathered his eyebrows further into the center of his forehead. "Me?"

"Only you. It could only be."

You hear his shaky breath. No‒ you feel it press deeply into your bones, a vibration that makes its way from the tremble of his fingers, through the table, into your own flesh, far inside you that its precise throb stretches the growing cracks he's made in your resolve. 

"I can't."

"You must ." You feel your claws scratching against the leather of your gloves. "To protect yourself."

He feels terribly selfish, childlike for the quiet volume of his voice. "From who?” 

You feel the hungry thing inside of you flourish at your own words. “From me.” 

He calls out to your name. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of someone who is so afraid of themselves.” 

You have no response to that. 

An inhale‒ before he continues. “You’re the reason to the certainty in my words‒ that’s not really something I had before. Nothing feels normal with you‒ but it’s the good kind. You‒” despite the situation, he laughs, cracking the expression you love. “-you really don’t know what you do to me, do you?” 

A sharp finger presses against your palm to confirm this is truly‒ really‒ actually real. You doubt yourself, telling yourself that you somehow tricked him into thinking you were this good. It must have been all those pet names‒ the saccharine composition that had somehow trapped him into your siren spell. 

He faces you with all his sincerity‒ revealing the sharpened claws of your hands when he slips the leather off of them. He holds them softly, hoping if his words don’t reach you‒ at least this language that you had both curated against each other, might. You feel that it does, unable to find a trace of deceit, doubt, or anything besides the honey lemon hue that basks you in all its sweetness.

For the first time in centuries‒ you feel the blood inside you churn warmly in your cheeks, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“I suppose I didn’t.” 

So of course, when he first allows you access to his blood‒ the first action you do is to cover his eyes above all else. He makes a small noise when your cold fingers fall softly on his eyelids. 

Without even thinking, he reaches towards your hand‒ he sees the crimson light that weaves through your hands that eclipse into pitch darkness when he lays his hand on top of yours. In the darkness, his voice seems louder when he calls out to you. 

"Can you move your hand?" 

The fibers of his neck tickle against your stiffened breath. 

"Not yet."

He feels your teeth open his flesh, his skin parting like a ripened fruit. The curve of your soft lips that cup warmly around the wound, leaning deep into his scent‒ to dive further into the sweetness of his blood. He groans as a moment of pain passes, but his sound relaxes‒ slurry‒ in his throat when he feels sweet pleasure, thick as honey, feathering from where he feels you feeding. His breath quickens, and you feel the warmth of his exhales. As close as a lover’s breath. 

He lets out a shameless sound of pleasure‒ a whisper you drink in with his sweet ambrosia. 

"Ah, this isn't so bad."

He feels the fingers you keep firmly on top of his eyes twitch. 

"Sorry. 'M sorry." You mumble against his skin. His senses feel so jumbled, flooding as thick and raw syrupy mountains. He blindly accepts them‒ unlike your words, which he makes sure to affirm should not be so. I am not sorry, he thinks. You do not have to be either . There’s a tremble in your lips when he slips those words into the air, humming sweetly against his skin. 

He doesn't trust his voice, but the heaviness that clouds his mind barely filters his thoughts. 

"A-are you done already?" 

"Mhm. Sorry, are you alright?" 

"I'm fine. I just need a minute." His chest slowly rises and falls. He notices he's gripping your hand. "Can you move your hand now?"

"Let me see you. I want to see you."

"Just a moment." Even in the sensory deprivation, your voice feels particularly far off. "Not yet."

Trey closes his eyes, waiting for the tight pleasure that still prickles under his skin to pass. When he opens his eyes again, he finds your hand gone, the sun seeping through his fingers. You're facing away from him, sitting at the edge of the bed, bloody handkerchief in hand, unnervingly quiet. 

"I'm sorry if I caused you any pain. I'll go get bandages and some pain killers for you."

You turn a bit towards him, but he doesn't see your face. He grabs your hand before you could walk away‒ calling your name.

A beat of silence. "Yes?"

"..."

It seems his senses have returned to him when he confirms the weight of your trembling hand‒ how it feels a fraction of a degree warmer than before. 

"Why can't you look at me?"

" Why won’t you show me your face? 

Your expression? 

You? 

Are you smiling? Are you mad? 

Why can't you show me? 

Am I‒ "

"No ." Your back gives out as you press all your force into that word, making the bed creak when you fall into it. "No. It's not you. It's not you. I just‒" A breath. "I don't want you to look at me. While I’m like this. It is a mercy. ”

Waves of scrambled noise crash through you. You want to squeeze your hands over your ears, shut your eyes until all you can feel is the vast darkness, and your fading form within it. You’d congeal with that void, rot until there is truly nothing left of anything you had‒ to to the dust as dead and far as the remains of your home. 

"I don't want to just look at you. I want to see you."

You don't trust your voice, so you shake your head. When you swallow the lump lodged in your throat, it tangles in your shaky breath when you feel his hands wrap around yours. 

"I want to see you." He repeats. 

The noise parts with the lightness of his voice. Slowly, you turn towards him. Instantly, his hands are molded to the curve of your shape, as if they were forged by the decaying whispers of your labyrinth heart. In secret, they were cast by your hearth, and now they are cooled, and formed around the salt and tears that etch florid down your face. These hands are made for you, you think. Only the starlight has come this close to your monstrous form. Only the starlight. 

"I'm sorry‒ I shouldn't be so‒ this right now. But I just can't‒ I'm so sorry." The apologies bubble from your trembling lips, as you try to form a coherent thought. But the softness of which he touches the cruel sharpness of your form‒ it wells a crescendo symphony of desire that you withheld, lurching upon you all at once. 

He pulls you in, tighter. 

This was home. You had always stood at the edge of it, drawing a line before the entrance to remind yourself‒ you had not been welcomed yet. But he had always welcomed you. It felt as if some speck of his soul had always done so, with the relief you feel when you step within it. The room inside your heart when you merge your warmth with his does not feel so full‒ nor so empty. It is filled with potential. Future. Something that had risen from him, infinitely. 

"Don't‒" you place your fingers over your mouth. "Not while I taste like this." 

He breaks your lips with his words. “Trust me?”

The warmth that folds over you feels like a prayer. Have faith . When you open your mouth, flesh is at your mercy, but you do not bite down as you expected the thirst inside you would have. Stars, the world stripped of its layers until it was only you, and him. For once infinity does not seem so much of a curse. 

You must be intoxicated by the sweetness of his blood. Bittersweet‒ it seeps.

"I'm not…" You gulp down the swaying warmth. "I'm not supposed to like you." 

"But…?" His smile curves so high the whites of his eyes are almost completely eclipsed by his honey lemon hue. 

You intwine your hand with his. Another prayer. "Foolishly, I do."

“It isn’t foolish at the slightest.” 

“It’s alright.” You smile. “I’d like to be the fool for once.” 

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

You fidget with your suit steps away from the spotlight, holding your cello with your other hand. 

“Stop fidgeting.” Trey instructs you, flattening the creases you’ve made to your suit jacket. He smiles. “It’s just nerves, they’ll pass when you get up there‒ you’ve told me so before..” 

“I don’t‒ I don’t know if I’ll be able to play it right. I haven’t been this nervous in ages.” You still straighten the tie around your neck. “Maybe I should tell Azul‒”

The cloth is straightened again, before he glides his hands to your shoulders, bringing you an inch closer to feel the warmth that radiates off his skin. “You’re going to be amazing.” 

Your eyebrows crease. “How can you be so certain?”

“You’re all that.” 

His hand guides you towards the curtains, lingering when his fingers reach yours before you step into the spotlight. Azul finishes your introduction as you look towards the audience, searching for a familiar face. You find his eyes, and there is no need for any magic, any power‒ for you to find the faith in his eyes. You let it guide your bow, and the strings vibrate like golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, marrying sweetly‒ your internal harmony guided by his sweetness. 

The music swells, breaks, heaves‒ before it dies out once more. The lounge fills with the sound of applause, and you sheepishly smile again the few whistles and whoops your club-mates send your way. Each and every thread of sound resonates within your body, vibrating with color. 

Once you get off the stage into the crowd, you see Trey march towards you, before almost knocking you down with the force of his embrace. You allow a bit of your power to spin him off his feet, before you separate‒ wanting to see the look on his face. 

"Will you come with me?" You pull his hand away from the crowd, breathless in your excitement. 

"Where?" He asks, similar in his bursting fruition. 

"Out there. Here. Over there. Wherever."

He smiles, the warmth moves the beat of your heart to the tip of your fingers, back into his palm when you lace your other hand with his. You think‒ I'd be a follower, a devotee, a dog for this. Have faith. I've got you. It’s terrifying, and it shakes you with excitement. 

"I can't wait."

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

Notes:

The book I mentioned the priest had is based on the real Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Ghosts, and Concerning the Vampires of Hungary, Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia that 18th-century Benedictine monk and distinguished biblical scholar Antoine Augustin Calmet wrote. It was actually a large source of inspiration to Bram Stoker's dracula. Basically a collection of reports and examinations of vampire/monster attacks emerging in eastern Europe during the late 17th to early 18th century. The accounts of the undead rising and infecting whole villages, reaping of their health and blood that were recorded in this compendium of monster attacks formed a lot of the imagery and characterizations associated with vampires. 

Historically, bloodletting was a popular method during the 19th century to cure medical conditions, especially psychological‒ as it was based on the concept of humors. Fun fact, this is why there is a distinction between surgeons (“barbers”) and physicians, and is why the striped barber sign is red and white‒ red symbolizing blood and white the bandages. This method was used from everything from hysteria, insanity, and heartbreak, to things like scurvy and epilepsy. 

Bloodletting, transfusions, and vivisections (experimental surgery) both appear in Dracula because they were the hot new science of the Victorian era. Stoker's father was actually a physician so a lot the medical cures and information in the narrative frame the work very closely to the social, religious, and medical attitudes during the period. 

Though Victorians still believed the world of humors (ie blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm, or more commonly known by their four counterparts: sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic)- the era began to see a rise of Heroic medicine which sought to shock the body of its ills (ie bloodletting, drinking blood, etc etc)

During the New England vampire panic of the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead”, because of the seemingly unexplained rapid spread of this disease that would “consume” its victim and its family at an alarming rate (this was mostly just due to general hygiene issues and the cures for TB being syrups and elixirs of like literally just morphine and cocaine). TB victims usually had pale, emaciating skin, and in combination with how to identify a suspected vampiric corpse (ie grown fingernails = sharp claws; plump skin = immortality/fast healing); the common cures to TB other than those concoctions during the period such as bloodletting, blood drinking, and the “climate cure” (spending a lot of time outside in sunny, warm climates = aversion to the sun); as well as the spread of TB (highly infection, if one person got it in the home, it would spread rapidly to other members of the family = seems like that originally infected person was “consuming” the rest of the family members) kind of makeup the symptoms, physical aesthetic, and indicators of vampires we know today. Pre-Christian notions believed that a body could be “infected” by evil spirits, the concept of evil, etc.. if not buried properly, which translated into the Christian context as demonic or satanic influences entering the body. And because Churches were often the ones dealing with burials, and setting the precedent for burial rituals‒ they had a lot of influences in setting the precedent for burial rituals, how dead bodies should be handled, etc

Because of the strong religious influences during this Victorian romantic period, and the seeming “failings” of empirical science and thought‒ a lot of people turned to the church 

Historically, during the New England vampire panic in the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead” because it would “consume” the entire family, beginning with one of the family members, then spreading to everyone else because it was highly infectious. This is why things like pale skin, and vampires needing to feed off of blood is a thing because it is connected to the symptoms and infection of TB (blood drinking was also a cure at some point??)

Everytime I'm like "should I add this ultra specific detail with an irl artist's name??? Does it make sense with the twst universe?? Ah whatever‒"

Anyway I choose Chopin for a lot of reasons. The primary reason was that his music moves me deeply (please listen to the piece if you haven't heard it before). He also suffered from TB (aka consumption), and most likely suffered through a chronic version of it his whole life, which caused a lot of suffering and medical complications through his youth, and into adulthood when rising to fame as a composer. This cello piece was the only sonata that wasn't on the piano, and was played at his very last public concert in Paris. He also had kind of a miserable love life because of his weak health (a condition he could not fix), I thought it would be an interesting connection with MC along with the emotional value the song has on its own. 

BPD is very misrepresented and incredibly stigmatized in media especially but also the mental health and treatment spheres in general so I did a lot of not only personal introspection but also research on it as well. I thought vampirism would be a good metaphor for BPD because I imagine the concept of eternity and also having to physically drain someone of their life source would cause a lot of attachment and abandonment issues in addition to the feelings of shame and guilt that often come with having BPD (“why am I this way?”). The monstrous appearance described and often visualized in Dracula/vampire related films and media, as well as the myth that vampires don’t have a reflection also not only conceptualizes BPD and its affect on self image, but also visually narrates the aspects of mentioned shame, guilt, and self hatred that come with BPD and the emotional regulation issues that affect relationships. Anyways I not only wanted to do BPD justice because I feel like its very rarely represented in media accurately and with a happy ending, but I also wanted to explore 

I didn’t want to go too in-depth with the cult stuff because I feel that could veer off track. I drew from my own experiences (I have a close family member in a cult), as well as some research + some inspiration from a game series called Faith: The Unholy Trinity. But of course the central ideas of isolation, salvation (under a specific pretense), and dependency are there.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland angst #twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland malleus #twisted wonderland oc #twst x reader #twisted series #trey clover #trey clover x reader #trey clover x yuu #trey clover twst #trey clover x male reader #trey clover x gn reader #cater diamond #kalim al asim #lilia vanrouge #disney twisted wonderland #Hurt/Comfort #angst #fanfic #Twisted Wonderland fan fiction #Twisted Wonderland imagines #night raven college #vampirism #Twisted Wonderland Hurt/Comfort #Trey Clover Twisted Wonderland #SFW #BPD

[qedart]

Time Warp AU - #12

I got this little scene stuck in my head and had to get it out before moving on to anything with a bit more plot. Just the boys actually behaving like normal teenagers for once (well, perhaps with a dash more danger than most teens go for) and pestering Ice for permission to get motorcycle licences (they assume Mav’s a shoe-in. They are mistaken. He’s by far the more hesitant of the two of them). 

It’s an opportunity for both Ice and Tom to flex their negotiation muscles. By the end of talks they’ve got a written agreement (signed by all parties and witnessed by an utterly bemused Cyclone) outlining that: 

Thomas Lev Kazansky (II) (hereinafter referred to as TK) and Pete Michael Mitchell (II) (hereinafter referred to as PM) will receive permission and blessing to get motorcycle permits/licences under the condition that: 

California Relevant state road rules will be abided by. 

Permit limitations will be followed until PM and TK are eligible for licence upgrade

Protective gear (read: helmet, gloves, jacket, boots as a minimum) to be worn at all times (Addition: Cpt Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell (I) will provide a good example by wearing a helmet and gloves at a bare minimum going forward). 

Motorcycles will be roadworthy upon purchase. (Note: PM’s confidence in his abilities to make them so will not suffice.)

Motorcycles will be appropriately maintained (with quarterly check-ups conducted by Cpt Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell (I) for the first 12 months or until satisfied with PM and TK’s skillset to carry on solo). 

Before first solo ride/s - PM and TK are to accompany Cpt Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell (I)  and Admiral Thomas ‘Iceman’ Kazansky on no less than six group rides to build up seat time and skillset in various conditions. 

Any accidents, minor or major, that occur will be reported to Cpt Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell (I)  and Admiral Thomas ‘Iceman’ Kazansky  (note: i: Cpt Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell (I)  and Admiral Thomas ‘Iceman’ Kazansky  acknowledge that accidents happen and are often a part of learning and promise not to overreact in the case of an honest mistake. ii: PM and TK agree that further instruction will be provided and accepted with minimal protest to avoid future accidents). 

…

It goes on for about 5 pages. (If the fighter-pilot thing doesn’t work out, Tom’s got a very bright future in law and/or politics it would seem). 

In other news, waaaay more research into California road law went into the background of this comic than was really necessary. (I would have had my bike soooooo many years earlier if I was born american 😭)

#icemav #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #Time Warp AU #art #top gun