#//and of course any other details you deem fit to share

[lordincognito]

The pup didn’t look happy to be in a cone, ears pressed to its head and tail tucked between its legs, looking up at Wriothesley for a moment with a soft whine, papping the cone with it’s front paw then papping him with it, whining.

"I know you don't like it, buddy. If i were in your place I wouldn't like it either, but it's necessary to have it in order to not injure your eye socket until it heals" he tells the puppy as he pets it gently

"Now, because you're a very good pup I have great news for you. I've got for you lots of yummy treats and a few toys you can play with, on top of that i'm taking you home so you'll have a warm bed to sleep in as well"

[fatcatlittlebox]

Regarding the 'did sauron make her armor or not drama on X:

It's not even really about canon vs fanon to these 'uM ACTualLY' canon police. They have this weird need to correct anything they see that doesn't fit into their idea of truth, so they have to remind everyone of it.

Regardless if he did or didn't do it, it makes sense in a many people's mind and that brings them fun and joy.

But y'know, we can't have fun and joy over a harmless detail that has no impact on the overall direction of the story. No, because we're little children that need to be sat down and spoonfed what's canon and not because we don't know any better.

They can't have us sharing this harmless idea around and fangirling over its possibility with other people, because for some reason it's like a pebble in their shoe so they HAVE to say something even though I trust that most people who didn't come in only watching the show know better, and even if they didn't and like the idea that he made her armor, there's ZERO harm in letting others have their fun and being considerate and smart enough to know when to stay in your own canon-ruled lane. It's like me telling my little cousin as she's giggling and opening her present that Santa is fake and just a lie made up. Like how is that so hard to understand?

And another thing is, I clearly want to know, if anyone wants to take this rant and tape it to the front of their cars: what sort of harmful or dangerous impact is there to real life if some fans accept this as their personal canon? Hmm? Is it going to make some impressionable minor more vulnerable to an abusive partner? Or not see a red flag in an unhealthy relationship? If the answer is no to either, then really, do better as person and learn to leave shippers alone. Or block something that they don't want to see. Not that hard.

Calling it now - these same canon police will jump to defend any 'fanon' headcanon or theory with celeborn as canon because in their narrow minds, the relationship isn't dark, so of course XYZ might as well have happened and be deemed canon! And trust me, if anyone dares say something to point out the fact that since there's no visual or literal confirmation over a HEADcanon, the same people will jump in and start going 'wELL, THAT'S WhAT wE CalL ImPLiCATiON, because even though we didn't see it happen, it wouldn't go against either character to say that it happened. There's no harm in saying that it's canon as long as the relationship isn't questionable or dark, guys~!

[If all these things are not shown then they are not part of the story] Alright, I'm not even going to go into this one that I saw so I'll let others have it.

Anyways, it's disgusting how some ppl in the fandom just can't let others have fun and feel like it's their moral purpose in life to be pedantic. Also apparently some ppl were acting like they just wasted half of their life thinking there's new info or retrograde confirmation over it bc it spread like wildfire (cause it made some people happy, go figure). Like sorry you were fooled ma'am, sorry you wasted 15 secs of your life for nothing.

Also, they need to look up what the definition of a headcanon is. It might blow their minds.

/micdrop

Ps, if we slap a blonde wig on Halbrand and call him Annatar can we call it a canon gift NOW? Pls O great gatekeepers of what's canon and not, here thy plea! /s

This. But it’s not even about canon, or fanon or harmless or all in good fun. We don’t have to justify diddly squat. It’s what happened! They’re wrong and can sit all the way down. It’s not “headcanon” to interpret with our own eyes the narrative the director, writers and ACTORS are telling us. Are we so cynical and literal that we cannot interpret what is visually implied or metaphorically shown? Everything has to be explicitly said or presented for it to be canon? Dude, what is the point of artistic expression? It’s not even someone’s ability to read the subtext or think abstractly. It’s simply being an intelligent viewer. And I’m not saying the antis are stupid but I think we can all agree that a satisfying interaction and consumption of art is when the artist and audience share the expectation that intelligent observation is required. The antis are biased as you have said and they’re really missing out when they shut themselves off to the deeper, richer thematic story being told.

[rmu-vincent]

Hi there! Reptile question anon here :)

Sorry I didn't give much detail, I must've gotten quite nervous since it was my first time sending and ask. Again, I apologize!

To make things a bit clearer, what do you think of chameleons specifically? I myself have a very big fascination with them; I love researching about their habits and different variations on my spare time. It's hard to pick a favourite, but if I had to, I'd say that the Jackson's Chameleon takes the spot for me, simply because of their horns and the fact that they were the first species of chameleon I started researching.

I've been surprised by the amount of people that consider them "ugly". In my opinion, you can't really judge an animal based on a standard made by humans, since it'll probably be unjust to animals like reptiles, which have been victims to comments regarding their appearance, at least within my circle. Besides, each animal is beautiful on their own way, even if they're considered "ugly" by most.

Sorry for the long message! I hope it doesn't bother you.

I hope your studies are going well, and that you have a very nice week! Also, tell Victor I said hi!

-🦎

Dear Mx Gray,

There is no need to apologise for being invested in a topic of interest to the point of omitting some norms and etiquette; as I mentioned, being curious is an amazing trait that should be praised and encouraged.

Out of all the reptiles, chameleons must have the most consistent symbolism across different cultures: they embody change. The obvious example would be their ability to blend into their surroundings, to adapt, to become whatever the situation calls for. People tend to have diametrically opposite perceptions of this trait, as some are jealous of chameleons' versatility and mastery of fitting in, while others deem these reptiles and those who share the same skills untrustworthy liars.

Of course, this is not the only quality that could be assigned to chameleons. Despite their swift adjustments to the environment, chameleons are quite independent and emotional. As far as I am concerned, their colour can change because of feelings of fear or satisfaction, and some even use their skills to impress their potential partners. Moreover, they are very observant creatures, being able to move their eyes independently and in different directions.

There is no reason to divide animals into categories based on any trait, not to mention coming up with "ugly" and "pretty" groups of animals. My opinion on chameleons could be expressed through the concept of admiration, and I would definitely consider their brilliance inspiring.

Thank you for your message and kind words. I wish you luck in your pursuit of reptile knowledge.

Best regards,

Vincent Edgeworth

[liquorisce]

Do you have like little observations or details about IDILY's Eren and Mikasa that didn't make it to the final story? Like very little facts about them that you thought about but weren't relevant to the story, or you just didn't incorporate but thought about, or even your own "headcanons" about them in the story?

I've been waiting for a long time to answer this bc i needed to be at my desk but!!! tysm for this question

i wrote a huge bit about mikasa's childhood and how she became friends with armin... that didn't make it in the story :( idk if i will be able to fit it in later or when i finally finish it and go back to revise it maybe i can fit it in... if u have any suggestions pls share :)

but here u go!!

i dreamed i left you - deleted scene [4.5k+]

MIKASA

[14 years old]

One day when I was fourteen, my mother told me I’d be changing schools. I blinked at her slowly and asked only one thing, “But Mother, it’s the middle of term. Won’t it affect my grades?” 

“No, Mikasa. They said they’ll take care of it.” And then she sat next to me and did something she did often when she wanted to tell me something she deemed important; she caressed my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “Listen to me carefully.” I was right. “This is a really good opportunity for you, Mikasa. It is a very prestigious school. And we are so lucky that we have a chance to send you to a school like this,” she hesitated at this, looking somewhat shameful, “with our limited means.” 

Growing up poor makes you understand these sorts of euphemisms well. Limited means, Our station, Within our status; these were just different ways to talk about money and our lack thereof. “Then how will we manage, Mother?” 

She gave me a forced smile. “One of the patrons of the restaurant has arranged it. You will have a full scholarship until you finish your studies.” She patted my head, signaling the end of our conversation. “Pending good grades, of course.” 

My mother never had to worry about that. My grades were always excellent. It was something she’d beaten into me when I got my first grade: A–, on a math test. Turns out I had made a mistake and added two lemons into the basket instead of removing them, and hence arrived at an incorrect total. I made sure to read every question at least twice, ever since then, just to be sure. And if I ever forgot, she was always happy to remind me, ruler in hand. 

“What does that mean then? A prestigious school?” My friend Sasha had asked me when I told her we could no longer eat lunch together every day. That was my comprehension of friendship back then. My life had little in the name of adversity, for a friend to adopt any opposing significance. And I didn’t have much time, with all the extra-curriculars my mother had packed into my schedule, for playdates or any such thing. 

“Mother says it means a lot of important people send their kids there to study.” 

“So does that mean they’re all smart? That would make sense,” Sasha says thoughtfully. “You’re a smart girl, Mikasa.” 

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I do think they’d have much fancier lunches than you or I, though.” 

Sasha pouts at her egg sandwiches. “I’m jealous. Although I love your lunch! Mama Ackerman makes the best stir-fried noodles.”

I passed her the rest of my lunch and gave her a small smile. “She only makes it because she knows you eat more than half of it.” It was true, the cut apples and bananas were meant to make up a significant portion of my lunch.

My uniform arrived the weekend before I was meant to start. It was fancier than my current one. It had a little gold logo, with three ornate circles intersecting with each other. And the fabric was better too, the sweater was actually warm, and the colours were a pleasing cream and white instead of the ugly grey that I wore until last week. 

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as my mother pulled on my hair ungently and combed it back into a braid. My bangs covered my forehead. “Did you memorise the list that I gave you?” She asked. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s important for you to understand who is who. This isn’t like your public school—” 

“I memorised it and went through it twice again this morning.” 

“Okay…” I look up at her. My mother and eye have the same eyes, the same hair and probably the same face shape as when she was about twenty years younger. “I know I’m hard on you,” she says, with considerable discomfort. 

I don’t say anything back. What would be the point of acknowledging this? Yes, I breathe air. Yes, my mother treated me harshly. Felt equivalent. Felt normal. She turns me around me and slicks my flyaways down. “But we need to work hard. People like us don’t get the opportunity to take it easy.” 

As I walked the entire way to school that day— my new school was thirty minutes away by foot, whereas my previous school was just one block away— I thought about what she said. At first, I thought that she meant people like us, people without money, could not afford to take it easy, but when I think back to it, she had a faraway look in her eyes. Perhaps she meant the other thing— the matter of our otherness. 

My mother was from overseas. That’s all she said about it. Nothing more to be said, she’d tell me whenever I dared to press her on the subject. As far as she was concerned, I was from here: a real, proper citizen of Paradis. Born and brought up here, I’d never stepped foot on another land. But it didn’t matter. Paradis didn’t have the best of international relations, and here I am, with the face of an outsider. 

I thought this is what had worried my mother, who had obsessively made me memorize a list of “important people” and their children who apparently attended this school. So I now stare at the tall, iron gates that housed a school that looked more like a castle, replete with towers and a medieval facade, with my head filled with names of people I’d never met before. 

<hr>

I didn’t get it at first, but eventually, I understood why my mother made me do it. Apparently “Hi, my name is Mikasa Ackerman,” didn’t really cut it as an introduction around here. There was a lot of “who’s your father?” and “what does your father do?” talk that sounded plain odd to me. I doubt anybody other than Sasha and a couple of other girls, from my previous school, cared to know that my parents owned a small but popular noodle shop in the city centre. But my answers of “Henrik Ackerman,” and “He owns Lemongrass, a noodle shop on 17th Main,” didn’t seem to impress many. So eventually, I just kept my head down and avoided introductions altogether. You didn’t have to speak to anybody if weren’t in anybody’s way. 

It wasn’t always easy though. On one such occasion, I was paired up with Armin Arlert for a history assignment, and as my list of names would remind me, he was the grandson of a very influential ex-Foreign Minister. I stuck my hand out towards him but he didn’t take it. “Mikasa Ackerman, I know,” he says, giving me a small smile, as we head out of class. He saved me the trouble of introduction, but I couldn’t help but wonder what else he knew about me, what else he had heard. 

“My name’s Armin, which you also know, I suppose.” He watches me with his clear blue eyes from across the table. His voice is not fully broken, and he wears his hair in an adorable bowl cut, but as soft as he looked, I could tell there was a hardness within him. It felt comfortable, to be honest. After all, I had a hardness within me too. 

“So,” he said, the next day, when we sat at the library going through a list of potential topics for our paper. “How do you like it at the Academy so far?” 

“It’s nice,” I say automatically. “It’s a wonderful opportunity to be here.” 

“Is it?” I can hear the laughter in his voice. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“I haven’t been anywhere else, so I couldn’t tell you.” 

“The cafeteria is better,” I decide to say, after a moment’s pause. “Than my previous school.” 

He hums and looks back into his notebook. After a few minutes he looks up at me again, “And the people? Are you liking it around here?” 

I’m not sure if he genuinely wants to know, because it was rather obvious that I wasn’t the very social kind. Or perhaps he really doesn’t know, it’s not his business after all. So I tell him, “I’m a bit of a loner, actually.” 

“Amongst this crowd who wouldn’t be.” I raised my eyes at this. Why would a boy like him be a loner, in this school? He had the wealth and the status that, as I had understood after the first four weeks here, would attract anybody into friendship. 

I’d been so absorbed in myself and my desire to stay out of everybody’s way that I hadn’t really noticed anybody else. And when I actually cared to notice, I realised that he was being truthful. Armin didn’t appear to assimilate easily into the crowd of designer brand-wearing, father’s name-touting, genus of Academy students. Instead, he quite often disagreed with them, vocally, sometimes even resulting in skirmishes. 

 One day at lunch— we’d started having lunch together after Armin had shown up on the bench where I ate and said, “figured you wouldn’t mind if another loner joined you,” — he turned up with a swollen cheek and angry tears on his lashes. “Jesus, Armin.” 

“Can you hold up my bangs?” He asks, sounding sulky. “It hurts when my hair keeps touching my cheek.” 

I pull out a bobby pin from my own hair and stick it into his. “We should probably get some ice for you.”

“Already got it.” And he begins to press it onto his cheek, grumbling incoherently. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

“If that’s your question, no, I do not want to tell you—” 

“Just tell me what happened.” 

He sighs. “It’s nothing new, Mikasa. Just…” 

I take the ice from him and hold it against his cheek. “Some of the guys from the hockey team were asking if we’re dating.” 

“Oh? That’s— well,” I blush slightly, but I’m not sure why. It’s definitely not because of any secret feelings. “I’m not really allowed to date, you know.” 

Armin looks at me like I have two heads. “Well, parents aren’t really going to be out here saying hey, why don’t you go around smooching that other kid over there! Not when you’re fourteen, but kids do it anyway.” He cringes visibly. “Well maybe Ruth’s mother does, but you know what I mean.” 

I look at him like I don’t know what he means. “Wait,” he says slowly. “What do you mean you’re not allowed to date?” 

“I’m not,” I shrug. “My parents have a very clear no-boys policy while I’m in school. Or probably until marriage, but I haven’t really pressed the details to be honest.” 

Armin is gaping at me. “And you have never wanted to…” 

“We’re only fourteen,” I say somewhat defensively. 

“Almost fifteen,” he corrects sharply, and then, blushing, he says “I-I’ve had crushes before.” He is hiding under his long blonde bangs, which I somehow thought was very cute. 

“Really? What’s it like, then? Having a crush.” 

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that.” He looks somewhat mortified. As if the question I asked was not the logical follow-up to his admitting to having crushes on people. 

“I suppose I could ask you who you have a crush on. If that’s what you want.” 

“Mikasa, you’re weird,” he says, cheeks still giving away his embarrassment. At least he didn’t look upset anymore. 

“So does that mean I won’t be getting any answers?” I tease him. 

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. You promise not to judge me or anything?”

“Do you have a crush on a teacher or something?” I grin. I could see that with Armin. His naturally inquisitive nature and excellent grades made them quite fond of him. I’d even heard some of the other students grumbling about how he was a ‘teacher’s pet.’ 

“No! What?” he sputters, “I don’t think we should be making light of the power imbalance in that dynamic—” 

“It’s a crush, Armin, not a relationship. Anyway, if not a teacher, then who is this mysterious crush of yours that you are so hesitant to tell me about?” 

He huffs. “Ok but you have to swear not to tell anyone about it.” 

I roll my eyes. “Pinky promise.” 

“You know that guy in second year? Boris Feulner?” 

I can vaguely recollect such a name on my mother’s list. “Mm-hmm.” 

“We go to swimming lessons together. And I, um—” Armin is positively pink at this point. He is twisting the pink ends of his fingers, there is a pink flush along his neck, and his cheeks have also attained that colour; impressively, his entire body is pink. “Well, let’s just say that I have spent an ungodly amount of time imagining him in his swimsuit when I’m back in my room.” 

I blink at him. And then I burst out laughing. “That’s your way of saying that you find him attractive?” 

“It’s not funny.” 

“No, I guess not,” I say, still laughing. “What’s to judge here? He’s one class higher than us, is he?” 

“No, that’s not it. It’s the fact that, well, that he’s a he. That I find him attractive.” A stupid look crosses his face, and it’s Armin, so stupid looks seldom cross his face. 

“That’s quite last decade of you to be embarrassed about something like that,” I say thoughtlessly. “Isn’t it legal now to be with whoever you want?” 

“My sexuality is not about keeping with the times, Mikasa,” he snaps. Ok, I guess I deserved that. 

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that, Armin.” 

He waves me off impatiently. “Anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed, what is legal isn’t always what is accepted. Here,” he makes a circle to denote this school, “amongst this world, everyone plays by a specific set of rules. What you study, who you date, who you marry, it’s all scripted. Sons take over their father’s businesses, whether it falls into legal or illegal lines, and women frame their fancy diplomas and stand by their husbands at galas and make polite talk, and when it’s time, they pop out a baby or two to do their ‘duty.’”

I listen to him, stunned. “What do you mean… They don’t go to work, after all this?” By all this what I meant, was the ridiculous amount of tuition that was being spent on a school like this. Followed by, no doubt, even more expensive tuition for a college degree they would never use. 

“They don’t need to.” Armin’s voice drops to a hushed murmur. “Half of the kids here belong to Mafia families, the other half mostly politics or business. All of them, every last one, is corrupt.” 

“B-but I thought—” 

“Everyone’s got legitimate businesses to cover up anything shady, so no, nobody is going to introduce themselves as the daughter of an Underground Family.”

He gives me a pitying look, probably at the cluelessness that I can’t hide. “Sheesh, you don’t know anything, do you? Where are you even from?” 

“I told you already,” I say, somewhat irritated, “... we live close to the Oriental Quarter. My Father just owns a restaurant, I know that there’s,” I gesture vaguely, “some sort of mafia, but I don’t really know much more than that. I can’t really tell the difference between the Mafia and the police anyway.” 

“And that’s the real problem with our society,” he mutters angrily. His blue eyes return to mine. “I know that’s what you said, but I thought… Usually, everybody has more of a story here.” 

“No story here,” I say blandly, “Just the daughter of a restaurant owner.” Who is apparently clueless and kept deliberately misinformed. 

It’s not that I didn’t know about the Mafia. In Sina, it’s something you grow up with. You have the government, you have the police, and you have the Mafia, or the Underground, as it’s called here. The truth is, there’s no way to ignore it. When I was old enough to be at the restaurant to help with small chores and odd jobs, my parents drilled it into me: Keep your head down, be polite, give them what they want, and get on with your day. I’d seen Mother and Father do it too, to ‘important customers,’ treating them like God as soon as they stepped into our small joint. Handing envelopes of cash to men with guns hanging off their low-slung jeans, and unruly hair.that  Money that my parents spent their blood, sweat and tears on. That’s who I thought of when I heard ‘Mafia.’ 

When I was younger I almost asked them why they gave away their own hard-earned money to somebody else when it was them who worked for it. Don’t we own the restaurant, Papa? I almost asked him once. But something held me back. Much later, after eavesdropping on an argument between my parents, I learnt that it was “protection.” That these men— who I’d grown to believe were so important— were just enforcers who collected payments from us in turn for their ‘protection’, a heavily jargoned word that people would often mistake for defence against an outsider, but what it really was, was a bribe. A fee extorted from people who had no other choice. I guess I’d always known that the Mafia was a bigger thing, something I couldn’t even comprehend, invisible but everywhere. 

What I had never imagined was that they would exist in a world like this: Shiny and filthy rich, dressing their children in the most expensive linens, while they were up to their arms in blood. Milling companies, Breweries, Textile manufacturers, I saw literally everything on that list and didn’t suspect once that they had anything to do with the Underground. And now they were all around me.

“You’re shaking,” Armin says, softly. “Mikasa, are you okay?” 

I nod, and try to say something, but I can’t find the words. Something has happened to me. I feel choked, my heartbeat has begun to pulse rapidly. My hands are balled into fists on my skirt. “I just—” I suddenly remember the time I’d seen my father with a gun to his temple, his voice shaking as he asked me to leave the room. I remember that when he came home that night, my mother was crying and we ate little more than leftovers that entire week because “business was not that good”. “I—” I remember the time I went to fetch onions from the store because we ran out. When I came back one of the men had his hand on my Mother’s behind as he ordered food and my mother was frozen still. “I hate them,” I manage finally, and my voice is raspy and unlike myself. There are little crescent moons in my palm from where I have dug my fingernails into them. “I hate them,” I say even louder, this time more frantic, “I hate them so much–” 

“Mikasa!” Armin’s hand is heavy on my shoulder and he looks at me alarmed, baby-blue eyes filled with concern. That’s when I realise I was almost screaming. “I know.” He squeezes my hand. “I know. I hate them too.”

It’s been so long since I’ve felt this feeling. Every now and then I feel it, this shaking, violent, urge that spills out of my throat and into a bottle inside of my heart, every time topping up and up and up until now, when the lid shakes and it threatens to spill over. “I feel angry too,” Armin is saying. I don’t hear him fully because the violence inside of me is loud. “It isn’t right. None of this is right.” 

Angry? Somehow that word doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough to contain everything that this feeling really is. 

Eventually my vision refocused, and my breathing calmed. Armin was still watching me carefully, his cheek swollen and his lips bitten. “Anyway,” he said tentatively, after he had given me enough time to be in my own head. “Do you want to know the rest of what happened with the hockey boys?” 

“Sorry,” I say, distractedly, “... We veered off.” 

He waves me off again. “I told them we weren’t dating. They didn’t believe me at first. But then one of them said,” he puffs his shoulders up and deepens his voice comically, “She doesn’t date faggots, probably.”

“Armin,” I gasp, shocked. 

“It’s fine, he’s not wrong.” He shuts up my sputtering buts, and grins, looking mighty pleased with himself. “I told him you didn’t date braindead morons like him either.” 

I groan. “And that’s why you got socked?” 

He shrugs. “Well was I wrong?”

…

Two months into our second year in high school, our class teacher announced that a new student would be joining us. By this time, Armin and I had grown comfortable enough to pick our seats side by side. This school was well funded so we had nice seats, with a little cushion on the chair, and a large enough desk to spread out your things comfortably. There was little space between us, so a mid-volume whisper was sufficient to communicate during class, most times. 

Armin looked disinterested, but I was curious about this new student. It was somebody outside of my list, after all. A few minutes after being told by Miss Langnar to welcome the new kid and help him cover up anything he might have missed, the ‘kid’ in question walked in. It was probably strange to refer to another student, at my grand old age of fifteen, as a ‘kid,’ but it seemed to suit him. He was tall, with dark brown hair that didn’t sit very neatly atop his head, and large green eyes that seemed like a mirror to his soul. Perhaps it was quite a dramatic thing to say about somebody whose name I didn’t even know, but I felt certain of it. For example, I could see now that he was angry. He wasn’t happy to be here, and it shone in the brilliance of his verdant eyes, making even a thing like anger appear to be beautiful. I wondered what it must be like to live in that way, to be so honest whether you wanted to be or not.

I felt a sting of envy at that moment, just as my Mother’s words resounded in my head. “Save your anger, Mikasa,” she’d tell me, after whatever punishment she was ‘forced’ to give me— she was always forced to punish me, you see, she didn’t have a choice, it was the only way I would learn my lesson— “it makes you look ugly.” 

“Eren Jaeger,” he says, his voice clipped, not offering anything more as an introduction.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell your classmates about yourself, Eren?” Miss Langnar prompted kindly, after the awkward moment of silence. 

“Nope. Not really.” 

She looked taken aback, not having expected that response. “Well, why don’t you take a seat next to Mikasa?” She pointed towards the empty desk to my right. “I’m sure she’ll be willing to show you all the important resources in the school and help you catch up.”

Eren Jaeger looked at me then, his large green eyes came to rest on mine. My breath hitched ever so slightly, and I tugged on my lower lip with my teeth. “Sure, Miss Langnar,” I said, sounding somewhat different than usual. 

He watched me as he walked to his desk, as he slid into his seat. And then, unexpectedly, he gave me a small smile. “Hey,” he said. His eyes were still stormy, a deep annoyance swirling within them, but his gesture let me know that it had nothing to do with me. My teeth dug further into my lower lip, any more and it would have bled. Forcing it loose, I replied, “Hi.” 

He craned his neck and looked past me, and then said, “Armin.” 

Armin lifted a hand and gave him a small smile. 

I looked at Armin, my eyebrows arched. You know him?

Armin wasn’t telepathic of course so I don’t know if he understood my unspoken question, but he just shrugged at me and turned his attention to what the teacher was saying. 

I watched Eren out of the corner of my eye. He sat back in his seat in a sort of slouch. It instinctively made me sit up a little bit straighter; I would have been beaten at home if I ever displayed that sort of posture. Miss Langnar has begun her lesson and Eren looked straight at her, but I can tell it was that sort of vacant look where he was looking but not really seeing. Primarily because she asked us to take out our textbooks and turn to page 53, and Eren hadn’t moved a muscle. 

“I can share with you, if you like,” I whisper, hoping it was loud enough and that I wouldn’t have to repeat myself because, surprisingly, these words had taken considerable effort. 

He blinks at me, somewhat lost, and then looks at my textbook, which I have pushed towards him. “Oh,” he said. And then he pushed his seat closer to mine, making his desk incongruent from the rest of the line of desks, the noise attracting glances from everybody else. I can feel my cheeks heat up. “Thanks.”

I nod, feeling inexplicably shy, for no apparent reason, pushing my book further towards him until it was half on his desk and half on mine. When Miss Langnar is done with what is on this page and it is time to turn the page, my hand brushes his. I jerked my hand back, feeling an electric tingle on the tips of my fingertips. My heart felt as if it was in my mouth. Eren looked at me strangely. “Sorry,” he said, sounding more confused than sorry.

I sank back into my seat feeling a bit foolish. I wasn’t sure why I was behaving this way, and I was even less sure of why I felt this way. Whatever it was that I was feeling, that is. 

A small folded piece of paper falls into my lap. Are you okay? It reads. I turn around to give Armin a reassuring smile, but when he saw me, his blue eyes twinkled with humour, and his mouth curved into a smirk. 

He throws another wad of paper at me. You’re blushing.

I am not. I write back. But as I write it, I can feel my cheeks grow warmer with embarrassment. What was going on with me?

“Armin,” Miss Langnar called. For a second I worried that she had caught on to our secret messaging system, but it turns out she just called him to hand out worksheets, as she always does, always preferring Armin to do these types of things. 

He still has that smirk on his face when he hands us our worksheets, and for some reason, I feel even more embarrassed now, in front of Eren. 

Later, after two more classes of me sharing my textbooks with Eren, our hands touching inadvertently, and me getting slowly better with my reactions, I slip Armin another note. 

The new boy is pretty, don’t you think? 

I watched Armin as he opened it, feeling unbearably hot in anticipation that he was about to read those words. I wished I could reach out and take it back from him. But I already felt like enough of a fool today. He almost bursts out laughing when he reads it and I want to bury myself in the ground. 

I glance at Eren, and he looks utterly bored— and I thought to myself that this person next to me could even make boredom look pretty. Like it was more of a meaningful thing, as if this plane, and all of us mortals who roamed it, weren’t interesting enough to keep his attention. 

Another paper falls in my lap. Mikasa, do you have a CRUSH?? On Eren Jaeger??

I crumple the paper as quickly as I can, casting a furtive glance at my neighbour, who thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware. 

Ignoring what Armin said, I wrote back, He is pretty, though. Don’t you agree? 

Armin rolled his eyes. FINE. Sure. But I can’t believe The great Mikasa Ackerman finally has a crush on somebody!!!!

Despite my embarrassment, I felt a small smile creep onto my face. I folded the paper neatly and put it in my skirt pocket. So that’s what this, I thought to myself. A crush. 

[abysscronica]

I hope it's ok to ask, I noticed you don't interact with many blogs or fandom discourse in general. Is there a reason?

Okay, I've received a couple of asks and DMs more or less revolving around this topic, so I'm going to address it here.

My blog's main goal is to interact with my existing readers, since all my stories are on AO3 and Wattpad (I've only posted a couple here). I use it to answer your questions on my writings, the characters, and whatever you guys want to ask me, and I love it. Of course I'm happy if I get some more readers from Tumblr, but that's not my primary aim here, at least for now.

It would be great to use this page to expand my followers, but I barely have time to actually write these days, so unfortunately, at the moment, I can't afford to spend any to curate this space... except for answering your asks. (on this regard, I know I'm months late for some, please don't lose hope, everything is there and will be worked on eventually!)

That said, even if I do get time to dedicate to my tumblr at some point, it'll probably be ordering my posts and posting my other stories, not much more. Before I go into more details on my thoughts on fandom discourse and fics/headcanons, let me repeat the usual disclaimer...

The ones below represent my very personal views. They are not right or wrong, and it absolutely does not mean I disapprove of different views. I encourage you all to enjoy the fandom experience and community in the way you see fit, as long as it's not damaging you or anyone else.

Fandom discourse. I... simply don't really care about it. I'm talking mainly about One Piece, but this can apply to any content I enjoy. Here's how my experience goes: I read the manga, the SBS, watch the anime, consume basically any content available. I follow a couple of OP youtubers talking about every little thing, from chapter reviews to any kind of news (Tekking101 and Sawyer7mage). Then I write fanfictions based on all the knowledge accumulated, of course expanding into my personal headcanons. This pretty much satiates my thirst for content and need for sources.

Obviously I enjoy talking about OP with other fans, especially like-minded ones such as Kid Pirates fans. Buuuut being an active part of the community can also be exhausting. I'm sure you know there's a lot of Kid dissing going on for example, and Kid fans are often caught in battles to defend him. I honestly don't want to take part into it, because I don't think other people's feelings about a character should influence my experience of the show anyway, so I don't care about changing their mind either. I just... wanna do my own thing and share it with my mutuals & readers.

Analyses, meta, theories. Honestly, the two OP youtubers I follow (plus Arthur's posts on Twitter) fulfill this need in a very comprehensive way. I've yet to see a single tumblr post that comes even close to their insights (but if you know some, feel free to point me in that direction, I'll be happy to check them out). They often even contain inaccurate information. I do reblog whatever I deem interesting though, and I'll gladly answer to anything if you wanna know about my thoughts.

Fics & headcanons. Once again, I'll always be super happy to share my content with you guys. I cannot accept fic requests but feel free to ask for any headcanon you may be interested in!

As for other people's stuff. I said this before, unfortunately I'm a terribly picky reader (this does not only apply to fics, but to literature in general). The slightest hint of "unjustified" OC, a Mary Sue trait on a MC, too many cliches, a writing style that does not catch me... I'll scroll ahead. I know many will roll their eyes at this, and they are right, but I just won't impose something I don't fully enjoy to myself, not with my limited spare time. But writers should write whatever they want and I'll never be unsupportive of that, even if it's not my jazz! The stuff I read and enjoyed, I reblog.

This should be all I have to say on the matter. If you have any further question, feel free to send and ask.

[pi-creates]

I hope people don’t mind – but I have a theory… one that’s been mulling around in my head for ages but didn’t really know if people would be interested in hearing it. I shared my thoughts with a few people and they seemed supportive of me sharing my theory further, so here we go.

Basically, I feel like something that the fandom deems as crucial to Violet’s character might actually be a misclassification. The short version of this post is that I theorise that Violet doesn’t have excessive abandonment issues (at least not to a significantly greater extent than any of the other characters), and what she is actually displaying is signs of survivor’s guilt.

From a behavioural view point, there’s a lot of overlap between both issues – withdrawing from others, fixating on other’s and their actions, being irrational at times as a defence mechanism, and applying unrealistic expectation on oneself and others. But the difference is the reasons behind those behaviours.

Someone with abandonment issues assumes that everyone will inevitably leave them. It leaves them insecure and assuming that they are somehow at fault for other’s leaving them. The thing is, this form of dependence on others tends to lead people to constantly be seeking approval, and they reel their neck in when they feel like someone is not going to agree with them. Basically, they become people pleasers who need constant reassurance that you aren’t planning on leaving them – but at the same time they keep things shallow, because they don’t feel like they can expose anything that the other person might leave them for. Then if things are on the rocks, they sabotage, if you push someone away before they reject you, then it doesn’t hurt as bad if they decide to leave. It’s a self-destructive cycle that centres around the person being anxious and not having trust in others to accept them as they are.

And while parts of that fits Violet, other parts don’t. I don’t feel like Violet comes across as insecure in what she offers to others or being afraid to have a contrary opinion. In fact, she seems quite confident in her skills and choices. There isn’t any hesitance to bring up tough questions or to  speak her mind when she doesn’t like something. She takes on a leadership role and makes decisions that she knows the bulk of the group don’t agree with at that point. It doesn’t come across as someone who is afraid that those people she’s disagreeing with will leave her. Basically, I don’t feel like she acts out of fear that people will leave her – she does express not liking that people leave and believes that certain levels of loss are inevitable, but it feels like cynicism rather than fear.

A big example of this is her asking Clementine in the first card game “Out of all of us here, which one is going to die first?”… to me, that doesn’t read as someone afraid of loss, it reads as someone who views loss casually and also doesn’t feel compelled to sugar-coat the morbidity of such thoughts to a newcomer or old friends.

But if you look at something like survivor’s guilt – it has some similar behavioural patterns, but those behaviours stem more from guilt than fear. They survived a situation when others did not, and I don’t think there’s any denying that everyone who’s still alive in an apocalypse situation has outlived a friend/family member, and potentially also been there when they died. And those thoughts of “Why did I survive when they didn’t?”, “Could that have been different?”, and “Was it my fault?” eats away at them. They start picking apart every detail of an event and questioning if they were responsible, or if someone could have done something to prevent it.

It doesn’t matter if it’s logical or not, they fixate on the idea that they could somehow have changed the events if only they said/did something different, they should have known the outcome and stopped it. It’s irrational, it’s placing the blame on oneself or others for situations that they had no means to avoid or predict. And all of that guilt and stress makes the people irritable, withdrawn, and regretful. They get so stuck in that moment of loss that they don’t move forward. They lose interests they used to have, they feel disconnected, they don’t trust people or the world to be safe or fair, they pull away from others...

And I think this sounds like Violet. It makes more sense with how she talks about her grandmother and the twins – we hear how she processes these events. She tells us what she was doing when someone died (or she believed they died) and how she should have been doing something else – for her grandmother she should have called for help, for the twins she should have been there and not in the greenhouse. And since we hear more about the twins, she goes further and talks about how she also questions the actions made by others – she feels like she could have changed the outcome if she was there instead of Brody or Marlon. When in reality, she couldn’t have known, she can’t change what happened, and it wasn’t her fault that those people died (or were taken).

I feel Violet did lose herself to a degree in those fixations, that’s why she withdraws and seems apathetic about things until after we learn that Minnie is still alive. Some of that guilt is somewhat absolved when it becomes clear that Minnie isn’t dead, it opens up the possibility of fixing her perceived ‘wrongs’ of the past (e.g., out surviving her). She talks about not liking arts and crafts – but she makes you a pin. She suddenly wants to dance with you when we had no indication this was an interest of hers before. She sings a song that she clearly used to hold to high regard when Minnie sang it – though we never hear her sing or hear her talk about her own voice. She’s a different person once the guilty moment is re-framed as something she can fix. Those interests she lost before are suddenly back, or maybe she’s just more open to reevaluate things and move forward with new interests.

And I think this also explains part of Violet’s ire in the captured route – it’s not just that she feels like you chose someone over her, it’s a literal replay of the thing she felt guilty about for years. She’s in Minnie’s shoes, but this time the people at the school know she was taken and not killed at the school – they could have stopped it in the way she wished she could have done with the twins. Then Clem shows up, and she isn’t exhibiting the same crushing guilt that Violet carried for so long when this happened to her friends – and that has to hurt.

Not only does the situation suck, but she’s being confronted with someone who isn’t coping with the “loss” of an important friend in the same way she did. I feel like it would only be logical for Violet to wonder why, and she is also clearly not in a good frame of mind and will come up with some of the worst possible answers.

Is she not as important to the others as Minnie was to her? Is she not worth the same emotional devastation? Was she wrong to feel the way she felt, or is Clem wrong for not feeling that way now?

The situation may be different, but after dealing with the traumatic experience of being captured, seeing Minnie again, and being manipulated into behaving – I don’t think Violet can think clearly enough to realise the differences of the situation. Clem isn’t dealing with the same level of guilt because her method of coping with the tragedy is immediate action… an option that Violet never had. It has nothing to do with Violet not being worth the same devastation as the twins, though I bet it still feels that way to her. So not only does the perceived betrayal sting worse, she also is being told she has the option of protecting Minnie by going along with the Delta – it just feeds into her preexisting guilt that she didn’t save her before, so of course she’s going to act in a way that she believes will make up for it.

And yeah… that’s my theory. Whether you agree or not, I’d be interested in hearing other’s thoughts on this – especially when I’m very aware that the abandonment narrative is seen as near universal amongst the fans. It just happens to not have been my initial stance, and I dunno, maybe an alternate point of view will be interesting to you guys.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?��� Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory]

Sharing Shipping Space with Amphibian and Reptiles

by Stevie Kennedy-Gold

Your online orders of clothes and household goods might well have shared shipping space alongside preserved toads and snakes from the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Don’t worry though – museum specimens are shipped following long-established rules and regulations, and the movement of herpetological freight is all in the service of science.

Wait, what?! Well, at a relatively low, but steady rate, natural history museums loan out specimens, and these materials are generally shipped, outgoing and incoming, via regular commercial carriers.

Why loan out a specimen?! Why, to ask and answer awesome scientific questions, to enhance an exhibit, or to use as artistic references! Just as every human has a story unique to their own life and experiences, etched in their wrinkles, freckles, and scars, the same is true for every specimen in the collection. Each frog and lizard, snake and turtle has experienced different environmental impacts, endured famine, parasites, pollution, or predation. Each specimen has its own story. Instead of being written down within the pages of a book, the animals’ stories are recorded within their muscles, organs, bones, and DNA. As such, an eastern fence lizard collected from Pennsylvania in 1893 will likely have a different body size, diet, or parasite load compared to the same species of lizard collected from the same town in 2005.

Scientists request loans from museum collections so that they can examine the specimens, unlock the stories hidden in each body, and answer their scientific questions. Alternatively, we receive requests from artists needing reference materials for their newest works of art, or to more accurately render images of a species they would otherwise not be able to see up close (I’m looking at you, venomous snakes, highly toxic frogs, or now extinct species!). And, of course, museums themselves loan from collections to use in displays as representatives of the far larger number of specimens housed behind-the-scenes. Walk through Dinosaurs in their Time towards Cenozoic – those bones can be considered as an inter-building loan from our Vertebrate Paleontology collection. Head up to the Foster Overlook and check out our hellbender who choked on a marshmallow – that specimen is certainly an inter-building loan from the collection I manage.

But how exactly are specimen loans arranged? The process varies from institution to institution and from section to section, so this description is the process specific to the Section of Amphibians and Reptiles at this museum. Overall, though, the process is a great deal easier than it would seem. Assuming a borrower knows what species to work with, a search of the Section’s online presence at iDigBio or VertNet will determine the specific specimens to request. After that, a formal request letter is required. This document must include details of borrower affiliation, the species and specimens requested, and the reason behind the request along with any planned examination techniques. The next step in the procedure is an email directed to me through the museum website (here), again providing a brief description of the borrower’s intent.

Image 1: Prepping a loan of anoles for a researcher. In the foreground are lists of specimen preferences from the researcher and specimens in the collection which fit the criteria.

Assuming a request is reasonable (i.e., doesn’t involve the complete destruction of the specimen!), I then begin pulling the requested specimens from the collection, placing tiny loan slips in each jar as I go as place holders signifying the specimen’s loaned status (Image 1). The slip has the specimen’s catalog number, the loan number, and the requester. Paper trails are vital in loaning specimens. I also make a notation in my fancy new Loan database, as well as in the general Herp Section Specimen database. Finally, I draft up the loan contract which will be sent out with the specimens. I then wrap the specimens in cheesecloth (Images 2 and 3), give them a good soaking in alcohol, triple bag and heat seal them in, and slap the appropriate documentation on and in the box. The package then goes off to the mailroom!

Image 2: Laying out the specimens on cheesecloth in preparation for shipping. A loan slip can be seen behind the cup on the right side of the image.

Image 3: Charlotte, a recent intern in the section, helps package up a loan of toads.

Once someone has completed their work with the specimens, they normally notify me and ship the specimens back as soon as possible. Assuming all the specimens are returned in good order, the loan is closed, the specimens are returned to the collection, the slips of paper are pulled from the jars, and the specimens once again become available for other people to use.

Unfortunately, some specimen loans, like library books, become overdue. A typical loan duration is 6 months, at the end of which the borrower can request a loan extension (much like requesting an extension on a library book) or they can send the specimens back. If the loan period elapses without any communication, I don my imaginary “Lizard Librarian” hat and kindly request their return as soon as possible.

Due to the size of this collection, the responsibilities of a collection manager, the number of loans we send out annually (some years over 40!), and the recent (with respect to the general age of the collection) technological adoptions within the Section (i.e., creating digital databases), it is not surprising that the retrieval of some loans lapsed, and even the documentation of some specimen locations is unclear. As a result, I recently took it upon myself, with the aid of my fearless and tireless group of interns, work study students, and volunteers, to determine the “active status” for all loans sent out since 1925 (the earliest recorded loan in the section). We have nearly 2000 loan records to look through, but fortunately my predecessors did a decent job tracking when a loan was returned or when contact was made to request the specimens be returned.

It’s a long arduous process making sure that all the specimens are back. Initially, our search to verify if the specimen was returned begins with the jars containing species from the location where the borrowed specimen was collected. This process takes time, and the pace is contingent upon how many specimens were requested per loan and how many specimens (and jars!) of a specific species from a specific place we have in the collection. For example, tracking the whereabouts of a loan of 50 eastern newts from Pennsylvania has taken us a few weeks because we have nearly 20 jars of newts from the state, each containing at least 100 specimens.

Image 4: Before (left) and after (right) images of a selection of jars which we looked through to confirm the specimens were loaned out and for which we updated the jar labels. You can see in the bottom middle jar in the image on the right the loan slip and piece of orange tape which denotes specimens were loaned out from that jar.

If we emerge empty handed after examining all the jars of a specific species from a specific place, we then look in jars containing the same species collected from other locations. This process has resulted in finding almost 10 specimens previously deemed “missing” – some since the 1960s! On top of this process, we also record the catalogue number of every specimen in every jar we examine so we can update the jar labels with the specimen numbers (Image 4). This expedites finding specific specimens in the future and ensures that all specimens are placed in their correct jars. It’s a true labor of love and the process is a museum collection equivalent of an (ultra-ULTRA) marathon, not a sprint. When it all boils down though, I am just a librarian making sure that all my books (or specimens!) are where they ought to be.

Stevie Kennedy-Gold is the Collection Manager for the Section of Amphibians and Reptiles at Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Museum employees are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

[lovelyrots]

The Last Romance

Ghost!Dabi/Touya x reader

I really recommend listening to The Last Romance by Raleigh Ritchie while reading this, since it’s what inspired this whole thing. That and I have a thing for Todoroki men >,>

Warnings - angst, canon divergent a wee bit,character deaths, alcoholism but reader gets clean

Your face looks so sweet, even in the wars

You took the rap for me, but I fell on my own sword

And now the sordid details, are all over page 4

Honey, we made the news and that's all we did this for

Dabi brushes his fingers against your sleeping face. You sigh and clutch his coat in your hands, finally being able to sleep for the first time since his death.

Dabi curses his old man for what must be the thousandth time in his current afterlife. Curses that you were so willing to turn yourself in to save him, but he couldn’t let you be taken in. Couldn’t let your shine be reduced to dust in the place you’d be taken to.

He still remembers the day it all happened. The long drive to what you two deemed the beginning of long awaited “justice”, and he remembers how wrong it all went.

We drove for centuries without a sound or fuss

State penitentiaries weren't made for souls like us

It was the night of some Hero Gala, supposedly for a charity to help end Domestic Abuse. Dabi had scoffed at the irony of it all. Of course Endeavor would be there, after the recent “scandal” Dabi had caused months prior. No doubt the no.1 Hero’s PR team forced him into it.

You two had planned to trap everyone in with his flames, and your quirk would render them all basically quirkless. You had watched and accounted for every hero that made an appearance.

He had watched you go in to set up the area for your quirk and had gotten a gut feeling that something was wrong.

He snuck in through the service entrance and found you being strangled by his own father. The older man cursing at you, demanding you tell him where Dabi was. Yet you defiantly remained silent, even when you could clearly see him behind the flame hero.

He did the first that came to mind and struck at his father, telling you to run. You tried to stay behind and help, tried to make him run instead.

You both knew if one of you were captured, you’d never see the light of day again. Neither of you could stand to lose the other, not again. Not after all the time already lost after Touya died and Dabi was born in the ashes.

With all his strength, Dabi had forced you to leave. Promises of meeting you by the sea, like when you were children, whispered in your ear as he shoved you to the nearest exit.

Promises that would never be kept as he let his flames eat him and his father, a fitting ending he supposed.

You painted the town red

Now everyone in the town's dead

You and I win again

Best friends 'til our last breath

Live by the gun, die by the gun

Live by the sea, live while we're young

When Dabi awoke in the run down apartment you two shared, he thought maybe you had ran back in for him. The lack of any pain told him otherwise. Then there was the news program running while you were cracking open a bottle of alcohol.

“Today marks the fifth month since the death of Endeavor. The accomplice seen fleeing the Gala is believed to still be at large. Several other hero murders have been linked to the suspect as of this morning. We’ll be speaking with one of the detectives on the case for more details at 3.”

“You’ve been busy, doll.” You glanced around the room and shook your head before taking a large gulp of the amber liquid. “Goddamn it Dabi. I swear, I’m still hearing your voice. Even after I’ve lost you for the second time.” Your voice cracks and he reaches out to hold you but stumbles back when his arms phase right through you.

He stares at his hands, shaking, and tries again to hold you. Only for him to phase through once again. He tries several more times before you stand and go over to the bedroom, coming back with his coat on. He could see the singed and fraying ends, as well as some new patches that you must have sewn.

“I swear, it’s like all the heat in my life left with you. At least I was able to give you a peaceful resting place.” He watches you drink yourself to sleep, a dull ache in his, apparently, dead chest.

-*-

Dabi continues to watch over you. Watches as you leave the apartment, his coat hanging off you and alcohol on your breath. Watches you come back as the sun is rising, someone else’s blood on you and the scent of fire and death curling around you.

He watches you cry yourself to sleep, his coat draped over you and a bottle in hand. Then when you wake the cycle begins again.

It isn’t until the day you leave and come back with a pharmacy bag in hand and cleaning supplies in the other that he becomes interested.

He follows you as you move from room to room, throwing away empty bottles and cleaning each room. Restoring them to their somewhat former glory.

Trails behind you as you clean yourself up and open the bag from some pharmacy and pull out a couple pill bottles. He figures you’re trying to get clean again, wonders how long until you break down again. Crying out for him in the middle of the night, only to remember he isn’t able to hold you anymore.

Don't listen to what they say

Don't take the medication

They never loved us anyway

Never liked our generation

He hates the way your eyes glaze over after you take your medication. Hates how much you resemble the version of you from your shared childhood.

He hates not being able to speak to you and comfort you the way he used to. Hates that each time he’s tried to speak to you, he’s just made you spiral deeper into your depression and even made you question your own sanity. Which pushes you to take the medication that he hates.

Dabi supposes that this must truly be his hell. Constantly wanting to comfort and hold you again, but if he does he risks damaging you even more.

His only solace in his afterlife is the quiet moments as you’re falling asleep, your face buried in his old coat and your hands wrapped around yourself. The moments where you whisper about how much you loved him and can’t wait to see him again one day.

Truly, the only thing he looks forward to is when you declare your love for him and only him still. Never bringing another person back and never smelling of anyone else.

He sees how far you’ve fallen since he awoke in this small space and watched you rebuild yourself after his death and knows that no matter what happens to you, you’ll be fine. You’ll be able to weather any storm, until you can see each other again.

They will try and keep you

But you're still mine

And I love you, and you're strong dear

And we're fine

So, remember when the time comes

When it's over and it's all done

Meet me in the North, by the edge of the Sun

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

And last, but not least, the guest I attended this con for… Rocco :D !!

He is so lovely, and he listens to every word you say as if you were telling him about the secrets of the universe, which tends to make me a bit anxious about having a conversation with him because I fear that I’m going to say something stupid.

I had a M&G with him and I was at his panel, so I got the chance to talk to him and listen to him a bit more than with the other guests:

- His favourite parts of conventions are M&G, because it’s the perfect chance to have a chat with people about his work. He doesn’t really like panels, because both him and the people asking the questions often feel awkward.

- As he said many times before, Skam Italia changed his life. It still is – especially in the pre-Netflix era – the project that showed him that you don’t need a massive budget to do an amazing work.

It was the biggest project he had taken part of ‘till then, and it meant a lot to him on a personal level. He still feels to blessed to have played Niccolò and so glad that some people could see themselves in him, something that he started to realise only at Fandom Vibes in April 2019 when he finally got the chance to -meet fans who told him how important his character had been for him.

- Both in the Gazelle video and in “Non mi uccidere” it’s not him driving, and he told us about how it works: he was actually sitting in the passenger seat with a fake steering wheel and there was another man crouching down in the driver’s seat who was the actually driving.

- Both him and Alice (who played the main character on “Non mi uccidere”) were full of bruises at the end of fight scenes, but he really liked the physicality of playing in a horror/fantasy movie.

- He is watching S3 of “Baby”

- One show that it’s not very well known (at least here in Italy) that he would recommend is “The Act”

- He spoilt all of “Squid Game” to the few who hadn’t watched it. He saw it in Korean, with English subtitles. He thinks with dubbing you lose too much. So, I told him that while I agree that you lose a big part of the actors’ performances, in terms of information you lose just as much with subtitles as you do with dubbing (I wrote my BA thesis on dubbing vs. subtitling). His favourite storyline was the one involving the two girls. The only scene he didn’t like was one near the end, where he felt the tone was a bit jarring (comical in a serious moment).

- Working with an American director for Hotel Portofino made him realise that the Italian film industry doesn’t leave much freedom to actors to give their own spin to the characters, whereas he had long talks about the character he played for this project.

- He likes writing scripts, but it doesn’t come easy to him and he’s very critical of his work so nothing he has written since Shirley&Baby has been deemed worthy to be shot.

- During the pandemic he wrote some more music, but he is waiting until he has at least four-five pieces before sharing them with the world

- He couldn’t share a single detail about S5, and said that the part of his job he dislikes the most is when he has interviews in which the journalists try to get some spoilers out of him, because he has trouble remembering what he can (and sometimes MUST) say and what he can’t.

- I can tell you that he hadn’t dyed his hair so, if they have started shooting, there haven’t been any scenes with Nico yet.

- So, we asked him what was his favourite scene in S4 and he said the hide-and-seek scene… Especially because Bessegato sent him the song before the script, and it gave him goosebumps. He felt like it was really fitting for Nico

- He thinks that Niccolò is studying either Psychology or Philosophy at University. History of Art could also be an option.

- If he could have more extra scenes for Niccolò, he’d love to see the relationship with his parents.

- Since I wrote and HDM!AU, I asked him if he had seen The Golden Compass (of course he did, since it stars his beloved Eva Green) and what he thought would be his daemon and Nico’s. He said a feline for him and a giraffe (of course) for Nico, though he found my idea of Nico having a daemon that never settled on a form fascinating too.

- I asked him what if he thinks that Nico gets angry as well, because we have seen mainly Marti being the one with a bad temper and he answered that no… After everything he had to face in his life, to get where he is, and having such a wonderful love story, he is a very chill guy that would never explode. Rocco himself, on the other hand… He does his best to mind his own business and not to step on anyone’s toes, so when provoked he gets really furious!

- As @doblondoro requested, I asked him if the conversation between Nico and Marti in the café was something that was written in the script or something him and Federico came up while shooting… And he confirmed it was the latter. He said something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, we were improvising so we said a lot of bullshit, about the foggiano and there was also a ‘Bambi’ thrown in there…”

- His two favourite cities in Italy are: Rome (for its beauty) and Milan (for its efficiency). He can’t stand Milan’s weather though (It’s even worse than in Paris, he said). He regrets that Italy doesn’t really have any massive work of arts (in any field) during the 19th century (his favourite). Then, he ended up talking about how dirty Rome has become lately and his only wish from the new mayor is that he will find a way to clean it.

- Rant about how underpaid teachers are in Italy (thanks!)

- He is studying French but find it difficult for the pronunciation and the grammar.

- Apparently, he gets tipsy after a Mojito, but tends not to throw up when he’s drunk and he thinks that it sucks (and then they ended up talking about acid reflux X°D)

- He can’t stay up all night anymore, because then during the whole day he’d be zombie-like, staring into the void asking existential questions (I know, it happens to me too, you’re like “Who am I? Why am I here? Is there a purpose to anything in this life?”)

- He has a lot of food intolerances

- He seemed surprised by my face-blindness, as I failed to recognise a girl that lived for nearly 10 months together with me in Mestre (it was 8/9 years ago, but still…)

The dinner was very noisy and I had trouble hearing whoever sat at the table, despite them being just one seat away from me, so I can’t even remember if I actually asked him something apart from telling him that I started thinking about what questions I should ask him (and gathering some from others who couldn’t come) at the M&G on Friday… (and he went ‘awww’).

I think that’s all.

By the way, it has been two years and a half since I last met him and I forgot how tiny he is. It’s not even a matter of height, because he’s taller than me, but he is just so slender...

[limitlessgojo]

Blood Bound: Red Strings of Fate (Ch 5)

Warnings: Action, Coarse Language, Fighting, Descriptions of Blood

Previous Chapter: Cherry Blossom Storm

Next Chapter: Speed of Sound

Tags: Soulmates AU, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Fem!Reader

Taglist: @lessie-oxj, @rizzo-nero, @whoreuc, @fkngkumiko, @isl3t

Notes: If you want to be tagged for every update, please mention it in the comments below ty <3

Chapter 5: Special Grade

After you bid goodbye to the two girls, you went off back to your dorm room to get dinner, when you bumped into the girl who lived next to your room.

“Oh hi!” She greeted you with a big smile. “I’m Miwa Kasumi, you can call me Miwa. 1st year here! Please take care of me.”

“Hello! I’m Tsuchimikado Y/n, you can call me either Tsuchi or y/n I really don’t mind either way. Also my first year here, please take care of me!” you grinned.

“Ahhh, I’m so nervous to start class here. Are you ready for it?”

“To be honest I’m also nervous, but pretty excited! Ah, I have to go eat dinner now and call my family, but tomorrow I’m free to chat more. You can come over to my room if you’d like.” You offered.

She agreed and bid you goodnight.

◇◇◇

You were able to get to know Miwa before classes began, and it was really fun getting to know her. She talked about her brothers and her origins, but admitted that she couldn’t give out too many details on her technique.

“I’m sorry y/n but I was told to keep it a secret. Even among other jujutsu shi. And I’m just doing all I can to support my brothers.” She sadly spoke.

To which you didn’t mind too much, as you were the same. The Tsuchimikado does its best to keep their strongest techniques and passed down family legends under wraps, to prevent themselves from being targeted by curse users.

“It’s no worry at all, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to share. And I won’t pry. I come from a minor Jujutsu clan and understand the need to keep cursed technique details a secret.” You smiled and offered her more biscuits.

If you don’t stand out, you would have less affairs to worry about. Unlike the great 3 Jujutsu clans. And because of this, you sort of grew up in a regular loving home, with the exception of normalcy brought by the need to kill curses.

◇◇◇

Classes soon started after and honestly they were not too bad. You all got your student ID cards on the very first day.

You were surprised to see that you were awarded a Special Grade title on the very first day… not what you expected. The rest were, as expected, Grade 4 jujutsu sorcerers.

Everyone starts on the same level and can have their ranks increased as they go. They can get recommended to Grade 2 and/or Grade 1 based on their performance.

Geniuses were said to start as a Grade 2 sorcerer in their first year. Grade 3 was average for a jujutsu high student. And a special grade is an anomaly.

You were pretty sure that you and your family kept your condition under wraps and yet… You looked up to Utahime and asked if you could have a chat outside. She eyed you knowingly and the others stared at you as you left the room.

“Uhhh… There seems to be a mistake with this. I don’t think I am fit to be a Special Grade yet Utahime sensei.” you explained to her truthfully.

“Tsuchimikado chan. You are from a minor Jujutsu clan, that's true. And while it is very rare for an esper to be born in your clan, there was a higher up who was in touch with your father. They received enough information about your technique, albeit not all of it of course, and cursed energy levels, deeming you to be a special grade.”

You just stared at her in shock at all this info. Sure you’ve been sparring with your cousins, and yeah nobody could come close to you when you had mastered your basic barriers and cursed technique. But you didn’t expect to get this far.

Then Utahime sighed, “Okay I’ll be honest. There was one other person who actually pushed for this and was surprisingly agreed to by the elders.”

You felt yourself tense up, “Who?”

“Gojo Satoru said you were capable of dealing a massive destruction over a large scaled area. And of course, the jujutsu higher ups are aware as to what happened to you when you were 6 years old.”

“Satoru nii!” You paled, blood draining out of your face, but before you could open your mouth Utahime consoled you. “It’s okay. It’s kept top secret… well as much as a secret can be amongst the Jujutsu school leaders and higher ups. Don’t worry, we understand your situation.”

You just nodded, still as white as a sheet. ‘They know, oh gosh of course they know!’ you thought with horror.

“Okay, now nobody should give you any trouble. Just relax, you’re not forced to give out any info to the other students if you don’t want to. It’s okay,” She pushed you back into the classroom where the other students were chatting.

“Haiiii, let’s start class now.” Utahime called out to which you all responded with a “Yes sensei.”

◇◇◇

Everything started to calm down and settle at school for you after that day.

Most of your time was spent in the classroom with regular subjects. But then you’d have the added physical training and cursed energy management with Utahime sensei, which you always looked forward to the most.

“Okay, time to form pairs now. Mai and Y/n. Miwa and Mechamaru, try to disarm and pin down your opponent if you can. Y/n go easy on the others.” Utahime sensei spoke, to which of course you agreed to.

Amongst the first years, both you and Mechamaru seemed to be the most capable, proficient even with long range techniques.

Mai and Miwa were weak in close combat quarters when they were disarmed. And it was too easy for you to disarm them with minimal cursed energy, as you spent a lot of time sparring with your older male cousins.

“Hup!” You closed in on Mai and kicked the gun from her grasp before flipping her body and pinning her to the ground. Mixed martial arts definitely comes in handy.

“Ouch, she said to go easy on me Y/n. You’re still pretty rough.” Mai spat out. “Get strong now or you won’t last on the battlefield. You have to focus on surviving.” You darkly said. Mai was shocked at that since you were always so bright and cheerful.

But everyone else noticed that whenever you were training, (whether it be by yourself in your free time or sparring with the others during class) you seemed like an entirely different person. Cold, calculating, detached, strong and fierce.

But of course, you always did your best to help them improve. “Mai, you’re moving your body wrong. Stabilise your footing, then aim. If I come close to you from the side, try to hit me based on your peripheral vision quicker.”

Truth be told, she improved. “Thank you y/n. You seem familiar with martial arts. Do you do any?” She asked you during break time.

Mechamaru and Miwa listened in, facing you curiously. The entire school is now aware of your Special Grade status, but everyone was still shy to outright ask you about the full details of how it was granted.

“I do. I’ve grown up sparring with my older male cousins all the time. Mixed martial arts, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and Krav Maga. Not sure if you guys know of Tsuchimikado Hiroki? Graduated from Kyoto Jujutsu high a few years back.”

“I’ve heard of his name in passing, but I don’t know of him. Your clan is kept pretty well under wraps after all.” Mai said. You smiled and nodded.

You were set to spar with Mechamaru after the break. This is where it got interesting. You activated your technique for the first time since training started as he shot laser beams at you.

He did everything he could, but even with his sword options, and strongest bursts of cursed energy, nothing hit you while you stood in the same spot.

You had activated your cursed technique, and made the space around you warp, making the attacks bounce off. Mechamaru had pretty solid power, but it wasn’t enough to rock you.

You held out one hand, “Enhanced gravity: Output level 5%” and Mechamaru’s body crumpled against the ground. You increased the air pressure above his body until he shouted, “Give!”.

You released your technique and thanked him for the fight. Mai and Miwa had stopped sparring to watch the both of you.

“Wow.” Miwa said with sparkling eyes. “No wonder… she’s special grade.” she whispered.

To be honest, at the end of the day labels and rankings meant NOTHING to you. You wanted all your allies to get as strong as they can be, so that they won’t suffer during missions.

Which is why you openly offered advice and help when they needed it. You’ve had enough of loss.

◇◇◇

When you had your free time you made your way to the library as was planned. You had a list of topics to burn through. Past lives, shared visions, alternate worlds, future visions… and the topic of soulmates. You had to get to the bottom of whatever happened between Noritoshi senpai and you.

The Tsuchimikado clan did have its history and legends as well. You had information on the other big 3 clans and their techniques. Along with that information came the basic legends of old. Soulmates, possibilities of inherited memories, parallel worlds, and some of the most evil of curses to exist. (Such as Ryomen Sukuna).

But you were sad to see that there was a lack of books on soulmates. Only some left on alternate and Parallel Worlds. 'Is the library lacking??? Didn't expect that.' You thought sadly.

You asked the librarian about it but, "I'm sorry my dear, we only have what's there on the shelves. There's a possibility the books have been borrowed. I can check the database for you."

"Yes please, thank you so much."

"Ah yes….. Kamo kun has taken some books on soulmates, parallel worlds, foresight and Abe no Seimei. Are those any of what you're looking for?" She asked.

You felt yourself pause. Okay so you were both thinking along the same lines. Not surprising.

"Yes, I can just wait for him to return it or ask him about it then. Thank you so much that was a great help!" You bid her your goodbyes and left the library.

Not to worry, you were going to see him real soon.

Author's notes: These first few chapters focus heavily on world building to set the pace for the story. You'll see a lot more of Nori in the following chapters <3

Blood Bound: Table of Contents

[walviemort]

Fairy Godfather, part 2

Summary: The fairies have asked a monumental favor of Killian: be the surrogate for their babies—all nine of them. He’s been pregnant before, but this? This is a whole other level. What has he gotten himself into? And just how big will he get?

A/N: Another update! This is kind of consuming me so you’ll be getting these pretty often, I hope! thanks to @sancocnutclub for all her encouragement ;)

rated T / 2.2k words / part 1 / AO3

He didn’t wake until mid morning the next day, and was still fairly fatigued, but otherwise felt alright—just a bit tender about the middle. 

A shower helped dissolve most of the lingering soreness, and he took some time in front of the mirror to look for any changes. 

Given that his stomach had never returned to its previous hardened state, it was hard to notice any discernible change in shape, but when he poked around, there was definitely a rounded area that hadn’t been there before. 

He also took a moment to memorize his body as it was; it wouldn’t be long before the babes made their presence visibly known, and the changes that happened while pregnant with Hope were still fresh in his mind. He was both glad that Belle was keeping track of his stats, and already dreading it. 

But she was probably waiting for him, so he needed to get a move on—and something to eat; he was starting to feel peckish, but couldn’t tell whether or not it was more than usual. 

His normal jeans still fit comfortably, albeit a hair snug. It wouldn’t last long, but he’d relish it while it did. At least his shirts would last longer; he’d found a new appreciation for the forgiving cotton knits of this realm in his second trimester. 

Emma was already at the station when he got downstairs, but she’d left behind plenty of pancakes, and he ate a few more than normal; he wasn’t sure how to interpret that. 

Before heading to the library, he went to pick up Hope from her sleepover with her grandparents. David greeted him at the door, with tiny Ruth asleep on his chest.

“So, how’d it go?” he asked, hardly able to keep his eyes away from Killian’s midsection.

“Fine, as far as I could tell. Weird, but fine.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No, thankfully, but I’m sure there will be plenty of aches and pains later.”

David winced. “Man, am I glad they asked you and not me. This one was enough,” he said, patting Ruth’s back gently.

“I don’t disagree, but…”

“But you feel like you owe them,” David finished. 

“Aye.”

“Well, I think it’ll be the other way around by the end of this, but we’ll help you out as much as we can.”

“I appreciate it—and I’m sure we’ll need it with this one,” he replied, nodding at Hope, who was attempting to escape out a window.

She was easily wrangled, though, and happy to see him. He had no idea what fairy infants were like, but if they were half as charming as his daughter (who definitely took after her grandfather), this whole town would revolve around them.

As he thought, Belle was waiting for him, tape measure in hand. “Seriously?” he griped as he set Hope down next to Gideon in the playpen behind the circulation desk.

“You can’t possibly be surprised,” she threw back. “But if it’s any consolation, I won’t do it again until next week.”

“You only did it monthly last time around.”

“You were only carrying one babe.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

Though his waist measurement remained unchanged, his weight was slightly higher (more than could be expected by a few extra pancakes). “I can feel it,” he confirmed when she asked. “There’s definitely something in there, though I only notice it if I go looking for it.”

Belle made a note and then flipped back and forth between some pages. “That matches up with when you found out you were expecting Hope; so do your measurements, and that was, what 8 weeks?”

“Yeah, thereabouts.”

“Second pregnancies do show sooner, too.”

“Especially this one,” he grumbled. 

“Oh yeah,” she agreed.

The day continued normally, although his hand did gravitate to his stomach pretty often, without thinking about it. Even if it wasn’t noticeable, he still knew what was there, and his subconscious seemed to have already set out to protect it—that, or his hormones were already starting to affect him. 

Based on his reaction when Emma arrived that afternoon—particularly to his train of thought when she bent down to pick up a napping Hope—it was definitely hormones. His jeans felt a very different kind of tight then; something he acted on later that night, after a slightly larger than usual dinner. 

“Those hormones kicked in fast,” a sated Emma breathed as they came down from their shared high. “You haven’t been that voracious since we found out we were having a girl.”

“Are you complaining?” he panted. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.” And they went for another round. 

In fact, he was so insatiable the next couple of weeks that, despite his elevated appetite, no other discernible change in his weight was noticed; his waist actually went down a bit.

“Are you feeling alright? Keeping food down and everything?” Belle asked, worried, as she recorded his 2-week measurements, comparing them to his 10-week from his first pregnancy. “Last time, you couldn’t eat more than chicken rice about now.”

“Trust me—I feel more than fine,” he assured her. “Were it not for Emma’s implanted contraception, we’d likely need to be planning for a more traditional pregnancy.”

“That’s a very eloquent way of saying you can’t keep your hands off your wife.”

“I could have phrased it crudely—how many synonyms for ‘sex’ did you want Gideon to learn today?”

“None!” she exclaimed, covering her son’s impressionable ears. He was at the age when he repeated anything said around him—a fact they noticed when Gideon’s favorite phrase became “bloody hell.”

“What are uncles for, though?” he teased with a wink. 

Belle just groaned and threatened to teach Hope how to read with romance novels. Killian, however, was just glad she slept through the night so she didn’t interrupt the real thing. 

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

Where there had been some hubbub about town during Killian’s first pregnancy—and quite a lot of gawking—no one seemed as shocked this time around. They’d made no effort to keep it a secret, letting the Storybrooke rumor mill do its job, but either the town was more aware than Killian had been about fairy reproduction, or they had become jaded to such magical oddities (he assumed the latter).

That said—he had to assume the gawking would eventually return. 

Especially with the way Granny was feeding him. To be fair, she wasn’t letting him overindulge, but he’d noticed his portions were larger, and the amount of vegetables increased. He wondered if Blue had given her some nutritional instruction, or if it was just her innate grandmotherly instincts. 

The first time she slid an extra helping of broccoli over, he tried to protest, delicious as it looked. 

“Oh no—eat up, young man,” she commanded. “If my math is right, you’re eating for 10. I should probably be feeding you more, actually.”

Emma snickered next to him—they were on lunch break from the station—but he wasn’t sure if it was at Granny’s tutting or the fact that Killian had just realized the magnitude of…well, all of it. 

So when Granny slid some extra onion rings across the counter, he didn’t complain (but obviously shared them with his wife).

He wanted to blame it on those extra treats—onion rings, fries, pie, muffins—when they noticed an expansion in his waist measurement at 3 weeks, but it was definitely the babes; he could still wear his normal jeans, but was seeing some rounding behind his navel. 

And at 4 weeks—a month since the babes were transferred—it could finally be deemed a bump: there was a gentle curve to his whole stomach, from just under his pecs to his hips (which had been aching a bit as they widened some, likely in anticipation of the heavy load to come). Given the way he and Emma’s evening activities hadn’t slowed, he knew it was all the babies. 

Belle hummed as she compared the notes she’d just taken with those from last time. “Well, that’s interesting,” she commented.

“What is?” Emma asked; she’d joined them for that week’s check in, curious to see where things were.

“This week’s measurements match up with those from the end of the first trimester last time, which I suppose isn’t a huge surprise, but…”

“But I have a lot more to go than two trimesters,” he finished.

All eyes were on his stomach for a long while after that, likely all wondering the same thing: just how large would he get?

The only thing that took their attention away was the ringing of the bell over the door as someone arrived—Blue, it turned out. “Hi,” she greeted, clearly trying to be casual. “Just wanted to stop by and see how things were going.”

He wasn’t naive enough to believe she’d stay away from him for the duration of the pregnancy, although he had expected more subtle surveillance.

They chatted briefly about how he was feeling, and she studied his stomach with an outstretched hand, he assumed to do her own magical assessment. “Yes, they seem to be doing quite well; that’s good.”

“Did you think they weren’t?” Emma quipped.

“No, of course not,” Blue assured her. “Would it be odd to express my excitement?”

Well, they all understood that. “How long has it been since your last brood?” Belle had to ask.

“Over fifty years,” Blue answered. “They’re usually every five to ten, depending on the solstice.”

“And when you don’t have a series of curses in the way,” Emma added.

Blue glanced over Belle’s notes with interest. “That does seem to match up with past broods, though I don’t think anyone ever thought to take such detailed notes.”

“Are there any?” Belle asked. “I don’t have anything here, but if you had some back at the convent, it’d be great for comparison.”

“I’d have to check our library,” Blue answered. “There might be a few scrolls, but we’re not much for recorded history.”

“I can tell,” Belle complained.

After some more chatting, Blue excused herself, but did ask if it was alright if she checked in periodically.

“Of course,” Killian said. “It’s your brood. Plus, I’m certain we’ll need to take you up on the offer of help sooner rather than later, if this is where I’m already at after only 4 weeks,” he added, gesturing to his still-small bump.

“Absolutely,” Blue said. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She pulled her wand out of nowhere and twirled it at Killian’s midsection. His skin grew warm for a moment, but then returned to normal. “I’m not sure if the original spell will account for the size, as far as how it treats your skin; that should eliminate any damage.”

“No stretch marks?” he wondered.

“No—not any new ones, at least.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

She then left as quickly as she appeared.

“Guess that’s something we’ll have to get used to,” he sighed, and then they went about their day. But he was starting to grow very concerned about what lay ahead for him; he knew this wouldn’t be a small feat, but was worried it would be more than he could handle.

As time progressed, his bump steadily grew, though not unnaturally so. At 5 weeks, it was yet more noticeable; at 6, he finally had to concede defeat and dig out his maternity jeans, though they were still plenty roomy. By the end of the second month, he wasn’t quite where he’d been at the end of his second trimester, but it was definitely a baby bump—roughly where he’d been around 24 weeks with Hope, even though he was only at 8 with this one.

It was around then, though, that he noticed the first flutterings inside. He thought he’d noticed it the week before, but chalked it up to gas or something like that; Granny had been feeding him a lot of black beans lately. But late one night, after yet another glorious session of lovemaking, Emma’s hand had drifted to his belly and even she took notice.

“Wow, they’re actually starting to move in there, huh?”

“Seems like it. You don’t suppose they actually have wings already, do they?”

“Normal babies hardly have limbs at this stage, so probably not.”

They lay peacefully in the afterglow for a bit, before he asked quietly, “You are okay with this, right?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d ask, nor was it likely to be the last. But it was a large undertaking and though she hadn’t exactly protested, he knew it wasn’t something she’d have volunteered for.

“For the hundredth time, yes. Even if this was partly fueled by guilt, I know you probably would have agreed anyway, and that big heart is why I love you so much. And can I say something else?”

“What’s that, love?”

“I was so attracted to you with that baby bump last time, even when you thought you were massive. So as long as your libido holds out, I think we’re both going to be very happy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm, I think I might need some convincing.”

“Then let me show you.” And oh, she did.

Gods, he prayed he’d be able to do that for a while. The next several months were going to be very interesting.

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thanks for reading! tagging @wyntereyez @jennjenn615 @superadam54 @ashley-knightingale @justsomewhump @teamhook @88infinity88​ (let me know if you want a tag!)

[orsuliya]

What’s your headcanon on XQ and Awu first night after they reunited, do you think it goes hot ripping apart clothes of each other or soft tender love making ? Do u see Awu checking every new scars XQ had after ep.50 and maybe kiss all the boo-boo away ?

YES.

It is most unfortunate that the world does not stop even for the most dramatic of reunions. It certainly doesn’t do so for Awu and Xiao Qi, however dearly they might have wished for a moment to simply be, to breathe, to count treasured heartbeats and rediscover the meaning of safety in each other’s arms. Alas! Once inside the fortress, they both get swept into a whirlwind of pressing matters and urgent concerns. Someone has to take care of dispossessed civilians, someone has to instill a sense of purpose into his men, someone has to reassure the children, someone has to think of a plan on what to do next; the list of tasks to be done is never-ending. Even reorienting themselves in this new political reality – and much has changed in Cheng during their absence – takes time and energy both, especially as it turns out that the land they’ve finally stepped onto after long months of drifting in limbo might be less of a land and more of a quagmire.

Awu manages to complete her self-appointed duties first and experiences a moment of stark realization when it comes to her that until now she has never actually seen her husband’s bedroom in the closest thing he has to a real home. It’s startling to say the least, but our Awu is not a woman who would allow herself to wallow over lost opportunities; she throws off any vestiges of encroaching fugue and orders the maids – in a perfectly even voice, thank you – to lay out the bed and fill a bathtub, if there is one to be found anywhere in the whole province, that is. And you know what, there actually is one! Right there in Xiao Qi’s rooms and equal to any of those found in the capital. This causes some amount of confusion, but the maids are quick to explain that Dawang had ordered it right before he went to war against Prince Jianning. They also explain something that Awu hasn’t even wondered about – although Xiao Qi will, later on – namely how come the new commander hasn’t taken those rooms for himself. That one is actually easy: Tang Jing never moved in, thinking it a futile point with Dawang still alive somewhere out there and the new commander mistook Tang Jing’s bedroom for the lord’s, nobody finding it necessary to disabuse him of this notion.

As the maids flitter around, carrying out their lady’s commands, she pulls one of them aside to help her with all those tight Hulan braids. Hulan things and especially Hulan memories should stay in Hulan, you know. What about the dress, you’ll ask. Don’t worry, that blasted piece of wedding couture will get its due!

Xiao Qi was planning to take a moment to himself, perhaps change his clothes – should any of his things still be lying around - and then go join his wife. What he was definitely not expecting was to find his rooms full of laughter and light, his bright-eyed princess presiding over the commotion with her unbraided hair in a storm of tiny waves. If he was a lesser man, he would have needed to lean against the wall; and perhaps there is a reason why he puts his palm on a doorframe as he takes in the view, feeling the tension of the last six months drain from him with every passing second.

Let’s establish one thing: Ningshuo is home to some very astute maids. The moment the Princess notices the Prince, they make quick work of their remaining tasks and slither out in the most discreet manner possible. Which they needn’t have bothered with, because it’s not like either of the Yuzhangs would have minded… or even noticed.

It’s been the longest six months imaginable and perhaps there are words that need to be said, but some things matter more than words. The moment Awu moves, meaning to go to her husband, Xiao Qi springs into action, catching her hands in mid-air and pulling her up, up, but most importantly close to himself. He would be perfectly content just standing there with his lips pressed to the crown of her head and perhaps her crinkled hair smells nothing like the perfumed oils she used in the capital, but how could he mind that when she’s right in his arms, breathing, trembling and wondrously, miraculously alive. It’s Awu who moves away – which may or may not tear a quiet whine of protest from her husband’s throat – but she doesn’t go far; only as far as she needs to reach up and cradle Xiao Qi’s face in her narrow palms, slender fingers moving in tender exploration over those beloved features, reaffirming what she had already known. This is her husband, her mate in life and death, back in her arms once more. The grave cannot have him, nobody can but her! Every single laughter-line in the corner of his dark eyes, the painfully sharpened slope of his cheekbone, even this new beard of his – and that shall require careful examination, but later, later! - all of this is hers and only hers.

Soon she deems touch is not enough and goes in for a taste, the first touch of her lips breaking him out of his self-imposed stillness. There are hungry lips, teeth and tongues, shared breaths and perhaps a salty tear, nobody knows whose, desperate hands seeking anchor in loose hair and beneath it all an ember of passion suddenly bursts into an unquenchable flame.

Now, you need to remember one thing: Xiao Qi is a well-trained husband, one who never forgets a lesson his wife teaches him and once upon a time she taught him a lesson alright! A lesson on how, no matter the urgency, damaging her clothes in entirely out of question and it’s become so ingrained into him that he still refrains from taking any radical actions even now, when the unfamiliarity and unexpected complexity of her clothing poses a certain problem. Awu, getting progressively more frustrated over every second she has to spend entangled in fabric – Hulan fabric no less! - instead of her husband’s arms, tries to take the matters into her own hands. When that fails and how could it not, what with her so very distracted, she swiftly moves to plan B. At first Xiao Qi is not certain he heard her right as “Tear it off me!” is not something he’s ever heard from his wife, much less in such an insistent tone. It’s only after she assures him that she doesn’t mind, no, not at all, rip it to shreds for all that she cares, that he makes quick work of those confusing overlayers. Incidentally, come morning he will pick this tortured garment up from the floor, as if admiring his handiwork, and look askance at his half-conscious spouse, who will then mumble something about dreaming of destroying the blasted thing herself. It might or might not end up as a pile of ashes, who knows.

Awu shrugs off her top and then, as befits a great believer in marital equality, finds it only right to dive right beneath Xiao Qi’s hanfu with her increasingly insistent hands and itching fingers. Kissing is all good and well, but during the course of their marriage she has discovered many things, one of them being that skinship is even better. What Awu wants, Awu gets. And so in quick order they’re pressed against each other, bare skin to bare skin, so close that one could hardly fit a blade between their joined bodies.

And just like that, in a space between two breaths, Awu suddenly freezes, heart hammering wildly in her chest as her roaming hands still on Xiao Qi’s back. See, there are many things in which Princess Yuzhang takes pride: her birth, her name, her deeds, her husband and her household, but there is one particular point of pride she delights in most of all and that is her secret knowledge of Xiao Qi’s body. She has made a detailed study of every single mark on her husband’s skin, she had her fingers and lips on every single of his scars, she knows their stories, both those told in whispers late into the night and those shared amidst bouts of laughter, but here, beneath her hands are two scars she knows not. Even a fool could tell how close those wounds came to ending his life and Awu is no fool. It’s not like she didn’t expect it, exactly. After all there must have been a reason why he didn’t come for her for six whole months and there was no way he would have escaped unscathed from a battlefield that claimed so many of his dearest comrades. And yet…

And yet this is the straw that breaks her. After six months of being the bravest woman under the sun, of keeping her back unbent and head unbowed even as her heart kept bleeding into the dust of unfamiliar land, she finally cries. It’s not pretty. It’s not dignified. It’s ugly crying at its finest, the kind of crying when your every vein trembles uncontrollably and you throat clenches in pain as if encircled by a garrote of thorns. And so they stand there like two perfect fools, half-naked and crying. At first Xiao Qi tries to dam Awu’s tears in any way he knows how, with a gentle swipe of thumb, with soothing lips and words of love, yet nothing works and then, as the first inhuman wail tears free from her mouth, he breaks as well, unable to do anything but to clutch her desperately, his own hot tears soaking into her dark tresses.

When they calm down – and how could they not, finally together and safe in the heart of Ningshuo – there is little left from their previous fiery lust except for the smallest steady flame, safely banked behind an overwhelming tenderness of heart. Ever so gentle, they finish stripping each other and finally enter that bathtub, big enough for two. Limbs and hair get washed, fears soothed and scars most diligently inspected… before Xiao Qi experiences a startling realization of his own. Just as Awu knows his body in the smallest detail, he knows hers. It’s a husband’s right, nay, a husband’s duty to measure the swell of his wife’s breasts with his palms, to follow the slope of her belly with inquisitive lips and be ever mindful of the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs. Now this hard-won knowledge is like a knife to the heart as it allows him to read the story of those six long months from her body loud and clear; all that stress, fear and grief suddenly made tangible in the alarmingly sharp jut of her clavicles. He hates how fragile she feels in his arms, even as he loves feeling her in his arms at all. A stray impulse makes him try to turn it into a joke about her Aunt’s imminent anger. It doesn’t work, he’s way too emotional for that and so is she, but it disperses the silence, dislodging the last remains of tension born of old, ever-present fear.

There is no more silence as – after some very perfunctory towelling off – he carries her to bed, her too-thin thighs wrapped around his waist. The Princess can be very demanding when she chooses to be and right now she chooses to be very demanding indeed. So demanding that she’s not content to simply wait for her husband to join her in bed, oh no. Her shoulder-blades barely touch the linens before she rises back up on her knees and pulls Xiao Qi down to a sitting position. From there it takes only one expertly executed maneuver to straddle his knees; a god of war or not, he never stood a chance when faced with an opponent this determined.

It’s not like he minds following her orders, he never has, and certainly not when she communicates them in a series of delicious, breathy moans, stopping only to express her displeasure the moment he tries to unwind his arms from around her slender form. She needs to be held, dammit, and she will be held, and she will hold him in turn, never, ever letting him go again, that’s the command of Princess Yuzhang! Any other time he might have smiled at her commanding tone, but not now, not when it’s so deadly serious and when he would like nothing better than to comply and keep complying to the end of his days. Yet he knows his wife as only a husband who keeps to one bed can and there is no way she will be satisfied with simply rubbing off against him, especially when she still hasn’t come once and when in a night this heavy with tension she can easily get off two or three times more.

Awu cries out in protest when Xiao Qi bucks underneath her, somehow turning them around without ever letting her out of his arms and then presses her down onto the bed, effectively trapping her with his weight. She cries out again – for a very different reason – once he gets his hand between her invitingly open legs. But he’s not after her cries, oh no, he’s a much more discerning hunter than that. What he’s chasing are those gentle keens she tends to let out once she’s close to the edge but not yet on it. This time his fingers can’t quite do the trick fast enough for his liking; it’s not an exact science, pulling sweet whimpers out of your wife’s lovely lips, more of an art.

Even Awu can’t exactly protest – not that she doesn’t try – when her husband slithers down her body, much less when he gets his head between her thighs. She still holds him tight, just in case, only this time it’s by his hair. She can, however, protest, when in the aftermath he tries to take himself in hand, head pillowed on the inside of her knee – and isn’t it a marvel how good that beard feels on her skin? He’s hers, thank you very much, so she’ll take responsibility. Which she then proceeds to do to great effect and mutual satisfaction.

If after lying and breathing together for a few minutes he detects the tiniest shiver in her countenance, well, what are those handy white sleeping robes for. Surely, she won’t begrudge him a moment of separation, if it’s for the sake of her health. She does, by the way, she absolutely does and the frown that makes guest on her beautiful face never quite goes away as they resume their embrace, wordly concerns entering their bedchamber against their will. It’s been the longest six months imaginable, not only for them, but for the country as well, and there are words that need to be said.

Once all the necessary words are said, pressing matters of national importance dealt with, promises made and fears assuaged, there is little that will stop Awu from trying to chase away the shadow lying between Xiao Qi’s brows with determined, yet soft lips; and even less that would ban her from taking her due as Princess Yuzhang until the very dawn.

[daxieoclock]

(re: the post i just reblogged)

tme people have an unfortunate tendency to weaponize their allyship towards trans women and transfem nonbinary people in order to maintain this sense of near-ownership over transwomanhood through shepherding those they deem to be inexperienced in trans terminology or the “truth” about their transhood (or, in some cases, those with mental/learning disorders who struggle to maintain “appropriate” articulation of their own identities).

This is most immediately noticeable when tma people are corrected about the way they describe their own identities, but can sometimes take the form of these fucked up mentorships orbiting around hypervigilant correction, turning the very personal process of figuring out ones gender into a one-size-fits-all way for the tme shepherd to prove their their own knowledge on the subject. This knowledge is a source of self-worth for the shepherd, it plays into their sense themselves as who can “help others” and be a noble good person by educating those who do not know better – even if they’re doing so by speaking over the very people they proclaim themselves an ally of and ignoring those who tell them that they’re being creepy or just fucking incorrect. Often such pride in one’s sense of correctness is directly predicated towards BEING stubbornly uneducated about a subject, as they reject any evidence that might contradict the sense of reality they’re so proud of, and it’s no different here.

And of course these people are so often the “fuck t**fs i hate t**fs” crowd who focus a vast majority of their allyship towards performatively slinging hate towards the vague concept of trans exclusive feminism without ever actually taking the time to understand it enough to be able to recognize its dogwhistles among their associates. Their obsession with kindness through violence also manifests towards perpetually showing the tma people around them each and every little bit of violent transmisogyny they can find, “signal boosting” reports of hate crimes or sharing in graphic detail a new disgusting thing some random t**f has said in order to critique it. Which often times is utterly self-serving and does less than nothing to actually help the trans women and transfem nonbinary people unlucky enough to be friends with such self-appointed shepherds.

p.s. yes i am using catholic imagery on purpose because this shit like this is so often driven from applying puritanism and this concept of proxy-parenthood onto something as complicated and personal as fucking GENDER

p.p.s. reblog this post but if you’re tme shut the fuck up or you owe me 20 bucks

[elriell]

what are ur thoughts on eris, there seems to be a lot of chaos and seperation in the fandom atm... how'd you feel about his showing up in acosf?

This feels like a tricky question to answer, because opinions about this really do verge on the extreme of both sides. From what I have seen at least, and I definitely feel this has caused a great deal of division amongst fans of the series.

While I certainly didn’t expect an appearance of his character in ACOSF, I am not surprised in the slightest at a potential redemption. As soon as he made the comment about “not knowing what it cost him” in ACOWAR, I got major Rhysand flashbacks... And from the moment I read that chapter I felt SJM was going to go down the redemption arc path as she did with Rhys. (Assuming of course that is her plan.)

Because it is definitely her type of character and one she enjoys writing, example; Rhysand & Rowan.

So! We have a month before it releases so let’s talk about it all, good, bad and ugly, as always everyone is free to share their own opinions but can we keep it civil it is just a book after all and not reason to attack anyone, one view or another.

A big reason a find it so incredibly hard to answer this question is because I do dislike Eris for his actions, from what we have been told about him from day dot he is not written to be a likeable character. But here is where the big issue lies I feel like SJM is going to try and flip the table on us, as she has so many times before.

And at the end of the day we can either go with it, like for example people had to accept Rhys for his appalling behaviours in ACOTAR or ignore her attempt at a redemption ARC. [Up to you.]

And here is how I think it is going to go, I think she is going down the path of unreliable narration, I.E Lucien’s clouded view, and the IC views from Mor.

It would not be a shock to me at all, and we have seen very prominent example  of this very thing between Feyre’s skewed POV to Nesta’s reality.

“It wasn’t entirely my fault that I was scarcely able to read. Before our downfall, my mother had sorely neglected our education, not bothering to hire a governess. And after poverty struck and my elder sisters, who could read and write, deemed the village school beneath us, they didn’t bother to teach me.”

VS.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t really read,” Nesta said as she paused before a nondescript section, noticing the way I silently sounded out the words of a title. “I didn’t know where you were in your lessons—when it all happened. I assumed you could read as easily as us.”

“Well, I couldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you ask us to teach you?”

“I trailed a finger over the neat row of spines. “Because I doubted you would agree to help.”

This is a classic example of how unreliable narration can cause a massive perspective hinderance. Feyre made the audience believe her sisters did not care/want to teach her, yet they had no idea she was illiterate. And even further still she never even asked for help, she assumed what the answer would be, but the ripple effect of this is that we as readers will now go three books thinking this is a fact rather than her personal assumption.

“A shadow crossed Eris’s face. “There are few things I regret. That is one of them. But … perhaps one day, now that we are allies, I shall tell you why. What it cost me.”

The fact is we know very little about Eris, we are told what a rough childhood Lucien suffered at the hands of his family [Eris included] but then by that token the same should apply to Eris. We have so little information about his childhood, and about his character save for the opinions of Lucien and Mor (and company).

We have as a fandom touched on this time and time again, whether certain characters and actions are redeemable. Some people will stand by Rhysand’s actions in ACOTAR and others will find it unforgivable, the same applies for Nesta most commonly. But really it can apply to almost any of the characters in the series, Azriel tortures people, Cassian wiped out a whole village, and so on, I do not think that it is fair to criminally punish some characters above others IMO.

Now if you want to hate them all and stand by your feelings, go for it, To each their own, but everyone (or next too all) have done something highly questionable over the course of the series.

The people Rhys has killed, minds he has invaded. Azriel/Cassian’s victims, they were all someone too. They all had a potential partner, family, life, dreams & goals. But because we do not see or hear about them we are desensitised of it. We overlook it.

With Eris, we have two of his victims for lack of a better word, in front of us. Some readers love them, feel protective of them and therefore prioritise their POV over every other. Does that make sense? And that is fine.

Completely, everyone is entitled to enjoy or express their view however they see fit, but I personally do not want to demonise people for wanting to make a more informed opinion on a character and not shutting out the possibility of there being more to his story, for better or worse.

I do believe whole heartedly that nothing Eris has done is any worse than Rhysand and/or the IC, the only difference is he was raised in a crueler environment, amongst cruel people. As readers we sympathise with Az and Mor for their upbringing with good reason, because we know of it, yet condemn Eris when we scarcely know his.

A much larger can of worms is the question of culpability, and I have seen so many incredible meta’s about childhood trauma and it not being used as a excuse for toxic behaviours (mainly in respect to Nesta in this fandom) but I do think it is a important key to understanding the overall character... And note, I do not say like but rather understand/empathise with him more clearly, because right now I do not have any real compassion for him.

And as I said above all of them have done some fucked up shit, it is up to you as  reader to decide for yourself whether you consider the particulars forgivable.

I could go on and on about the details and nuances of all his individual relationships but no one wants to read that, and me ramble on and on and on...

In summary, love him or hate him, he is in the next book. We just have to wait and see what SJM’s plan for him truly lies. Fo all we know he could still be an antagonist, but I highly doubt it.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[ganondoodle]

demise backstory (summary)

I didnt actually plan on wrtiting a summary of demises backstory (that i came up with, idk if its any good) but im realizing how long it will take me to draw it all, especially with job related things getting in the way all the time, so i guess im gonna post a badly summarised version of it right here right now, some things might change but thats always the case with my writing, nothings set in stone.

(please be aware that im not the best writer and didnt put much effort into this, it got longer than i thought but well meh :V ignore the typos, i wrote this at 1 am ;O; )

I didnt proof read anything, so this is a mess, anyway here goes nothin:

As far as i know, there have been multiple cases of hyrule having some sort of alternate mirror version of itself or just an alternate world somehow somewhere, so my personal idea about this is that demise WAS what hylia is for hyrule, a deity of protection. thats also where the whole inverted triforce symbols come from in my design for him, im not saying its lorule, but its definitely inspired by it to some degree. so they also had a triforce (here simply called "relics"), but it was split into the three pieces, for each of the three main nations/countries one, originally it was split like this as a way of sharing it equally AND to keep it safe, since if someone was to want the whole thing, theyd have to fight three different giant nations for it, which was thought as being pretty impossible.

as i said before, demise (might not have always been his name idk) was their deity of protection, he was there to keep the peace, to prevent the three countries from going after the relics themselves, tho he was always a cocky bastard he wasnt as destructive and hateful as he is now, back then he was still the servant of their gods after all. for a long long time he was successful at keeping everything as it was supposed to be, but of course, it cant go well forever, i dont have all the details yet but basically, those three nations started war after war, he was able to keep it from escalating for quite some time  but at some point, the people found out that if they destroyed his statues (just like hylias in canon) to prevent anyone from praying to him, he wouldnt know, at least, not immediately (my idea was that the statues are a sort of communication link to whatever their god was, so in ancient hyrule, if you prayed to one of hylias statues, and asked for her protection/help, she would know instantly and show up within seconds) 

alot of battles were fought without demise hearing anything about it, until someone found a statue that wasnt fully destroyed. when demise showed up however, the person had already died as they were wounded when fleeing from the battlefield. wondering how this all came to be he went to look for where that person came from, since if there was actual big trouble he should have known about it much sooner.  

he must have missed the biggest battle his world had ever seen, given the sheer size of it .. and the amount of corpses scattered all over it.

this only happened because of the greed of the people in power for the rest of the relics, which promised power, more power than they already had, plus who wouldnt want to know what happen if the relics were combined again, given how they've been seperated since the beginning. 

Fueled by anger and grief over how many people had lost their lives without him even KNOWING that a war of this size was happening, demise tried to ask the gods as to what he was supposed to do, how could he stop these needlessly cruel wars over something so small ? but the gods were silent. 

so he had to decide on his own, what was the best thing to do ? after careful consideration he couldnt think of anything else but to destroy the relics, after all, he could touch or use them himself as means to prevent him, as an already powerful deity, from falling for that greed for power, just like the inhabitants of his world did now.

the first one was the easiest, they didnt know his plan and let him wander their sacred halls with no second thought .. until he raised his sword once he stood in front of that cursed relic that led only to bloodshed and death. of course the news started to spread that their protector had apparently turned against them, some thought it was because they destroyed his statues, others because they thought he feared they would be more powerful than him once they gathered all the relics. on his way to destroy the second one he was met with resistance, but nothing he couldnt get through. the third one was a fight of an army against one deity. demise won, but not without killing some of the people he swore to protect .. and the only reason he was doing this, was for their own good.

after the deed was done, instead of everything getting better, it was getting worse. the people were more united than ever. against him that is. and the world fell apart. the oceans started to shrink, the winds would blow more harshly with each passing day, plants would wither away as if robbed of life before it began. demise was never overly beloved by anyone even back in the beginnings, but he could deal with them hating and resenting him, as long as they wouldnt go to war against each other, he was happy, more or less. what he couldnt handle was watching as his world started to die a slow and agozing death, right before his eyes, without him being able to do anything against it. and the gods stayed silent.

was it because he destroyed the relics ? were the gods mad at him for going against their orders and deemed it appropriate to punish him by having to watch the people suffer ?or was it that the gods that were bored of playing with this world and moved on to the next ?

he would never know the answer. 

the world died slowly over hundreds of years of painful suffering, desperately trying to to stay alive. even then the last remaining survivors knew him only as the destroyer of their world, responsible for their suffering. his former self wiped from memory, and only hate remained. 

after the last mortal died, the last tree withered and the oceans were gone. there was nothing left to guard, nothing left but the ruins of the past and the painful reminder of how this all came to be. the question of why it had to happen, was never answered, as the gods abandoned him and his world a long time ago.

in a fit of rage he sought to destroy the last temples, the once sacred places which inscriptions have long faded away and the place he once called his home, where he used to speak to his gods before they fell into this agonizing silence and as he drove his sword through the sculpted stones which once housed their voices, it split into two . ..

..and through the cracks blew a wind carrying the scent of a world that was still alive.