#I KEEP RUNNING OUT and then I have to merge things to make more space hahaha

[kalloway]

hello I have been absent but my (drawing) life is purely procrastinating on non-meme art, and actually working on meme/post redraws shgjdhfj

here's one I spent far too long on with @magthemage 's OC Cammy! Yet again because I love her but also we love to make our OCs suffer too (such is the way) so the *actual* context of this is grim, but... based on goofy 'haha' meme hehe SO IT BALANCES OUT

also im sorry if it looks extra crispy, i guess this lineart brush HATES being saved as a JPEG lmao so im blaming compression

anyway im off to procrastinate further, wish me luck! ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

[eightstarr]

what's mine — ellie williams.

summary: the day you left for this assignment, ellie remembers thinking it would be okay— or maybe it was you who said it, your hands over her tense shoulders, her fingers tugging at your shirt, “you’ll be okay.” she goes home and knows it to be true, like words from a god. she’ll be okay and you’ll be back. what’s left to do but count the hours?

warnings: descriptions of violence (not very detailed), suggestive content near the end!

notes: uhhh i love being dramatic and i think it shows here. all i think about is the action of coming home to someone who loves you and how it is as meaningful now as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be in a hundred years but whatever haha sorry about that guys. if you read this i love you btw

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

Being without Ellie is disorienting. The first week feels like walking alone in a dark room, feeling the walls for a light switch, running into sharp corners that stab your sides. You miss her like it's a sickness, less a longing and more a threat to whatever you’re made of.

There's a small community way outside of Jackson offering a trade. Maria makes it sound simple, like everything else. “They know us, it’ll be quick. You pick up the supplies, drop off our part of the deal, and come back.”

It takes 26 days. The exchange is simple but the journey less so, you and three others have to carry home the much needed medical supplies through herds of infected and a heavy storm that slows you down and cuts off your communication for three terrifying nights.

Ellie wanders the house and feels like a stranger, sickly, a sleepless corpse searching for living blood. The light coming through the windows feels too bright and her skin abnormally cold. She knows, or thinks, that if she’s not careful she could get lost in it— merge every wall together until there’s nothing left to see but a stark flatness, an unfamiliar box. The space is not huge. It's not a tall castle or a manor in the countryside or anything fitting to the theatricality of loneliness, but it’s your home. So much of you is in it. Ellie finds herself focusing on a different thing each passing day, clinging to them with a nauseating desperation, a hundred random pieces of you scattered like breadcrumbs to keep her sane. A book with a folded corner somewhere along the first half of the story, your favorite mug next to the sink, an old pair of jeans ripped at the knee on your side of the drawer. Too many things for you not to come back.

“Do you think I'm losing my mind?” she asks, a soft wrinkle between her furrowed brows, her eyes focused on a random spot ahead. “I mean, it’s been two weeks,” she’s trying to sound like it's not as bad as it looks, like she finds any of it funny or interesting instead of plainly horrifying. The sole of her shoes hits the floor in an anxious rhythm, mocking her— tap, tap, tap, tap. “Isn’t that fucked up?”

Dina curses at the lighter until it flickers back to life with a weak orange flame, holding it near the end of the half finished blunt. She inhales and passes it over, breathing out, “You’re not crazy.”

A pause. Ellie lets the comment comfort her for a single second before it flies right through her head, sounding more quiet than usual when she admits, “...I have this feeling like someone took something from me.”

Dina raises her eyebrows, her chuckle cut off by a short cough, smoke itching her throat. “You mean, like… what’s her name?” she squints her eyes and tries to remember. 

The name worms around Ellie’s head like it has been for days, bold letters, clear as day. She makes no attempt to let it pass through her lips, self aware and unrelenting at the same time, maybe finding some indefensible satisfaction in the fact that it can be forgotten. Cruel, you'd tease, and Ellie would smirk a lot like she tries not to now.

Dina gives up a second later, “Whatever— the girl that volunteered to go with them before you could. You're blaming her?”

“I guess.”

“Hm. That’s a little…”

“Don’t say crazy—”

“Crazy.”

“Fuck you,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“So you’re not jealous?”

Ellie scoffs, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. Dina argues unlike anyone else. She’s confident, her goal clear and her strategy already lined up before you get a word in, loaded like a gun. But her strongest contender, perhaps the only one, might be Ellie’s simple stubbornness. “I’m concerned. She got picked over me even though I've studied that route a hundred fucking times. I could've done a better job,” she says, steady and tireless like bulletproof glass.

“At getting the supplies or at taking care of your girlfriend?”

“You’re starting to sound like Maria.”

Dina pauses for a short moment before she shrugs. “Maria makes good points.”

Ellie takes one last hit of the blunt and flicks it across the room to die out somewhere on the permanently damp floor. She tries to believe it. No one took you, she thinks, you left dutifully like anyone else in Jackson would've, like Ellie would've. It’s a dangerous trip but a job like any other, the same risk of deadly infection that comes with any of them. She should be used to it by now. Does it not also exist every other day of the year?

Still, she can't remember the last time she didn't see your face for this long. You’ve been dating for a little over three years, living together for half of that— it's a terrifyingly meaningful chunk of your young lives, months and months of seeing you everyday, of falling asleep with her face on the crook of your neck and waking up with your fingers pressing into her waist. You've built a world where things like this don’t happen, where all Ellie can think about as she leaves home is the way you hum in the mornings, soft and sleepy and so fucking cute, when you wake up to her back against your chest and her hair on your face. She thinks about her own laugh, how shy it sounds, how your lips press to her head before she turns around to claim a proper kiss.

But now you’re not here, and she’s too terrified to even utter the words out loud, and there's a hole in her chest where you should be that makes her feel insane everywhere she goes. It's an open wound leaving a hazardous trail of shame and memories, humming in her ears like a boiling kettle, who took what's mine?

Ellie has never considered herself to be the jealous type, but she never was the type to sleep with her back turned to someone this comfortably, either. It’s different with you. It's theatricality, it’s the coldness of that bed at night, it’s your legs tangled with hers like growing roots now disjointed. It’s a thing, breathing and alive, screaming at nothing— I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

Is that girl you went with hanging from your every word in that way she always does? Is that a shameful thought to have? Ellie wipes it clean in a second and finds it immediately there again, at the front of her mind like a message on a cloudy mirror. She can't think about anything else. Is the storm keeping the two of you awake? Does a part of you find the girl brave for volunteering? Is she turning to look at you and asking, just loud enough, are you asleep? That fall earlier was rough, how are you feeling? Is she looking at your wounds like they matter more than doing a good job? Is your blood, warm and red and yours, on her hands now?

The last of the smoke spills past her lips in a sigh. Ellie pulls her knees closer to her chest and tugs at the loose thread on your ripped jeans.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

There’s a comfortable weight that keeps you under, the loving press of her arm resting over your chest, her thumb brushing your chin. The sun feels warm where it’s draped across Ellie’s back, white tank top wrinkled slightly up her waist.

She watches you until you let out a little sigh, squint one eye open and then slowly the next, a smile stretching your lips as soon as your sight focuses on her. She looks beautiful. She looks just like she did before you left, your girl.

It’s weird— you’ve showered, scrubbed your hands clean and raw, changed clothes. And still you feel like you’ve brought in something dirty, like it’ll be stuck on you for a while, the grime, the guns, the storm. Your muddy shoes must still be sitting by the front door. Something in your head screams that you should get rid of them, burn them like an evidence of guilt. Do you look anything like you did before you left? You feel like a worn version of yourself, sticky and darkened. It’s a ridiculous worry to have, but the thought comes hand in hand with embarrassment and you can feel it crawling up your neck. You cover your face with your hands and groan tiredly, shy.

Ellie laughs, warm like musk, salve on a wound.

"Are you watching me sleep?" you mutter, voice ridden with exhaustion and joy all at once. The thing, love, obsession, both— breathes along with you. "Freak."

"Yeah, I was,” she shifts to sit on your lap, one knee on either side of you, spilling her confession easily. Ellie leans over to push your hands away from your face and press her lips to yours, passionate but short lived, still softly brushing against each other when she says, "I missed this face."

You chuckle, eyes tracing over her freckled cheeks, hands squeezing her thighs, feeling strangely like you’re being washed clean. “I missed you.”

Ellie closes her eyes and rests her forehead against yours, her fingers caressing your cheeks, looking at you again when her thumb brushes against the ridge of a scar. It’s a warped line that almost follows the shape of your cheekbone, from your hairline to somewhere near the corner of your lips. She'd seen it last night, nauseous with worry and relief to have you back, her vision clouded. The morning reveals it in a different, heartbreaking light. It’s okay, you’d said during the night, your hands on either side of her face much like hers are on you now, didn't even need stitches. Ellie tries to let that sink in, make the guilt feel any better. But it can't. Maybe you’d been saved the prick of a needle, but she knows it still hurt, she knows it bled and stung. It feels like a betrayal. If I can't save you the pain, she thinks, I owe you the witnessing, the chance to clean its wry edges, pat it dry. "How'd you get this one?" she asks, as softly as she can.

You’d been prepared for the question but not the devastation in her eyes. It falls over you like a ton of bricks, her love making your chest ache and sinking you back into the memory.

There was an empty house, or what looked like one. Pieces of broken glass scattered over the rotting wood of an old, wobbly table. A man's hand placed forcefully on your head. The side of your face rammed into the table with a thud when he pushed you down, the faint pain of something slicing into your cheek made worse by your struggle to get free. A kick and he stumbled back. A slice of your knife and he fell dead. You don't think the fact will do much to comfort Ellie. So, in hopes of sparing her, you hum and shake your head. "Come here," you say, or beg, a hand on the back of her neck like fond guidance. "Let me kiss your pretty face."

She feels soft like satin on your lips, tastes like honey and black tea. Ellie kisses like she argues, experienced and unruly all at once, with a point to make— I need you and I want you to know it. Her tongue slips past your parted lips and brings a muffled sound from your throat that almost makes her pull slightly away, if it weren't for the feeling of your fingers tightening on her neck to have her closer. A faint thought crosses Ellie’s mind, a feeling like pity for the person she was before you, whoever that was, an old self who couldn't know what it's like to be devoured so caringly.

She brushes her nose against yours and you let out a sigh that sounds painfully like a prayer, her short hair a dark veil over your eyes when she turns her head to press kisses on your cheek. "You can't leave me like that again," she breathes out.

You swallow her words, a confused wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Ellie—”

A kiss cuts you off. You slide your hands up her thighs to her waist, a surprised hum vibrating against her lips when she wraps her fingers around your wrists and squeezes, as if to keep them there. She leans back and stares into you, and for the first time since you’ve known Ellie, you can't tell if she's commanding you or begging. “I won’t let you.”

It’s a gesture. It goes beyond the reality of your lives, the fact that any day either one of you could be made to leave again, that any day either one of you could die. It means I missed you. It means I need it to be me who looks after you. It means I love you.

Your stomach flutters, hungry with an urgent craving. And like you have every day since you’ve known Ellie, you find yourself unable to deny her love or the indulging promise of a different world— but maybe those mean the same thing. "I'm not leaving you," you say, breathless, and it might as well be true.

Ellie makes a sound in response that feels painfully close to a moan, a soft mmhm that clouds your head of anything that may or may not exist outside of this room. The tip of her nose brushes against your neck and then continues its way down, her fingers sneaking inside your shirt, pulling up the fabric and pressing kisses over the skin that’s revealed. "I love you," she says, almost near the band of your underwear, her blushed lips parted. You feel her breath against the burning fire in your lower stomach, reaching out to cradle her cheek against your hand. She feels hot, flushed pink under her freckles, and you’re not sure if she hears you say I love you, Ellie as much as she watches you mouth the words. She presses her face further into your hand, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, begging as if she’d ever have to, “Baby, I need— please.”

You don't hear yourself say yes, but the look in her eyes says you must have.

[tswwwit]

Cipher's Personal Portable Portal Part 2

Here's the link to the first one! This picks up immediately after.

About five minutes later, with several pages of his notebook filled out and still frantically scribbling, Dipper decides this was a great idea. 

Bill’s explanations are startlingly detailed, if delivered with little context and a lot of assumptions of prior knowledge. Like listening to the instructions of a master, skillfully explained at a damning pace that makes keeping up a challenge. 

No wonder Bill was able to make the phone if this is the level he’s working at. On the staircase of skill, he’s sitting near the top, waving tauntingly to anyone below him over the railing.

There’s a kind of excitement, too. Not just on Dipper’s part - even Bill, amazingly, seems happy that Dipper’s keeping up, until he’s practically trying to outrun him. 

And failing. Bill picked the wrong subject if he wanted to test brains. Dipper’s going to give him a run for his money.

The discussion continues longer than he expected, both lively and rapid. Demonic knowledge never seemed like it would have *that* much kick to it. At some level, Dipper kind of expected it to be primal and instinctual - but instead of delivering magic with brute force, Bill talks in high-level theory. Still practiced with more power than a human could manage. But clever.

He jots down that in his notes before he forgets. The difference between a regular demon and a really dangerous demon likely has less to do with raw power, and more on how they use it. Not so different from people, then. 

Dipper pauses as his wrist starts aching from notes. It gives him space to think, and grimace. 

Curiosity is great and all. But he has got to be cautious here. 

Bad ideas have wrecked older, more talented magicians than him. He knows the lure of knowledge, and how easily he could be suckered into some kind of trap. Demons are simultaneously a great source of creative knowledge - and awful, in terms of tricks.

Learning one spell, though, and one he’s already mastered the normal way, probably isn’t going to hurt. And it has been a while since he’s talked to someone like this. 

A person not bored senseless by talking spellcraft. Someone who keeps up with the conversation, fully engaged, without needing a primer. Who doesn’t think that ‘good enough’ is actually good enough, when you could do it better and cooler.

Their entire conversation might be more worrying, actually -  if Bill wasn’t kind of a nerd. 

Clearly he gets a kick out of teaching, if the enthusiasm and exclamation points are any indication. All his insights are precise and sharp, his concepts clever - 

And he doesn’t dismiss Dipper’s weirder ideas. No, he has opinions on them. Loud ones. 

Said opinions are also less-than-moral. But it’s weirdly fun to argue the details. Dipper quickly learns that enough nitpicking and ‘bet you can’t’ taunts turn the more explosive concepts into usable ones.

With such a strange conversation partner, it ends up going places he never expected. Teaching merges into tangents, into strange stories from Bill himself, and arguments about magic. 

Eventually it leads into stories about Dipper’s own exploits. With more detail than he’d usually go into. The last time he talked work with someone, they left early and unmatched him on the app - but Bill’s clearly interested in magical freelancing. The pull is hard to resist.

So there I am in the pouring rain, covered in god knows what with an angry cannibalistic gryphon tied up in the ditch, when Jacob Jensen steps in front of the whole crowd and thanks his ‘helpful assistant’. For pulling off the plan HE put together. 

And it’s not like I could say anything, the silence spell was still up. 

HA HA HA HA! Oh man, you’re a walking comedy of errors. How does one human even get into this kinda crap? It’s hilarious!

But seriously, you shoulda cursed the guy. Not the kind of thing you should let your rivals get away with, kid.

Dipper rolls his eyes at the text. Another immoral solution, provided by an immoral being. He’ll ignore it, just like all the others. 

Arguably he shouldn’t be talking to a demon about, like, literally *any* of this. Keeping the details of his life close to his chest. But it’s like Bill can do anything about it, either to make it better or worse. He’s a bajillion lightyears and a dimension away. 

No, Bill, for like the fifth time, I don’t hex people. Even if they deserve it. Though in hindsight, I should have kept the dispelling spell charged.

Aha! There’s your problem! Not the skills, but speaking up about ‘em! Try some showmanship! Competence isn’t everything. Hell, compared to a great sales pitch, it’s basically nothing.

I guess. My great-uncle’s great at that stuff, but it never really took. 

Sounds like you need a hype man! Someone who can get the word out about your talents. A guy who could bolster your rep. Hell, you could be a real star! Everyone could hear about your hero junk, including in their DREAMS. In fact - I might even have a deal, just for you!

Dipper snorts. He saw this coming a mile away. A demon would, of course, try to sucker him into a bad deal. It’s their entire thing.

He doesn’t take it poorly, though, despite the danger. Bill’s own sales pitch is clearly an off the cuff reflex, rather than a real swing at it. Like Stan pitching an ‘extended warranty’ to a customer, even when they’ve already bargained him down on the price of a souvenir.

Uh huh. Let me guess. I sell my soul, then your ad is going to be, like, ‘HEY! Hire this guy or you’ll find snakes in your bed! In your socks! In your wheat and wheat byproducts! Save yourself from snake terror and do it today!’

There’s a suspiciously long pause before the next reply.

Look, it doesn’t have to be snakes. There’s plenty of critters you can stuff into a cereal box.

The telltale tone of a conman who knows his pitch was shit. Dipper smirks.

Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll handle my own advertising. You’ve already taught me a few things about having a massive bloated ego. 

Ha ha! You’re sassy company when you get worked up, human, it’s pretty hilarious! Like a hissy kitten or a dragon cub! Including all the sharp bits.

Dipper forces the smile off his face, frowning again. He’s not a kitten, for one. No matter how he sneezes. And two - that was barely a compliment, and only if the receiver is already weird.

Bill might be clever. He has his own strange charisma. Definitely a type of fascinating, intelligent monster - but he’s also evil and a jerk. 

Still. He figures he’ll keep talking to the guy. It’s not like there’s too much danger, what with him literally being in another dimension. 

Besides, how long has it been since he’s talked to anyone but his great-uncle about magic, in this  much detail? Longer than Dipper can remember, that’s for sure. For all that Bill’s a demonic dickwad, anyone who wanted to learn complicated spells would be lucky to talk to him.

A thought strikes. 

Dipper looks up from the demon phone. Darting a glance to his notebook, then back at the artifact. 

Strange magic. Impossible spells. The scene of the crime, with this object buried under bits of the destruction. 

The culprit was there, in the museum. And that fire he uses. It defies most known magic physics, powerful and weird. Not to mention the giant anvil incident, or the animated water tower, and half of the really weird curses, all of them requiring magical knowledge and power - 

Where did Dipper’s target learn his special spells?

Thinking carefully about his words, he types out a quick question. Very casual, avoiding details that might lead to suspicion.

Speaking of company. Has anyone else talked to you recently? 

Nah, it’s been a few centuries. You humans are usually pretty boring!

Grimacing, Dipper sighs. That’s a bad sign for his theory. He presses further.

So there ISN’T actually a group of people, quote, ‘craving your infinite knowledge’? A bunch of guys you’re feeding secret demon information?

Hey!! Of course I’m in high demand, I’m fantastic. But I’m ALSO not passing my number out to every mortal who wanders by, jackass. I have standards! High ones!

Dipper mulls over that statement. He’s only known Bill for a few hours, but he’s sure that teaching a human how to cause tons of chaos on Earth? Is totally up his alley. 

And because he’s known him for hours, he thinks that was actually true. 

Changing the topic, or filling the chat with distractions. Anything that would lead Dipper down the merry trail of another topic - all of that would be very demonic, and very suspicious. 

Confrontation of a question, and one Dipper didn’t know he was asking, is a different story.

Bill’s not lying, surprisingly enough. He’s annoyed, because Dipper implied he was a… loose woman. Demon. Whatever their equivalent is. 

Letting out a disappointed sigh, Dipper runs a hand through his hair. 

If he’s the first human to talk to Bill in hundreds of years… Then the target didn’t ever have the phone, much less conveniently drop it at the scene of his crime. He came by his power in some other dishonest, evil way. 

Welp. It was worth a shot, even if it was one in the dark. Back to square one, then.

Though what Bill said does bring up another question. 

That’s funny. You’ve spent a lot of time talking to me.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll admit it - You’re fun enough! Silence is only golden when I’m in it, and even then it gets boring. 

I mighta picked someone less goody-two-shoes personally, but you got brains, kid. That’s rare.

This time, Dipper allows himself to smile. He’s not so paranoid as to turn his nose up at an actual compliment. 

Same to you. For a demon, I guess you’re not as awful as I thought you’d be.

Ha ha ha! Oh, cutie - I’m worse! A real bad boy, as you mortals say! Ten bucks says that’s your thing, am I right?

Warmth builds in Dipper’s face. That’s - He shuts his eyes, rubbing them briefly. 

Okay. He must be interpreting that wrong. These beings are super weird. And Bill’s a jerk. Besides, he’s probably some… multi-eyed flesh tangle, or giant cockroach. Maybe even an abstract concept. 

That was just a condescending comment from a condescending being, devoid of any human meaning. Best not to read too much into it.

For lack of a better response, he texts back, Shut up.

Never! Too bad I gotta run for now, but I know I’ll be hearing from you. You’re a curious guy! Just filled to the brim with it!

And I got plenty of ways to satisfy.

Dipper starts typing a response, but the keyboard's gone. The last bit of Bill’s message slowly fades until the screen goes dark again. 

Okay, it’s - whatever. So Dipper didn’t get the last word in. He didn’t need to anyway. 

Dropping the demon phone, he pulls the flat hotel pillow over his face. If he doesn’t see the damn texts, maybe they’ll stop lingering in his head.

 God, if this is what the slightest bit of attention does to him, he’s really got to download the dating apps again. Or talk to his family more than a phone call once every few days. Talk to real, actual humans.

He’s just been on the road too long, is all. When’s the last time he had a conversation with someone that wasn’t about work? Much less a person who’s kind of. Way more confident than him, and pretty smart, with a weird charm in his tone.. 

Dipper slaps himself on the forehead, dragging a hand down his face. He makes a ‘blguh’ sound, reminding himself not to get distracted.

That conversation did last a while, though. Night has long since fallen. No major magical mishaps have occurred to drag him out of this shitty bed. The brief respite comes as a profound relief. 

Dipper yawns, rolling onto his side. 

Weird extradimensional conversation aside, he’s got a big day tomorrow. Doing important stuff. Solving this mystery. Finding the man responsible for all the trouble, and making sure he never manages it again.

If he can manage it. If he can find him in the first place. If he doesn’t get burnt to a crisp in the confrontation, or run out of money on a dead-end endeavor, or look like a total idiot by finding a guy but it turns out to be the wrong one, making him start from scratch. 

A thousand possibilities of failure. A billion ways things could go wrong. Dipper shoves his face into the pillow, and tries to quiet his own thoughts.

Eventually, tossing and turning, he manages a restless sleep.

The next day’s surprisingly quiet. No major magical incidents, no screams in the streets. A pretty calm day, all things considered.

As always, Dipper goes through the motions, setting up his ritual circle and sitting in mediation. His senses creep into the thin net of magic, searching for any movement like a spider in a web.

The only way he's found to keep up with the culprit is tracing the energy of his incantations, and following the leylines like they’re a roadmap. They vibrate like a plucked note on a string, right before each incident. Tracking such a vague line is a stretch for most magicians; even Dipper’s gotten turned around once or twice.

Problem is, he has to wait until the culprit’s already cast his magic to be able to follow his trail. By the time he catches up to the jerk’s location, nobody’s been there to pin the blame on. Even the few witnesses he’s spoken to have little to report. 

The upside is that said reports are very consistent. The descriptions are of a blonde man, fairly tall. Wearing a too-big smile along with too-formal fashion - and nobody is ever sure how he got in the place or out again. 

It adds a few hangups, but the similar description helps Dipper’s theory. It’s the same person, every time. One or two people might agree on a few details out of sheer chance. Nearly two dozen, all with the same image, is proof.

Now if only someone knew where to find the bastard.

There are cases and monsters that are ‘more important’, he guesses. In body count, at least. Single digit deaths - even if they’re weirdly creative ones - doesn’t sound super cool on a ‘monster hunting’ resume, considering what others can, and do, get up to.

That doesn’t mean this criminal isn’t a big deal, though. Somehow, the major magic they're doing has ripple effects. One of their ‘minor’ incidents can stir up enough latent magic in the area to lead to half a dozen smaller events, weeks or months later. 

Somehow, this jerk is causing more flat-out chaos than every other monster combined, by a factor of five. 

Dipper knows. He’s done the math. 

He sits in intent focus for a long time; a half an hour when he checks his watch after. The tracing spell is intact, invisibly waiting for something to stumble over its tripwire.

Nothing has, though. Wherever his target holed up for the night, he hasn’t moved on since. 

Maybe the plan is to pull something else in town. Or maybe one of those artifacts he melted exploded right in his face, leaving the jerk recuperating, or even dead. That would serve him right. 

Either way, Dipper won’t know until either a body is found, or the guy makes a move. The odds of stumbling across the culprit are pretty low. 

Dipper leaves the circle set up, just in case. A couple quick cantrips later, and it’s connected to his watch. If there’s any movement, he’ll know in a heartbeat. 

Though if he’s being honest? He hopes there isn’t, at least for a while. Running around in this criminal’s footsteps is a job in and of itself.

God, it’d be nice to have a vacation one day.

Dipper stretches as he steps out into bright sunlight. For the last week he’s been constantly on the move, driving on backwoods roads and through tangled cities and just. Staying up too late. Wondering what the mysterious criminal is up to. One uninterrupted if restless night’s sleep has helped his mood.

When this is over, he’s going to go ahead and take a full week off. Maybe a month. Let himself lounge around in bed without a care, in a place he doesn’t rent out night to night. Long, luxurious showers where he doesn’t have to spring out at the next notification, or figure out how to get where he’s headed next. Something nice and calm and… 

Well, not totally free of chaos. Dipper could have taken an office job somewhere, or worked in the government, if that’s what he wanted. But maybe a year or so at less of a breakneck pace. Fewer massively dangerous monsters.

That reminds him. Dipper pauses at the hotel entrance, patting his pockets. 

Yep, one regular phone, one demonic. Good thing, too. If anyone else got their hands on that artifact, it could spell total disaster. 

He breathes it in slowly, before feeling a pang of hunger that comes with an audible growl. Skipping dinner yesterday, probably not his best choice. 

The good news is, in a morning surprisingly full of it, is that there’s a diner in walking distance. It isn’t even expensive. 

Dipper holes up in a booth in the corner, relieved at the lack of other customers. More peace, more quiet. The waitress fills his coffee without comment, and the bitter burn of it makes him feel more human after the first two cups. 

There’s a quick beep from his phone. He puts down the coffee, reaching for his pocket - then pauses. 

It wasn’t his regular notification sound. 

It was weird.

Dipper checks over his shoulder, a paranoid instinct. Again it’s quiet, not early enough for the early birds and not late enough for lunch. And hell, even if most of the diner wasn’t empty, it’s not like anyone cares about a person texting. Nobody can tell who or what he’s talking to.

He pulls the artifact out. The scrawl on the screen has their old messages, plus one new one.

Hey! Bored again! Whatcha up to, kid?

Dipper rolls his eyes. 

Bill is many things - demon, weird, intelligent, astute. Total jerk. Surely he has better things to do than text the mortal that ended up with his weird-ass artifact. If he knows what phones are, surely he has internet.

Still, he writes back. Maybe more boring stuff will get on Bill's possibly nonexistent nerves.

Pancakes. You?

Booo, that’s lame! I thought your life was more exciting than this! At least say something about crazy syrup flavors, I’m dying here.

Sorry, no dice. Normally my job keeps me pretty busy. but I have a nice, boring day off today. Assuming nothing goes wrong. 

Now there’s a topic! We covered the problem-solver bit earlier - but I know you’re not just doing BASIC stuff, because spying on you isn’t working as great as I’d like! What kinda wards you got up? Go into extra detail! It’s totally safe!

Suddenly checking over his shoulder doesn’t feel like enough paranoia. Dipper scoots a little further into the diner booth, hunching over. It’s not every day he remembers to put up those protections. Now he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget again. 

Don’t think they’re doing you THAT much good, anyway! I know what city you’re in!

Dipper sits up straighter.

Aha. ‘City’, Bill says. Not ‘neighborhood’ or ‘building’, or even ‘the backmost booth in that crappy diner’. Bill might have the broad strokes of where he’s located, but it’s far less specific than he’s letting on.

Wow. Totally not suspicious, Bill. Definitely letting my guard down now.

Can’t blame a guy for trying! 

Entertain me, then. It’s not like you got anything better going on, you said so yourself! Spill the beans, kid! How ‘bout starting with a name?

Giving out his name should be safe-ish. Technically it’s a nickname anyway, so there’s not too much awful stuff Bill could pull. 

It’s Dipper. 

What, like a hillbilly’s tin cup?

Like the constellation, dumbass.

Ol' Ursa Major, huh? And here I had pegged you for more of a twink than a bear!

How does Bill even know those words? Where would he - actually, Dipper doesn’t want to know. Bill probably ate someone’s brains, or picked it up in some wet dream. Whatever gross method a ‘dream demon’ uses to learn about human life.

I don’t even know how to respond to that, so I won’t. 

What about you? What are you up to?

Today, not much! Normally I do whatever’s fun at the time! Making nightmares, eating childhood memories, robbing interdimensional banks, texting cute guys, that sorta thing. A few other extracurriculars when I get the chance. 

Dipper blinks a few times. He has to set the phone down, rubbing at his temples. 

Why does his imagination have to be overactive at the worst times. He really has to get out more. Better yet, he should put this phone down, pick up the other, and start swiping right on whoever’s nearby.

Before he can even begin to formulate a response, Bill texts again. 

Right now, though, I’m waiting out a multiversal cosmos disruption. Kinda like being stuck inside during terrible weather! It’s a real drag staring out the window watching the debris fly by and not even being the one who caused it.

Wow. Rampant destruction! Sounds like a totally ethical hobby. 

Ethics, shmethics! What a totally human hangup. Don’t you ever have any fun?

Dipper spends a few seconds thinking how to respond. Of course he has fun, he’s got the most fun-loving sister ever, and he’s… 

Okay, maybe the last time he met up with someone for ‘fun’ was Mabel. And technically it’s been almost a year since they’ve been face to face - but he still does stuff on his own! Occasionally. 

Other things are more important. He can do ‘fun’ stuff later. Once this particular case is over, he’ll actually have some time for it.

Another beep catches his attention.

The silence speaks VOLUMES. Jeez, is it all work, work, work with you? You didn’t seem like that big a stick in the mud!

I’ve just. Been busy.

Busy NOT HAVING FUN!!! 

Yeah, well. Some of us have stuff like ‘bills’, that aren’t you, to pay. And reputations they’re building. 

The advertisement deal’s still on offer, btw! Take it up anytime!

No thanks, and a little go fuck yourself. 

HA! Gosh, you’re cute. But we were talking about FUN, here! You gotta have some hobbies, right?

Nothing as exciting as ‘rampant chaos’.

C’mon, kid, I’m asking. Indulge me. Movies? Games? Bloody revenge? And as for chaos - don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. I got PLENTY of tricks in that vein and they all RULE. Ever thrown a building on someone who annoyed you?

Dipper thinks back on the trick Bill showed him yesterday. The change and redirection. The power required… 

It’s an exaggeration. Has to be. Or more likely, knowing demons, it requires some horrible sacrifice - but Dipper can see how others would find it tempting.

…Okay, I’ll admit it sounds cool if they’re unoccupied, but seriously, I’m gonna pass.

Eh, you’ll change your mind. I’m always gonna be around! You’ll take a deal one day!

Shut up. Anyway, I like puzzles? And spells and magic and stuff. But you already knew that. 

And…???

And mystery novels, and action movies, and, uh. Dungeons, dungeons and more dungeons, which yeah, I know, nerdy. Honestly, a lot of nerd stuff. 

I bet you’re gonna start typing ‘nerd’ in allcaps then backspace once you read me owning it.

A few seconds after he sends that, the typing dots appear, then disappear. Dipper smirks.

Whatever, NERD. I bet you’ve been ‘too busy’ with your boring ‘job’ to even kill some player characters in a fantasy game! Didja cast your character sheet in a fire and ritually burn your d20 when you gave up ALL joy in life?

….Okay, it’s been a bit, but fuck off.

Also, ‘nerd’. Says the guy who knows what a d20 is.

I know everything, kid! Doesn’t make me a nerd like you!

Says the guy who does advanced magical calculus

Oh, please. Big shot talking here. It comes with the territory! 

Dipper sits up straighter. Now that’s a blatant lie. ‘Big shot’ or not, nobody delves that deep in theory unless they’re paid to or they like it. 

Dude, I could copy/paste you having OPINIONS about Ergot’s Transition Theorem from YESTERDAY. 

Total nerd stuff.

Bill’s furious response comes with a warmth under Dipper’s palms, and a faint blue flame on the screen - though not nearly as hot as yesterday. He snorts, watching the typing dots as they last for over a minute.

They bicker back and forth, quick and easy and - Dipper has to admit it - kind of fun. Bill’s ego is huge and he loves insulting people. Maybe he doesn’t have many people insult him back, because he keeps being surprised when Dipper has a retort.

So far - and it will be so far, by Bill’s own admission - talking to a demon doesn’t seem too dangerous. 

Whatever else Bill might want, his main motivation genuinely seems to be entertainment. Nobody texts randomly about technically mundane stuff unless they're bored. Or continues the conversation unless they're enjoying it.

It's clear, under all the bluster and ego, that Bill's truly excited to have a new person to talk to. Someone who shares his interests, who can keep up a conversation, intriguing and combative in equal portions… 

Yeah, Dipper sees how that would be enough to keep talking to some random weirdo. Even if it’s not a great idea. 

Bill also seems to be angling for something. Dipper can’t tell what it is. It’s just a sense he has, from an odd turn of phrase here and there, a couple indiscernible metaphors. 

He’s still frowning at a sentence - it came through in odd symbols instead of English  - when the next line comes in.

So I take it you’re NOT dating a whole bunch of cute guys, gals, or other assorted entities, then using their heartbreak to power your motorcycle?

I’m like, 99% sure you can’t actually use heartbreak that way, and I don’t have a motorcycle. Also, no, not seeing anyone. 

So if you’re trying to use a boyfriend or whatever to get to me, you’re out of luck.

Ha! Your lack of love life isn’t a problem, sapling! The opposite of one, in fact!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. Every time he thinks he knows what Bill’s up to, he finds another way to be bizarre. 

Another statement it’s probably better to ignore. The questions are constant. And he doesn’t have to answer all of them. Honestly, it’s a better idea not to. Demon, after all.

But if Bill’s going to interrogate him, it’s only fair to flip the script.

I think it’s MY turn to ask questions.

Sure, why not? Go for it!

That was easy. Perhaps too easy. 

Dipper narrows his eyes, but his mind races with questions. Ones he’s never had the chance to ask, things that couldn’t be found with rumors or books or even deadly personal interactions. 

Getting honest answers from an extradimensional being is the type of thing scholars would have fistfights over. 

Dipper, though, is handling this super well. He only has to delete a half-dozen sentences before he decides to keep it short. 

Tell me about being a demon. 

Like, where do you even live? Do you have a house? A den? Do you live in groups, or is this a solitary thing? 

Do you guys even HAVE love lives or were you just trying to egg me on about being single.

Pfft, not ALL demons sit around in caves waiting to snag anything nearby. You must be talking about those low-level chumps! I’m way more important!

See, you’re talking to one of the top dogs in the whole biz. An infinite being of pure energy! I got a penthouse at the top level of my own terror pyramid, the realm of the mind under my thumb, a cool group of henchmen - AND I’m single and ready to mingle! 

Taking that with a huge dose of salt, Dipper scribbles it down in his notes. At least half of that must be bragging. Major demons don’t just ‘hang out’ with humans, they devour them - but it’s interesting to see how Bill sees himself.

What’s it like over there? Actually, where the hell are you? Hell?

He finally asks! I thought I’d have to bring it up! And no, it’s not hell - it’s WAY weirder than that!

Dipper holds the demon phone a little further away from himself, suddenly wary. Even though he’s only known the guy for like a day, he senses the floodgates opening.

Bill’s going to brag.

I’ve got full reign of the liminal space known as the Nightmare Realm. The whole vast unconscious squished like a ripe eyeball under my thumb, AND it’s a pretty wild place to be! It’d blow your tiny mind if I wasn’t saving that for myself!

Like last week, there was this party, y’see? So I was at the bar, and - And there it is. 

Demon information. Right from the source, and best of all: absolutely free from any so-called ‘deals’. 

Since Dipper asked indirectly, the facts come in the same manner. Less of a list, more of a longwinded story told from the perspective of someone who always thinks he’s the main character. Dipper has to glean them through Bill’s stories for the details, rather than being instructed. But that, in turn, ensures that they’re actually true.

Well, mostly true. A significant portion of his notes get marked with a new little notation symbol he made up, just for Bill: Probably Exaggerated

Dipper’s hand cramps trying to keep up. Syrup is smudged in his notebook, making the pages stick together. He licks his thumb trying to wipe them off, then just puts tongue to page instead. 

Still, it goes on for long enough that the torrent eventually slows. The more minor details repeat; the stories become less ‘what the fuck’ for demon power and culture reasons, and more ‘what the fuck’ for Bill-related ones.

Also, he’s absolutely bragging. To an extent that quickly evolves from ‘annoying’ to ‘obnoxious’, right around into ‘make fun of this guy’.

That part ends up entertaining. Bickering over whether or not Bill is a ‘big shot’, or ‘super cool’. He might portray himself that way, but there’s got to be more to it. 

Unfortunately Dipper can’t argue on the cultural level - but he can match Bill’s level of sheer annoyance. People have always said his pedantry is irritating? Fine. Here’s a perfect target.

They go back and forth, over and over again. Dipper pulls as much semantics as possible to undercut his opponent’s ego, poking holes in every definition Bill tries to twist in his favor. Citing examples, where he can, where Bill could be interpreted as the massive freakin’ dork he actually is. And while he’s only about ten percent successful, it still feels like a victory.

After a particularly nice jab, that has Bill sending >>>:( without any additional text, Dipper sits back in the booth with smug satisfaction.

Nearby, the waitress clears her throat, startling him out of his triumph. With a raised eyebrow, she drops the check, giving his empty plate a pointed look.

By now it’s lunch, and his seventh refill of coffee's cold. He didn’t realize how much time had passed.

He hunches over the phone, feeling faintly embarrassed. 

Look, I gotta go, but, uh. It’s been nice. Talk to you later.

Aww, what a shame. But hey! When you wanna start a conversation - tap three times on the screen, then whisper my name like you’re telling a dying man you’re the one that poisoned him!

Dipper frowns at the screen, then rolls his eyes. Yeah, that tracks. Contacting a demon would have to be in the weirdest way possible. 

He shoves the phone back in his pocket, paying and leaving the diner. He’s well aware that talking to a demon is a terrible idea. That Bill could trick him, somehow, or have a nefarious plan. After only a day, there’s no way to tell what this is building up to.

But until then, Bill is useful. Smart enough  resources will come in handy. Dipper will just have to keep an eye out for his real intentions, and not lose track of what he is.

Today , though, he can forget about all the chaos and the chase. Enjoying a quiet, peaceful day under a bright and cheerful sky. 

This, like all things, won’t last long.

[the-fandom-crossroads]

Just finished rewatching Advent Children with bro and wow that explained a lot more than I thought it would. Bro had never seen it and I remembered the white void showing up there and that the 3 villains were sephiroth clones. I completely forgot the other hints towards Remake.

But Spoilers for Remake and Rebirth I guess?

I now understand why everyone insists Remake Sephiroth is Advent Children Sephiroth. Like the exact same monologue about going to space with cloud. And Advent Children was him revealing this new bigger plan to cloud. If Remake Sephiroth was the original VII sephiroth he should still just want to use meteor because it's "mother's" will.

But like all that is old news for folks who remembered Advent Children when playing through Remake 4 years ago.

I think the things Rebirth builds on about the lifestream is more interesting. The pond that forms in Aerith's church in AC is a natural mako spring like the countless ones we find in rebirth. Flowers are able to grow there long after Aerith's death because of this spring just below the surface.

When Cloud "dies" in Advent Children he meets Aerith and Zack in the white void before they decide to put him back. He's released from the lifestream in the natural mako spring now in Aerith's church just like how Tifa is tossed back out when she enters with the whale.

Again for anyone who's recently watched AC it's obvious the white void is meant to represent the lifestream. But that means Rebirth is confirming the Lifestream is a bridge between the different universes. Zack enters the Lifestream and runs into Remake cloud who's also been pulled in. AC is all about how Sephiroth is still in the lifestream and that's how Kadaj is able to be possessed by him once he has enough Jenova cells. Cloud kills Sephiroth putting him back in the Lifestream. The Lifestream that connects all vii worlds.

AC Sephiroth then uses the lifestream to start appearing before a Cloud that has only just reached Midgar. His Meddling summons the whispers which fight back to keep things to the "cannon" timeline. Sephiroth of course tricks team Avalanche into destroying the head Whisper allowing him to take control of them. Again old news for anyone that knew Sephiroth wanted them to break the bonds of Fate.

But if Sephiroth is using the lifestream to mess with other worlds. it shouldn't be a surprise one of the Aerith's also already in the lifestream got involved too. As other's have pointed out the Aerith that gives cloud the not empty White materia isn't remake Aerith. But another Aerith that pulled him into that universe to give him a functioning white materia. But somehow Remake Aerith knew the hand over happened? Because in the white forest she asks cloud for the materia and they swap so she has a functioning white materia. That part confuses me a little. How did our Aerith know the handoff happened?

Also Rufus and Kadaj have a conversation about how everything's a cycle. That Jenova "Mother" will always try to destroy the planet and the lifestream/humanity will always fight back. Made me realize AC Sephiroth wasn't going back on his timeline to make a new one but hopping into the next timeloop. OG VII and Advent Children's cannon is locked in. Remake is truely that a remaking of the timeline made possible by Cloud and Co defeating the whispers that enforce the timeloops. So now instead of one spiral after another and infinite number of spirals are forming while the remake loop is still happening.

That's why Sephiroth waited until the *spoilers* cannon event to appear in Rebirth. It's an all the stars a line situation. All timeloops have that moment, regardless of how it's different in different versions.

But Rebirth's cannon event was just a test run. Sephiroth wanted to see how much power he could gain just from multiple timelines merging at one point.

Sephiroth already told us what he really wants. The Black materia but not the one from the remake universe no the ultimate black materia forged from all the black materia. And what's the next big plot point that could be a cannon event? Cloud's breakdown at the northern crater after handing the Black Materia over to Sephiroth. If there's any point where the timelines would over lap it would be there. We already saw the power boost Sephiroth got. If that power boost happens to the black Materia yeah that's a multiverse destroying meteor right there.

Wow was that a long wall of text about stuff everyone else probably already knows. But I just had to put all the clarity Advent Children gave me about Remake and Rebirth somewhere. Expect a spiral timeline graphic in the future. Cause I feel like i'm forgetting to explain some of it right.

[faustianfascination]

carnal need

Kinktober Day 1 Day 1. Bondage | Role Reversal

Words: 2021 Pairing: Faust x OC (Ikemen Vampire) Tags: NSFW! MDNI! AU Modern Setting, AU demonFaust, bondage, shadow magic, demon, tentacles, mating press, rough sex, possessive

Faust moved quietly through the apartment, the furniture and belongings twisted and morphed by the neon lights and stark shadows of the city outside. It made the already small space feel even more tight, his unfurled wings nearly spanning the whole room, certainly more than the width of the bed he'd come to a stop at the foot of. The strips of light falling over her sheets accentuated the curves of her body, his eyes travelled over the legs splayed across the sheets. He enjoyed how she had gone to sleep in nothing but a crop tee and lacy thong that did very little to conceal the sensual place between her legs that he was so excited to explore. He'd been watching for days, his desire for this cute little human growing to the point of having to do something about it. Faust with a subtle flick of his hand called upon his shadows, vine like tendrils slithered from him and lightly began weaving themselves around the legs of the sleeping woman, his Persephone. Their ticklish light touches making her body subtly tremble and pulling her from the depths of sleep.

It was the sensation of her cheek being caressed by something so warm that caused her to finally wake. The sensations of warm and smooth things twisting around her caused her to sit bolt upright, only to be confronted with an unearthly sight at the foot of her bed. She was too shocked to scream, frozen in place as her eyes roamed the figure before her. Sinew and muscle that looked carved from marble, his erection prominent enough to cast its own shadow, the imposing height exaggerated by the great black wings outstretched; if she was in more of a humorous mood she would have noted that her tiny home was barely big enough to accommodate his wingspan. Her darting eyes finally fell on his face, blazing hazel eyes struck a chord of recognition, only now his head was crowned not just by blue hair but completed with twisted horns. It took a moment for the incongruity of the image of this demon at the foot of her bed to merge with the sardonic priest she had kept running into recently. But it was the hazel eyes and arrogant grin that confirmed his identiy. Strangely, this form suited him far more she thought, it seemed more authentic to his prickly and arrogant personality. It also made her feel less ashamed of the less than pure thoughts she'd been harbouring for him. The very thoughts that she'd used to relax just earlier this evening…

"Father Faust" left her lips as a breathy whisper as he moved from the foot of her bed to come closer to her, grasping her jaw and gently pulling her face up to look at him. Without his glasses for once, his eyes almost glowing in the dark space making his chuckle feel more sinister than usual

"Like my true form little one" he said, his usually velvety voice even more hypnotising that usual, the little light in the room seeming to illuminate his face. The arrogant grin, and what looked to be a pair of fangs peaking out from his lips "because you have made keeping up the priestly getup excruciatingly difficult and frankly it's time I claimed what is mine. After your little show earlier I know that your desires are not so pure so perhaps you need to repent before you find yourself trapped" her embarrassment and rebuttal didn't have a chance to make it past her lips as his lunged to kiss her. Forceful, dominating and utterly enthralling, the feeling of him sucking on her bottom lip soon replaced as his tongue invaded her mouth and wound around hers similar to how his wings circled around them. She knew she should be scared, terrified of this beast that had crept into her home, but desire burned through her instead. The damned man had been haunting Persephone's thoughts for weeks now, driving her half insane. The feeling of his lips, the shadowy tendrils caressing her body making her lose all sense of rationality. Replaced only by want, by carnal need.

She rose on her knees and pulled him even closer, pressing her sensitive body against the hot solid muscle of his form, feeling every flex, his arousal pressing into her stomach as their lips and tongues danced together. Her fingers touching every bit of hot skin she could grasp, from his back, to his neck, tangling into his soft hair and coming across the bony smooth feeling of the horns protruding from his scalp. A thick base, curling over in loose spirals, the moment she began touching them Faust groaned deeper, rutted against her.

Faust was somewhat impressed she was brave enough to embrace him so readily, lust would truly lead her to her ruin because he would never let such an adorable little guinea pig go now. However, with her fiddling with his horns she'd managed to find a weak spot that was making go mad and he had no desire to give her the reigns right now.

He broke the kiss, pushing her back down onto the bed. It was adorable watching her shock at her tiny amount of clothing burn away without hurting her, leaving her there in all her natural glory. What a divine body she had, he was looking forward to leaving his marks all over it.

First, she needed to keep those hands to herself, otherwise Faust was going to loose what little composure he had. His shadows that had been dancing threads across her skin began the job of restraining those wandering hands. Pulling her down to the bed, wrapping around her wrists, pulling them over her head to secure them to the headboard, the other vines pulling her legs open with surprising force, her body was moved and positioned like a doll but instead of fear it just made her wetter and wanting. The shadows bent her legs, held them there and allowed the demon to enjoy the sight of her petals open and waiting for him. The shadow like ropes slithered over her skin, holding her, binding her, wrapping around her hardening nipples and exerting a light pressure around her throat. The sensation was almost overwhelming in itself, but seeing Faust framed by her open legs, his look of unashamed lust as he looked at her cunt and the rest of her naked body made her breath hitch.

"You're so wet little one, makes me want to fuck you right now" he said while rubbing his own cock "but you still need some more preparation before I take you. I want to see you and that pretty little hole begging" and with that she felt the tendrils trapping her begin to play with her clit, while slowly creeping into her. The intrusion welcomed as the shadows, so ethereal yet solid playing with her most sensitive spots made her restrained body write, her hips bucking and shaking at the sensations. Her moans bounced off the walls, as she began to move and fuck herself against the vines inside her. He could see how much she wanted him, watched her using what little mobility she had to try and take them deeper, her pretty hole overflowing as she began screaming his name, it was testing his patience and making his cock and his fangs throb with hunger. The tears of pleasure falling from her eyes were the last straw. Faust pulled out the shadows inside her, he wanted her to come on his cock, but first she needed to beg.

At the loss of fullness she whined his name, so he moved closer. Caging her bound body beneath him, and started rubbing the head of his cock up and down her folds, pressing it into her clit so hard she arched her back, her pretty face contorting and twisting in pleasure.

"What do you want from me?" he whispered seductively into her ear, her sensitised body trembling from the feeling of him so close. His wings and large body filling her vision totally, trapping her further.

"Please…" she practically wept in his arms while he continued using his engorged cock to tease her

"Please what" he commanded, the feeling of his dominance somehow making her more turned on. She was his plaything now and it was ripping apart the last of her sanity.

"Please…inside" the words were a struggle, her body was so on edge she could barely think let alone articulate what she needed, what she knew he knew she wanted. Persephone thought he'd been a bit of a bully before, she really had no idea.

"Please, inside? You'll need to be clearer than that versúchskaninchen" his voice was gratingly smug, if she could she would have considered hitting him.

"Damnnit Faust, you know what I want. FUCK ME YOU SMUG BASTARD" she practically yelled while glaring at him. Even bound and begging she still managed to be rebellious and spirited and it crumbled the last of his restraint so he finally began sinking into her depths, straight to the hilt. They moaned in unison, the stretch boarded on painful but not quite crossing the threshold. She was overflowing with wetness, it felt so good. The pressure around him, squeezing, fluttering, almost pulling him in further made his head spin. Again they kissed more, his lips exploring every bit of skin they could find, he drew his fangs over her bare skin before finding the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Her blood smelt even better when she was lost in lust, the taste would be exquisite he thought as he finally sunk his fangs in. The pain was brief, overtaken by flame exploding through her, driving her to climax instantly making her head roll back as she screamed his name. Faust practically roared at the feeling of her orgasming around him, her bound body, spread legs allowing him deep into her. He gripped her hips and began thrusting hard, pressing her legs closer to her shoulders, almost folding her in half with his ferocity, it was primal, beastly and made her moan louder, her body shake with each powerful movement.

Each thrust was accompanied by calls of his name, the squelching sound of her come pouring out of her making him glide quicker into her cunt as he pounded, he could also feel her pulling at the shadowy restraints the rougher he got. Until his own climax began to build, the tension building from his hips to his wings. One more thrust deep into her and he finally hit his limit, pulling out so he could cover her in his seed. He watched the thick spurts fall over her stomach, chest and even splash a little on her cheek. The satisfaction of seeing her painted in him was overwhelming, between his shadows, his fangs and his come he'd marked her thoroughly as his. Her quivering form, dripping hole and blissed out expression were rather endearing he thought as he leaned over here again, looking down at her still bound body. Seeing his seed over her cheek, he slowly dipped his finger in it to anoint her forehead in a perverted mockery of his priestly guise. With that he released his shadow bindings and watched her exhausted body go limp on the bed; all except one, an elegant tendril wrapped around her ankle, a smoke like shackle that now bound her to him. Although his stamina was inhuman, she wasn't so as an act of mercy he'd allow her some rest. He gathered her into his arms and lay them both down on the bed, resting her body over his.

She pulled herself close, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling into his neck, enjoying his warmth and hands tracing small circles over her back and hips. It would have been cold if not for his searing body heat, and his wings wrapping around them both; encasing themselves in their own private world.

He would not let go of this fascinating human any time soon.

[rotworld]

The Oldest Dance

you knew a werewolf when you were younger. your lives went in different directions, but you find yourself suddenly reunited under the worst possible circumstances.

->explicit. contains kidnapping, drugging, power imbalance, mentions of noncon and conditioning, biting, feral behavior, mild gore.

.

.

.

You’ve never seen so many stars before.

The thought strikes you only after the sharp burn of adrenaline dies to a simmer. Fear curdles into exhaustion. Time gets fuzzy. Between the hairpin turns of the road and the lush sea of furs and bedding all around you, there’s no way to get your footing or your bearings. You test the rope around your wrists again and there’s no give, no weakness, just an unpleasant, stinging friction where they’ve been chafing your skin. You hear the rumble of the engine, the scrape of tires over dirt, branches dragging like nails across the windows. You can barely see a thing, and it’s not just your blurry, swimming vision, the exhaustion clinging stubbornly to your eyes. It’s dark here and dark outside, the whole world just a mass of merging shadows. 

And the stars…you must not be in town anymore. Not even close to it.

There’s nowhere to go but you still fight to sit up, to get to your knees at least. It’s not a dip in the road or a sudden turn that throws you off balance this time. Someone grabs the back of your neck and shoves you down again. That large, callused hand could almost wrap all the way around your throat if it wanted, but it settles on your nape, squeezing with the gentle but firm chiding of an animal scruffing its young. 

“First one’s awake,” you hear.

There’s a sharp, amused exhale from the front seats, driver’s side. “The one who barely touched their drink, I’m guessing. You got a grip on them?” 

“Yeah. It’s fine, they’re still groggy.” 

You run your hands through the blankets, hoping you look confused instead of searching, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Wool. Flannel. A zipper? Someone curled up on their side, breathing softly. Your elbow bumps into a warm body beside you, a bony shoulder exposed by a sagging, oversized sweater. They mutter in their sleep. The hand on the back of your neck eases when you settle and don’t try to get up again, but it stays, thumb gently stroking. It takes everything you have to keep your breathing calm and even.

Three of you back here, you count. Captives. The other two still out cold. And four of them. Two in the front and two in the back, keeping watch.

“Should only be a half hour or so for the rest, as long as you didn’t give them too much.” You recognize the voice from the passenger seat. He was at the club. Smaller guy, not huge like the one kneeling next to you. Dark hair. Dazzling smile. And touchy, always trying to get in your space, talking a little too close for comfort. It all starts coming back in a slow trickle. Right. The club. And that guy, Corbin, you’ve seen him a few times before, thought he was a little weird but he always seemed to know when to back off. So how…why…?

“Wish we could’ve taken the fourth one, too,” the guy holding you down says wistfully. His hand rubs up and down your back in a soothing, absentminded motion. “Such pretty eyes, and a sweet scent.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from the other guy in the back, a hulking figure sitting against the wall further from you. “Bigger hunts are always more fun,” he murmurs.

“Aww, I know,” Corbin coos. “But trust me, they weren’t a good match. These three, on the other hand? They’re perfect.” There’s a glimmer of light in the front seat—the glare of a cell phone illuminating part of Corbin’s jaw. It’s nearly blinding after your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it suddenly occurs to you why you can’t see anything. Not the men, not much more than lumpy silhouettes, not any trees distinct from the moving shadows beyond the windows; nothing but stars. 

They’re not using headlights. These are wolves.

You surge up in a panic, scrabbling blindly for the doors. It’s probably not a good idea—even if they’re miraculously unlocked, you won’t accomplish much more than tumbling out in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe skin yourself on the road in the process—but your terror is louder than your rational thinking. You fight the hands that grab you, screaming, clawing, biting like an animal, thrashing with all your strength. It takes both of them to pin you back down and you savor that even through the humiliating briefness of your rebellion, wrestled onto your stomach with a hand shoving your head down into the blankets.

You don’t expect him to bite you and that drags a shrill but short noise out of you. You’re not ready for what it feels like, the weight of him across your back and the crunch of his teeth sinking in, a hot gush of blood dribbling past his snarling lips. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t stop. Every time you squirm, every panicked jerk and attempted wriggling movement, makes him growl against your skin. He holds your hands down with his much larger, much stronger ones, fingers pinning yours on either side of your head, and that’s when you finally give in. You aren’t punished for the last nervous shiver that travels down your spine, or the whimper that slips out when he loosens his jaw and pulls away, strings of saliva and sticky blood slicking your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good human. Stay down.” The gentleness of his fingers stroking your scalp makes a sob build in your throat. 

“You got it?” the driver asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I got it. Tried to keep the bite light, but they wouldn’t submit. Might leave a mark.” He traces his thumb over the throbbing wound he left behind, ragged and still bleeding. 

Corbin chuckles. “It’s fine, I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.” You can’t see him clearly but you can tell he’s turned around, leaning slightly around his seat to peer into the back. You can feel his gaze burning into you. “I won’t tell you not to fight. I hope you do,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Talking to you rather than about you, you realize. “I chose you because I knew you would. It’s a good thing. Good for the pack. Eventually, you’ll learn how to pick your battles.” 

“Fuck you,” you say, embarrassed by how shaky and hoarse you sound. 

You can’t see what kind of expression he has, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll thank me someday.” 

It doesn’t take long for the other two to wake after all the commotion. One just stares in silent shock and disbelief. The other starts to cry. The other wolf in the back pulls them into his lap and nuzzles his face against their cheek and neck, as though they want anything to do with him. He grunts unhappily when they cry harder and shove him away. You can just make out a chorus of howls over the sound of the engine. The wolf who bit you starts stroking your back again, a melodic hum rumbling in his chest. 

“The heartland joining us tonight?” the driver asks.

Corbin hums softly. “They’re abstaining. A few might come to watch.” 

“Ah, that’s a shame. I hoped one of these might be a good fit.” 

“Linden needs an absolutely perfect match. It’s my next project.” 

You don’t catch what else they say because those quiet, miserable sobs turn to heartwrenching wailing. The other person in the back starts to plead for their life. The wolf closest to them strokes their cheek. “You’re not going to die,” he murmurs. “Hush. It’ll all make sense soon.” 

The van slows, relief and terror warring in your heart. You can run—and go where? You don’t know where you are, don’t know the way back to town. Outrunning a werewolf is a tall order under the best circumstances. You’re on their turf, in the dark; you don’t stand a chance. Doesn’t matter. You have to try. The road gets rougher, the foliage thicker like grasping hands. The van rolls to a slow, grinding stop and the engine dies. You’re surprised nobody tries to restrain you before the locks disengage and the back doors are thrown open, but it doesn’t take long to see why.

You’re deep in the woods. The full moon drapes a thin, silver gleam over the silhouettes of shifting figures, animal eyes shining in the dark. There must be dozens of them—thirty, maybe forty wolves, all sniffing the air, growling and pacing impatiently. More are still coming, slipping through the trees in the shape of both humans and beasts. You’re completely surrounded. They form a wide circle around the van, all eyes trained on you and the other two petrified people huddled at your back. You can hear them talking to each other, their voices half-feral with barks and growls.

“Three? Just three?” 

“Three’s a lot for the off-season.”

“All awake, too. Afraid and alert. Gonna be a good hunt.” 

“And look at that one in front, bristling like that. Think they’ll bite back?” 

Laughter. Your stomach churns. One of the wolves gets out of the van while the other leans in close at your side, the two of them gradually easing you out and onto your feet. A door slams. The wolf who was driving gets out, stretches his legs. You see him kick off his shoes and shed his shirt, tossing his clothes into the driver’s seat before he suddenly falls down on all fours and shifts into a wolf. The change is nearly instant, a chorus of unpleasant, bone-cracking sounds, his skin engulfed in dark fur. Corbin wanders into view, glancing at the three of you with an expression of infuriating tranquility. 

Golden light flickers in the corner of your vision. The crowd parts and the man who steps forward makes the wolves you’ve seen so far seem small and delicate in comparison. Massive and towering over all the rest, his chest bare and broad, muscled shoulders adorned with tattoos, he comes forward with a lantern in his hand and a sharp grin on his face. The others all have that intimidating air about them but this one truly looks like a werewolf, overwhelming and wild. His sharp gaze flicks to each of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as, one by one, he looks you in the eyes and speaks your names. 

“Welcome, chosen,” he says. “My name is Vanagandr, and this is Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is eager to meet you. Are you well?”

It takes you a moment to understand this is a serious, genuine question. He waits patiently for an answer, studying each of you in turn. “Are we well?” you repeat in disbelief. “Are you for real?” 

To your dismay, he finds your anger harmless and amusing, a soft chuff of laughter escaping his lips. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel sick or hungover? Any injuries, particularly to the legs or feet? Be honest. We have a medic.” 

The two cowering behind you don’t say a word, too afraid to even lift their gazes. One of them is shaking, clinging to your shoulder. Still, Vanagandr waits, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on. Eventually, one of them shakes their head. The other mutters a quiet, “I’m fine.” The wolves around you stare and point openly, muttering to one another about which one of you smells the best, which one looks the softest, the most defiant, the most fun to train. 

“I was bitten,” you mutter.

He doesn’t wait for you to show him, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you in place. His hand is large, his nails sharp like claws. He traces the teeth marks in your neck and growls softly. The wolf who bit you stiffens and turns his head. Baring his throat, you realize.

It’s then that you see Corbin slink closer, pressing himself against the enormous wolf’s side. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says in a soft, demure tone, his head bowed so he looks up at Vanagandr through his thick lashes. “He couldn’t let up because they wouldn’t submit. It took a little while.”

“I figured as much,” Vaganadr chuckles. He rubs his face against Corbin’s neck and jaw, a gesture that strikes you as odd, affectionate, and a touch possessive. “Go on. Your alpha’s looking for you.” At that, Corbin’s eyes light up and he slips away with one last lingering touch to Vanagandr’s shoulder, but he doesn’t rush to leave. He meanders through the crowd of wolves and the others greet him with the same eager affection, grabbing him, passing him amongst themselves like a toy to sniff and touch and grope shamelessly. The display unsettles you and in your haste to find somewhere else to look, you see something that makes your heart skip a beat.

A small group has just arrived. These wolves are younger, noticeably nervous and fidgeting. They’re led by a wolf who looks like he got stuck in the middle of shifting, limbs long and furred, hands and feet tipped with claws, a bushy tail swishing behind him. He’s talking to them in a low, gravelly voice, something about herding and not rushing, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters except for one wolf who stands out from the rest. Not because he does anything unusual. Not because he’s particularly big or intimidating looking—he always was bigger than you but here, he’s average. Right at home. 

You know that wolf. You recognize the scars slashed from his hairline to his jaw, long, jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. You remember that nervous little twitch of the nose whenever he ran into something new, some situation that made him nervous. He’s grown his hair out longer, let it spill over his shoulders and down his back in thick, black waves, but you know it’s him. The fearful expression on his face transforms into full-blown panic when your eyes meet.

“Flint?” All you can manage is a strangled whisper but you know he hears you. An unhappy, dog-like whine rises in his throat. “Flint? What—why are you here?” You aren’t thinking when you push your way towards him. No one is stopping you but you barely notice, don’t even hesitate to wonder why. You shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the uneasy glances, Vanagandr gone completely still and silent behind you.

Flint lowers his gaze, staring at the grass by your feet. You’re further from the lantern and the shadows are thick, his face half-hidden in flickering, lurching darkness, but you can hear him panting the way he always would when he felt overwhelmed. Your name comes out in a needy whine, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No…no, no, no, not yet…” He has trouble getting the words out, and even more trouble trying to look you in the eye. His voice is exactly the way you remember, low and rough and painfully quiet, like he’s afraid to speak any louder than a rumbling whisper. “I’m not—I’m not ready, I can’t…”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they kidnap you, too?” you ask, your voice raising with anger the more you speak. You know next to nothing about wild wolves, but you know Flint is meek and easy to boss around, the kind of person who got picked on by other wolves when you were younger. The tall werewolf, the one who looks caught between human and animal, steps closer as though he means to separate you. “Don’t touch him!” you snap. He looks down at you, an expression of muted surprise smoothing into understanding. 

“Corbin,” he says quietly. The smaller man rushes over, now carrying the lantern Vanagandr held earlier. “You two. Follow.” He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you. He just starts walking. You’re startled that Flint obeys without question, keeping his head down. Corbin grabs your forearm and drags you along, frowning at your attempts to squirm free and pry his fingers off. 

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Remember what I said before about picking your battles?” he asks. You’re suddenly aware of just how quiet the clearing has become, all eyes on you. Vanagandr watches you very carefully, his gaze hardened and threatening. You glance ahead where the tall werewolf has stopped moving, looking back over his shoulder. 

Flint is hunched next to him, head down, whimpering. The wolf has a hand on his forearm, gripping hard enough to leave marks. You take a deep breath. Fine. You can play along for now. You’ll do anything for Flint’s sake. 

*

Wolves have their own gods. 

Flint knew that when he was little, of course, but it was a vague sort of awareness. Hearsay, rather than knowledge. Wolves, he was surely told at some point, have many faiths and traditions depending on where they live or where they come from. But these things are distant for city wolves, even shameful at times. Why stick out any more than you already, unavoidably do? His family had distanced themselves from any sort of archaic, wild customs long before even his parents were born. When he followed the family tree as far back as it went, tracing those ancient scribbles on the old, yellowed parchment kept hidden in his father’s lockbox, he found strange symbols and names he wasn’t sure how to pronounce. The word ulfhednar was written in thick, black ink.

When he repeated the word to his parents, they looked at him like he’d dragged a human corpse through the front door and dropped it at their feet. “It’s an old, awful thing that you shouldn’t tell anyone,” his mother warned. And that was that. For years, he went on thinking there was something wrong with him, some secret shame he’d unknowingly inherited. It isn’t until much later—until Hoarfrost Falls—that he finds out the truth. Ulfhednar is not a dirty word, but it is something city wolves don’t talk about.

That, and gods. They don’t talk about those either. Not the old ones like the Poised Fang, god of the perfect strike. Some have forgotten and some no longer understand. Sawyer taught him all about that. Sawyer, who leads the three of them now—him and the hrefn and you, he can hardly believe it, you where he least expects to see you, exactly the wrong place and exactly the wrong time. He hadn’t even planned on being there. He was still too new to take part in the claiming chase, still too uncomfortable with the realities of acquiring pack humans to even watch.

Sawyer had insisted. He was kind about it. He had waited until the evening lessons were over to pull Flint aside, dusk simmering like dying embers along the horizon. Flint’s peers had all come from loose, disorganized city packs. Like him, they had dulled senses and smothered instincts. Their shifts were slow and uncomfortable because they’d all learned to do it quietly, stifling the popping of their joints and the rearranging of their bones in a way that left them winded when it was over. 

There was comfort and camaraderie in being new and terrible at everything together, but Flint knew he was falling behind. The others were just as clueless but twice as eager, embracing each new facet of wild pack life while Flint was still reeling. He didn’t think they were judging him for it—he desperately hoped not—but he wasn’t sure. He was used to being an outcast. His whole life, he’d been the obvious werewolf in a room full of humans. He was tall, strongly built, his limbs thick with muscle, his nails constantly needing to be filed down as they grew quicker and sharper than he could keep up with. He’d tried joining packs before. Things always started well and soured quickly. City wolves would look at him and assume he was something wild, and as soon as they realized he wasn’t, he’d start getting pushed around and singled out. He didn’t like making a fuss so he just did what he was told and kept his head down.

But you—you would fight for him. You always did. You’d find out, no matter how hard he tried to keep these things quiet, and you’d tell him you were going to his next pack meeting. You’d be the smallest one in the room between all those werewolves, and you’d still march right up to whatever loudmouth was calling themselves alpha and tear them a new one. You’d demand all of his stuff back if anything had been taken and placed in communal storage—family heirlooms, usually, fur-lined coats and old quilts. Sometimes you’d manage to get a few of his membership fees reimbursed by citing breaches of contract, listing all the ways his pack had failed to behave like his pack.

You’d gotten hurt doing that, just once. It was the last pack he’d tried joining, the last desperate attempt to find belonging. The alpha had claimed his car as a pack asset and taken his keys, and you’d marched in there and refused to leave until they were put in your hand. Yelling had turned to shoving and someone had bitten you. Flint is ashamed to admit that he can’t fully remember everything that happened, only that he woke up in wolfskin, lying on the tile floor of his shower. You were kneeling next to him beneath the spray of warm water and running your fingers through his fur, wet, partially shredded clothes hanging off your body. Blood swirled down the drain.

“Not mine,” you assured him. “Not all yours, either, but don’t move around too much.” 

He thinks about that all the time. He dreams about it. Curled up with his head in your lap and your hands running up and down his body, your touch soothing and affectionate. That’s what he was thinking of earlier tonight when Sawyer stopped him as the others ran off to gossip excitedly with their elders about the new pack humans coming up the mountain. Sawyer led him down a trail that wandered away from the commune’s structures, deeper into the woods.

Flint smelled it before he saw it; perspiration. Excitement. Arousal. A human and a werewolf. The end of a chase. They were up ahead, tucked away in a grove of crooked, towering oak trees. The human was making soft, scared sounds as she was forced down to her knees and made to present herself in proper submission, but she smelled eager and Flint saw a smile before her head was shoved down into the leaves. The wolf growled playfully when he mounted her, nuzzling against the nape of her neck. He whispered something in Old Wolven Norse; a term of endearment, Flint guessed, from the tone.

It felt wrong to stand there and watch. They’d come here to be alone, hadn’t they? But Sawyer looked at him sharply when Flint glanced back the way they’d come. They were going to talk here? In earshot of another wolf and his human as they joined in bliss, rutting on the forest floor? Sawyer did nothing without a reason. There was something Flint was meant to see here, something he was supposed to learn. 

“You don’t want to watch tonight’s claiming,” Sawyer said quietly. “I think you should.” 

Flint said nothing. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was too focused on the human’s alluring scent, their needy whimpers and squirming as the wolf took them. Would…would you look like that, under him? Would you be so open, so sweet? So much had gone unsaid between the two of you before. You weren’t together. You’d never broached the subject, even though he could smell your interest in him. He hadn’t wanted to push, terrified of scaring you away. 

“Flint.” Sawyer was studying his face in the subtle way wolves did, a sidelong glance whenever he let his guard down. “Something’s on your mind.” 

Flint swallowed. He could feel himself reacting to the couple in front of him, the tender flesh at the base of his cock where his knot swells up pulsing gently, and he was ashamed. “I’m thinking about studying a different trade,” he admitted. 

Sawyer said nothing. Flint found himself looking desperately at his face, searching for signs of anger or disappointment, and found him completely unreadable. Sawyer was stone-faced and taciturn most of the time. Flint had to take a deep breath, relax himself, and remember to look elsewhere for answers. Sawyer’s scent was…calm. His tail was still, slightly raised in curiosity but there was no evidence of aggression or displeasure in his posture. He tilted his head slightly and avoided direct eye contact, looking in Flint’s general direction rather than right at him, trying not to make him feel threatened. 

Emboldened, Flint continued. “It’s not your fault, it’s all me. You’ve done so much for me since I got here. You’re always patient with me no matter what I screw up. I know I can tell you things and you’ll listen. It’s just…I don’t think I can do this. I wouldn’t be a good shepherd.”

Sawyer grunted. It was more of a wolf sound than a human one, a chiding growl and a resigned huff all in one. “You’re the only one who decides your path. But if you want my opinion, I disagree. You’d make an exceptional shepherd.”

Flint shook his head. “I could never hurt them. I can’t wrap my head around it. The whole claiming thing, the biting, the…”

“Fucking?” Sawyer said it so easily. 

“We’re forcing them, aren’t we? They don’t want it.”

“They do. They just don’t know it yet.” Sawyer had barely taken his eyes off the wolf and the human since they’d arrived, something nostalgic and bittersweet in his gaze. He nodded to the two of them, the human writhing in mindless pleasure and the wolf pounding her breathless, groaning into the flesh of her shoulder. “They’re no different from us. Strip the wild out of them and they become caged, miserable animals. Here, they learn to heed their instincts again.”

Flint knew that. He’d been taught all of this before. Alpha Druian told him that most humans lived in societies of suffering, and Flint knew he was right because he’d seen it himself, had lived in it for most of his life. Taking pack humans, teaching them everything they’d forgotten after centuries of isolating themselves from wolves—it was all natural and beautiful. It was the steps in between that he had trouble rationalizing; the claiming and the training. The fear and the pain, how new humans shivered at the sight of him and whimpered when he came too close. He was told that this, too, was perfectly normal, a necessary and expected part of the process. 

He heard a quiet chuckle. A smile tugged at the corner of Sawyer’s lips. “This is why you’d be so good at it,” he said. “I stopped shepherding a long time ago, but those instincts never go away. I know what to look for. All that thinking and worrying, that’s what we’re best at. The pack’s most tenderhearted are the ones who should be closest to our humans. Confidence is important. Being able to make difficult choices and administer discipline, that’s also important. But you have to care, more than anything. You have to want what’s best for them.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he hadn’t said anything. Sawyer had simply stood beside him as the shadows grew and the sky darkened, night draping across the mountain. They watched the wolf bring the human to climax once, twice, a third time shuddering and wailing as her toes curled, the wolf’s hands roaming her sensitive body. When he finally spilled inside her, he sank his teeth into her neck. The spot was already marked and the precise way he angled his head, tonguing at the indentations before biting down, told Flint that was his mark. His human. A bond, renewed and made even stronger. He thought of you again and realized he was fully hard.

And now—here you are. He’s not ready. He can’t meet your worried gaze. Sawyer leads the way to the guest house, a large cabin where friends and allies stay while visiting the territory. Neutral, scentless ground. You’re wary, probably because you can’t see very well. Corbin sets the lantern down on a table but the light is dim, unable to crawl into all the cozy nooks and crannies in the spacious common area. Flint is happy that you go to him, sticking close to his side, but he doesn’t like how stiff and standoffish you are. He risks inching closer, pressing himself against you—and he smells another wolf on you. Saliva. Blood. A bite? Without thinking, he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, nostrils flaring at the sight of the wound.

“I’m sorry, Flint. I had no idea,” Corbin says softly. “The bite happened on the way here. It was intended to force submission.” He reaches out, trying to offer comfort. You slap his hand away. Flint’s hand twitches at his side, instincts warring within him. He wants to soothe you. Wants to scold you. Wants to protect you. Wants to protect Corbin. Paralyzed by indecision, he does nothing. Corbin’s attention shifts from Flint to you, his expression thoughtful. Part of Flint lurches in fear at the thought of Corbin getting his hands on you. Training you, the way he helps Druian train all the new arrivals. He sees that eager look in Corbin’s eyes, the way his gaze roams. He’s sizing you up. Finding weaknesses. Memorizing all of your movements, conscious and unconscious, how you carry yourself, how long you can look him in the eye.

Another part of him, deeply buried, considers it with alarming calmness. Before Hoarfrost Falls, he’d blame those thoughts on his “inner wolf,” but Sawyer has cautioned him against that kind of mental partitioning. “Don’t cut yourself into pieces,” he’d say. He is a wolf and a man and the melding of those things, all together, all at once. He is the clear-headed human understanding that you have every right and reason to be terrified right now, and he is also the feverish need to wrap around you in wolfskin as though his closeness can take all of your worries away.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Corbin says. An absurd statement, intended to be disarming. You make a sound that’s not quite a laugh, sharp and guarded, not taking the bait. Flint is proud—excited—for reasons he is afraid to identify. “I’m serious. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I know how it looks from your perspective, but—” 

“You slipped something in my drink,” you say, accusing. “You kidnapped me, and two other people.” 

“‘Kidnapped’ is a really loaded word.” 

“Sit.” Sawyer’s voice comes from the far end of the room, by the windows. He’s got the long, draping curtains pulled shut to hide your view of the woods, just in case the chase comes this way. Corbin drops where he’s standing, immediately settling onto the soft rug. Flint seats himself on the couch, dismayed when you don’t follow his lead. You’re still standing, looking Sawyer in the eye and glaring hatefully. Flint understands suddenly what’s happening here, why you’re not just uneasy but furious. 

“It’s not like that,” he tries to tell you, tugging at your hand. “This pack, they’re not like the others.”

“That’s what you always say. And then they boss you around and take advantage of you,” you mutter. And that’s true. He would always say that everything’s fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his problems, and he didn’t want you getting hurt trying to defend him. It was all backwards. He was supposed to protect you. The ulfhednar didn’t just have pack humans, they had human allies, human trade partners, human settlements within their territory they defended from harm. 

And yet, here you are with another wolf’s bite on your neck. Here he is, failing you again.

“Sit down, human,” Sawyer repeats. “You want an explanation. I’ll give it to you.”

“Are you the alpha?” you ask.

“Beta. Sit, please.” 

Flint lets out a shaky, relieved breath when you finally obey, sinking onto the cushion beside him. Sawyer makes his approach slow and indirect, pacing, pretending to fuss over the decor. He straightens out a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and returns a book left on the table to its proper shelf. It works. You don’t relax completely but you follow his movements with your eyes, curiosity rounding the edges of your annoyance. You try to hide it when Sawyer finishes his minor adjustments and comes to stand in front of you, towering over Corbin beside him, but your sweetening scent gives you away.

Flint knows he should let the pack beta speak, but the guilt is eating him alive. “This is my fault,” he blurts out. You look at him the same, soft way you always have. 

“That’s not true,” Corbin insists. “It’s mine. I should’ve been more thorough—”

Sawyer growls quietly. “It’s nobody’s fault.” He mutters in Old Wolven Norse, “It’s fate. Keep your fangs poised.” 

Flint’s heart skips a beat. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s not ready. He feels a whine building in his throat and bites it back, embarrassed by how readily his feelings show. He’s always been bad at keeping growls and barks out of his speech, especially when he’s particularly nervous or excited, overwhelmed by emotion. Sawyer glances at him, holds eye contact for a meaningful moment, before he returns his attention to you.

“This is Hoarfrost Falls. We’re what you would call a ‘wild pack,’ although we welcome wolves of other backgrounds if they’re willing to make the lifestyle adjustment. My name is Sawyer. You’ve met Corbin, our hrefn—”

“Your what?” you say.

Sawyer visibly bristles at the interruption but doesn’t comment on it. He runs his hand through Corbin’s hair and Corbin melts under the attention, nuzzling his face into the dark, thick fur on Sawyer’s thigh. “It’s his rank,” Sawyer says, pausing to consider his word choice. “He’s a pack human with authority over our other pack humans.”

“Pack humans? That’s a real thing?” You sound horrified. You’re looking at Corbin like he’s something wounded on the side of the road. 

“It’s real. It’s why you were brought here. Normally, you’d be enjoying your initiation right now, but I pulled you out for the pack’s safety.”

“The pack’s safety?” you echo, disbelieving. “How are you the ones in danger?”

Sawyer says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at Flint, and Flint looks anywhere else, and you know. You remember. He’s territorial. Obsessed, people used to say, as if they’d never yearned for a human before. City wolves like to pretend they don’t have instincts. He tried to pretend, too. But any little thing could happen—you could scrape your knee on the pavement, or someone could raise their voice a little too loud while talking to you—and he’d feel himself growling, bristling, ready to fight and die for you. 

When he saw you earlier tonight, knowing what would happen, imagining you stumbling afraid through the woods with some other wolf lunging and pinning you and leaving marks, he felt that reckless urge rise up like an inferno beneath his skin. He’d nearly thrown himself at Alpha Vanagandr—would’ve, if Sawyer and the others hadn’t talked him down. 

“It’s clear to me that you’re Flint’s. His…friend,” Sawyer amends, seeing your expression pinch in confusion. “I don’t know much about you. He doesn’t like talking about his old life and I don’t like to dredge it up more than necessary.”

Flint bows his head, feeling guilty again. “I left someone behind.” That’s all he could bring himself to say when the subject came up. It wasn’t entirely true; you’d both gone your separate ways. But he’d left first—decided to try his luck with distant family in another city, relatives his parents rarely spoke to. You’d tried to keep in touch but things had fizzled out. You were both busy with your own lives and your talks became less frequent. You left messages for each other on occasion; pictures from you, embarrassingly long and heartfelt texts that felt more like letters from him. He wanted you to know he was okay. He was strong and capable, and you didn’t have to worry.

“So can we go?” you ask.

The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitches, the movement very quick and very slight but unmistakably a suppressed snarl. “We?” he repeats stiffly.

“I’m not leaving without Flint.”

Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin, terrified by your open defiance and how you won’t drop your gaze, even more afraid that he’ll lose control himself at any moment. He trusts his mentor but Sawyer has a reputation. He forgets to go easy on pack humans sometimes. He can be harsh, less forgiving of trespasses, dangerously aggressive in the heat of the moment. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sawyer comes any closer. Flint knows there’s an old, awful story behind all his scars carving through the thick wolf fur he can’t fully retract. It’s not always easy to tell what’ll set him off.

It’s just as hard to predict what he’ll laugh off and deem unthreatening. Flint sags in relief when Sawyer lets out an amused huff, his posture loosening somewhat. Whatever he was looking for, whatever it is that reminds him of his scars, he doesn’t find it in you. If anything, he looks a little fond of you. “You’d better stay put,” Sawyer says. “The claiming hunt isn’t over. Won’t be for a little while. No one would purposefully antagonize Flint, but nobody is thinking clearly during a chase, either. Do you want something to eat or drink?” You glare at him. “Suit yourself. I have to speak with the alpha about this. Corbin, you’re dismissed. Let’s give them some space.” 

Corbin never takes his eyes off you as he gets to his feet, returning your scowl with a sweet smile. “It was so nice to meet you,” he purrs. 

Your frown deepens. “Feeling’s not mutual.” 

“Mm. Give it time.” He winks before Sawyer herds him out the door with a playful growl.

Sawyer pauses on the porch, looking back at you with a sharp gaze. “Stay,” he rumbles. He smirks. You think he’s making fun of you, but his gaze shifts to Flint just briefly. Flint’s heart skips a beat. 

Because Sawyer does nothing without a reason. All of that, every little thing, had a purpose. Getting you accustomed to hearing commands. Keeping his distance to put you at ease. Bringing Corbin along showed you that the pack keeps humans, that they’re fed, cared for, permitted some mischief from time to time. Giving you an order he knows you won’t follow wasn’t for you, though. That was for Flint. Because Flint is a shepherd, and when you disobey, it’s his responsibility to do something about it.

Your shoulders sag, a long sigh slipping out when the guest house door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. It’s just the two of you now. You and Flint. His hands shake. He tries to take deep breaths to calm himself but every inhale is full of your scent, the sharpness of your sweat and worry. He’s not ready. He’s petrified. What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to say? He wants to tell you so many things but the words won’t come. They never do. You’ve always understood what he tries to say, even when he can’t say it, but you don’t understand the situation you’re in now.

“Come on,” you say. “He’s probably bringing the alpha back with him. We have to hurry.” You rub your face on a few blankets and pillows—decoys. He recognizes this trick. You’ll take those with you when you run, toss them around to hide your trail. Then you rush to the kitchen and he follows nervously, reminded of a dozen other messes you’ve gotten him out of before. You turn on the sink and lather up the strongest-smelling soap you can find in the cupboards, scrubbing your face, your neck, your wrists, any exposed skin. Your natural scent isn’t gone but it’s smothered in earthy musk because all of the pack’s homemade soaps smell like the woods. Clever. Worryingly so.

“They didn’t…kidnap me,” he admits. “I chose to come here.”

You pause to look at him, your stony focus softening with sympathy. “Yeah? I bet it wasn’t what you thought it’d be,” you say. 

You’re right. Just not the way you think you are. “This isn’t like before. They’re different. The alpha is good. I know it seems strange. They’re not like the packs we’re used to. But—” 

“Flint.” You look up at him and his voice catches in his throat. “Come here. Your turn.” 

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t encourage this any further. He has to be honest with you, has to make you understand. “It’s not safe out there,” he says weakly. “Sawyer wasn’t lying about the chase. It gets…intense. If anybody catches your scent—”

“They won’t,” you insist. You take one of his hands in his and his resolve crumbles bit by bit, eroded by the tender smoothing motions of your fingers over his palm and knuckles and joints. He’s thinking about that shower you took together years ago. The warmth. The safety. The certainty that he was home at last, pack or no pack, that he had everything he wanted. Hoarfrost Falls is where he belongs, but something has been missing all this time, something important. He can’t help it. When you tug on his arm, he kneels, letting you smooth your hands over his face and neck, shutting his eyes and savoring your touch. 

He’s not ready. But Sawyer told him he doesn’t have to be. Now and then, when the other lessons are done, they sit under the moon and talk about gods. “The Poised Fang is old. Very, very old,” Sawyer told him. “In his time, wolves had no names. Humans were prey. Smart, vicious prey, worthy of respect. The hunt is the oldest dance, and he is the best dancer. There are others who came after—gods of hearth-keeping and shepherding. But when you see a human—your human—you call on the Poised Fang first. That’s why we have that saying in Old Wolven. ‘Keep your fangs poised.’ It’s an invocation. Do you know the key to hunting humans?”

Flint hadn’t known. The topic made him squeamish. But Sawyer reassured him they meant it differently now. That the Poised Fang, timeless and eternal, was pleased that the hunt continued, even if its end had changed.

“The key is patience. It’s not strength. Not readiness. Patience. You’ll see this firsthand someday. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to wait. The moment will come.” 

Flint opens his eyes and you’re staring at him, your palms framing his face. He nuzzles against your touch and you blink, startled, pulling away. It makes him want to growl but he holds it in. “We should get going,” you tell him. You’re embarrassed. He can smell it. You shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. He wishes the two of you had talked about it before—all of it. Your feelings. His instincts. The desire to hold you close and leave you drenched in his scent. The throbbing need to sink his teeth into your neck. 

“It’s a long way to the nearest town,” he tells you, his voice low but steady. “Hours. Too far on foot, for you.” 

“Shit. They didn’t take your keys, did they? Guess we could steal theirs.” You laugh. Flint smiles. He’s not ready. He’s a storm inside, hope and fear and revulsion all crashing against one another. Some part of him has always known he would come back for you, but he wanted more time. More certainty. Then again, hasn’t he already had all the time he needs? Nobody knows you better. You peer through the front windows, then the back. 

“Is there a river nearby?” you wonder aloud. “It rained the other day. Should be able to cover our scent with mud, if we have to.” 

Flint inches closer. Afraid. Excited. He’s panting. He can’t help it. The truth is that he’s going to have to hurt you. Just a little. Just enough. You’re going to scream and cry and it’s going to feel like a knife in the heart, but he knows you’ll feel even worse. And that’s okay, he tells himself. That’s normal. Natural. Part of the process. Like when you were children, and he got a splinter stuck in his paw, and you sat him down with a pair of tweezers and scratched under his chin while he whined. He didn’t want you to touch it but you insisted. It had to come out. It would hurt just a tiny bit one last time, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s just like that. 

“Look!” you’d said, pointing up at a tree. “Squirrel!” 

He knew, logically, that you were just trying to distract him. But he’d perked up anyway, took his eyes off of you, and then it was done. Over in a blink. It’s just like that, he tells himself. He whispers a prayer in Old Wolven Norse to the Poised Fang, begging to know if prey can ever forgive the predator for the sharpness of his teeth.

“I love you,” he says. 

You freeze. Your palm hovers over the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth parted in shock, a question starts forming on your lips. And like the oldest of his gods stalking a primeval forest, Flint does not waste the moment. 

[bleongambetta]

A singular rite in the life of a tabletop designer is the creation of their D&D heartbreaker. I’ve held off on it personally, in part by making near-misses like RADCrawl, but the siren song has proven to be a little too powerful and thus I’ve started on extremely temporarily named BL-G Hack. It is just coincidence that I’m additionally trying out blogging at the same time, after reading a Twitter (X?) thread with discussion of how much in the indie space is lost to Discord.

I’m starting from a framework of what I want the game to feel like and how I want to work on the game.

What I Want The Game To Feel Like

In terms of the table experience, I want the game to feel like playing a mostly theater of the mind D&D. I’m a huge 4e apologist, but for this I want to try to capture what it felt like to play D&D as a kid and we goofed around with world and city maps, but didn’t usually get out the grid for combat. I want to evoke some of the Catalogue TTRPG feeling, but ideally with choosing things pretty quickly. I want for characters to feel powerful and be able to do cool things, without feeling like bags of HP.

There’s definitely some merging of PbtA and D&D that I’m aiming for; but I don’t want it to feel like PbtA. I’m aiming for resolution systems that give interesting results, not full on Moves. You roll d20s.

I want to have players battling monsters and feeling like badasses. I want the game to feel ‘gamey.’ I’m developing a set of toys that tell a fantasy story.

I want to simultaneously have the joy and excitement of playing a West Marches game while avoiding the feeling of ‘go out and conquer.’ I love looking at a map, exploring it, battling things, and grabbing riches… but I don’t want to casually recreate the same approach of D&D of ‘orcs are evil, we are allowed to take their stuff.’ Balancing that is a little fiddly, but I think I have a solution that I am comfortable with.

How I Want To Build This Game

I want to approach this game in the style of blogs, Dragon magazine, and tiny splat books of the 3.5 era. Scenarios, skills, abilities, classes, monsters, etc should be able to be relatively stand alone; the kind of thing that I can sit down and crunch something out over the span of a lunch break or two. I think I’m going to try to keep barrier to entry on this low, the intent is to let people explore what kind of D&D I like to play.

That said, I’m aiming to be able to after initial release have some fun with zine-size releases that give some locations, some monsters, class options, etc. I’m actually truly hoping to get a group together to actually PLAY this game and have that playing inform design… but, let’s stay realistic here.

Core Systems

So, without further delay… the first bites of The BL-G Hack.

Characters have stats, probably six of them, probably the same D&D stats. When a roll is called for, the player rolls at least a d20 and tries to get under their stat for a hit. A basic roll is d20, a proficient roll is 2d20, and there may be higher bonus dice than that.

One hit (rolling under your stat) gives you a partial, marginal, or barely managed success. Two hits (rolling twice under your stat or your stat exactly) is a full hit, a heroic hit. Three or more hits (rolling thrice under your stat or an exact roll plus an under) is a truly superheroic hit.

Characters have classes, which give them proficiency in some scenarios which allows them to roll two d20s instead of one. They also give them a couple of Abilities that allow them to do cool things and a table for starting equipment. When characters level up, they’ll get new abilities which can come from any class or situational ones. Character classes will be specific (think prestige classes from 3.5 rather than base classes), but hopefully pretty mix and match.

Between adventures, are Map Phase and Company Phase. The GM will run the Map Phase where dark forces move, quests and landmarks are added, and the map is revealed by the player’s actions. Additionally, some player abilities will allow them to be invited to Map Phase or give input into Map Phase. Company Phase is run by the players, where they can share equipment, spend gold to roll for purchases, and take downtime activities.

Call to Adventure

The world is misted in a choking miasma; remnants from the Shattering when the death of gods sent magic running wild, slaughtering and corrupting all it burned over. In few seats of power the mages who did not succumb to the falling produced the Dimlight crystals that hold back the corruption and prevented all life from being burned out. The spells that produce these Dimlight artifacts destroyed the mages who cast them, turning their bodies into haunting, crystaline statues that radiate safety. In larger cities, where mages worked in circles, the protection may extend over neighborhoods. In rural areas, where only a single adept worked the protection may be as little as a room.

The world in miasma is dangerous; elemental monsters and corrupted humanity feeds on all who dare delve into the mist. The very air stings to breathe where Dimlight doesn’t clarify it and can have worse effects. There are refugees in the miasma and small enclaves that have gained access to Dimlight, but most are clinging to a solitary existance separate from the world. Those who live in cities where Dimlight is more plentiful have can live more normal lives, though communication with other cities and wealth remain exclusive to the hands of nobles and the wealthiest merchants.

The world just changed; Dimlight has been miniaturized. A new generation of Dimlight spells can be created without killing it’s user and requiring significantly less space for the artificial crystal. Dimlight torches offer the greatest possibility, an opportunity for adventurers to delve into the miasma and destroy the godsplinters that corrupt the land. The world is still dangerous, even when the miasma pulls back the monsters remain. But there is no end to the treasures that could be gained; abandoned riches, incredible power, and reclaiming homes long lost.

Roadmap

Currently I've got this, four out of five starting character classes, and some ideas that I've got to get into paper. The actual PDF of it is probably a little bit off, but I'm hoping to have an accessible, playable version available soon.

If you'd like to get it as soon as possible, consider backing my Patreon where I'll be doing an announcement post with a link soon! There'll be an itch page too, but it'll need to be more final before that.

So what do you think? Wanna play some BL-G Hack?

[wip]

Right now, this seems to be the place to submit feature requests for tumblr. Are there any plans to create an actual forum for feature requests (and possibly bug reports) where anyone with a tumblr account could post (preferably not just on Mondays), and duplicate threads could be merged, and there could be some kind of tagging and ticketing system to keep things organized? Sorry for the run-on sentence, but I think this would be especially helpful now that you're shifting more of the platform towards open-source software like StreamBuilder and ActivityPub, since it would help keep things organized not just for your developers but also for any potential open source contributors.

Answer: Hey, @eda0bdedb8ba!

We have actually thought about something similar, and it could be a useful space. The consensus we came to, however, is that it does not make sense for us to move forward with this work at this time, particularly given the range of other projects—we don't have the bandwidth to look at it properly. 

That said, it is hoped we can revisit this in future when we have the time and space to take a better look into it. It could be a great feature, as you outline.

As always, we suggest you keep an eye out here or at @changes for updates. Thanks for your question!

[the-exhausted-xexandaler]

Something occurred to me while watching the Doctor Who episode ‘Twice upon a Time’ in excitement for the holidays when I realized something. The past few deaths of the Doctor foreshadow at least a little bit of the next Doctor’s run of the series.

Jodie Whittaker had a big thing about her memories being scrambled and missing a massive piece of her life, and Peter Capaldi’s period ended while he was tryinng to figure out what Testamony was up to.

Peter Capaldi had a big thing about being ‘the one who gets to name things’ what with the Boneless, Sandmen (actually coined by Clara but the only other idea was ‘Dustmen’) and Dryads and Matt Smith’s time ended as he refused to give the true name of the Doctor.

The big explosion that would have erased all of time and space during Matt Smith’s run and the Pandorica being a big thing that he swapped places with Amelia Pond to keep her alive was foreshadowed by David Tennant’s technically second run as the Doctor was death by radiation poisoning in a confined box by switching with Wilfred Mott while the timelords are trying to break through time and space to bring Gallifrey and it’s inhabitants to our solar system to escape the Time War.

Christopher Eccleston wasn’t killed by the Dalek’s at the end of his run, but the ones in his finale are all mutated humans to look and behave like Daleks right? Well guess what David Tennant had to deal with. Dalek and human DNA merging, Davros flat out making new Daleks from his own cells, dare I bring up the Master also making monsters out of humanity? The very last of humanity in existence even.

The reboot iterations of the modern Doctors seem to have frequent runnins with events that relate to how they previously died. Hell even John Hurt’s brief tenure as the Doctor had him making the choice (just took him 400 years to get to the point that he was able to make it) was foreshadowed by Paul McGann making the choice between being a Healer or a Warrior and the trauma John felt cascaded into Christopher’s Doctor being more on edge and remorseful and those events could also be seen as a tie to the outcome of the episode ‘The Doctor Dances’.

Just saying that it’s either very well planned out by a bunch of nerds or bery much a coincidence and I need to stop eating sweets before bed.

Still… makes you wonder if we can predict more events of Ncuti Gatwa’s run by how either David’s third run or Jodie’s period ended. Probably David’s since he was directly before Ncuti.

[averageartistamber]

First attempt at making an Ultra Dude, there's definitely a bit of a challenge to making them look right. Not quite sure if I'm there yet.

Seeing as everyone's losing their minds over Kenji, here's my own Ultra Dad(s), Goro and Stellar. They're the "host" situation, Goro being a foot soldier working for STAR (The attack team) before Stellar arrived on Earth and they merged.

They merged about twenty years ago, and actively protected Earthn for about five before their "final boss", which they just managed to defeat, but almost at the cost of both their lives.

Their equivalent to Zoffy probably showed up to pick up Stellar, but he was like "Nah, let Goro live." Then Goro was like "Dude, there's gotta be some third option, we both have a son now.". So after some consideration the superior tried a third option: essentially merging the two of them permanently to save them both, with the cost being that when Goro eventually dies, Stellar will die with him. At least they both get to see their son grow up, right?

While post time-skip Goro can still transform into Stellar, the amount of times they are able to do so is limited since they're both running off shared life force. Still gonna help their son out though when things really come down to it.

Wanted to keep Stellar's design relatively simple, like something that would be in the Showa series? Maybe early Heisei with the blue accents? He's got the usual Ultra Guy powers, like the beam, the barrier, the hand projectiles and all that stuff. Next character is gonna be Eliot/Helios, who on the other hand deliberately goes for something a bit different.

So since these Ultraman "character concept sheet" drawings are gonna be used for a Youtube video, I thought I'd try making the "main illustration" a bit more visually interesting (including for people watching it being made as a speedpaint) by posing the characters and adding a background. This illustrations a bit flat, learn to make thumbnail sketches before I start recording for better results going forwards hopefully.

I'll see how it goes with incorporating this for non-recorded drawings, but while this illustration might be a little flat, I kinda like it? Guess more space gets filled.

[lightwoodbanethings]

Murrayed

AO3

Part two || part three || part four || part five

Oh hey, I wrote something based off of this post I made a while ago!

Keep reading for some Murray and Steddie shenanigans!

Things had calmed down since the final showdown with Vecna, at least calmed down in an ‘upside down’ sense. Hawkins had slowly been stitched back together and the community had rallied together in a way no one had expected, but had been pleasantly surprised by. The actual party was still as chaotic as ever, especially with the Hopper-Byers clan merging together and moving back to Hawkins. But things were normal, or as normal as they could be. 

Everyone had now been introduced to each other during the months that had followed saving the world and they were like one big, happy and dysfunctional family. Some were closer than others and some formed unexpected friendships. If anyone had told Robin half a year ago she’d consider Miss Nancy ‘the priss’ Wheeler a close friend, she would have laughed in their face. But here the girls were, having sleepovers and talking about unsolved crimes and their love for solving mysteries. Then of course there was Steve and Eddie, The King and The Freak respectively. Dustin had been over the moon about his two favourite older friends bonding, though a little annoyed at times that it meant they had less time for him.

Once the chaos after the ‘almost end of the world’ had settled, Murray had been invited to the Hopper-Byers housewarming BBQ and was very impressed with Hopper and Joyce’s new place. Due to everything that had happened in Hawkins the past few years, housing prices had plummeted and so the merged family had managed to get a really good deal on a beautiful home that had plenty of space for the family and guests. The backyard in particular was stunning, Joyce had planted bright rows of flowers and there was a decently sized pool and lounging area. 

As Murray arrived, almost everyone was already here and Hopper had already got the BBQ going and had made a start on the food. He was wearing a ridiculous apron that read ‘kiss the cook, but don’t touch the buns!’ and looked as though he was showing El how to cook using the grill. Murray couldn’t help but smile at the pair, Hopper seemed to be glowing with pride as El used a spatula to turn over one of the burger patties. 

“‘scuse me”

Murray stepped to the side to let a slightly disheveled Joyce pass, carrying a bowl of salad in her arms whilst grasping some spoons in one of her hands. He watched her place the salad bowl on a nearby table and put the spoons into what he assumed to be various dips. Murray could tell Joyce had been rushing around to set everything up and make it perfect, she didn’t even acknowledge him when she hurried back inside the house, presumably to grab more food. 

Jonathan and Argyle were sitting on the edge of the pool, Jonathan's trousers rolled up and Argyle in a pair of shorts as their feet dangled into the water. Will and Dustin were engaged in conversation whilst a confused looking Steve stood by them, arms folded across his chest and brows furrowed as though he was trying hard to follow the conversation. Max was laid on a sun lounger whilst Lucas sat at the bottom of it with her feet in his lap, resting on his hands that were stretched out behind him. Robin and Nancy were standing near a table of drinks chatting, though Robin mainly seemed to be the one doing the talking. Nancy didn’t seem to mind, smiling and nodding her head as she listened and watched Robin throw her arms around excitedly. Murray almost didn’t spot the youngest of the bunch floating on their back in the pool, Erica. The one who Murray, though he would never admit this to anyone, was low key terrified of but also made him rather proud at the same time. He was sure she was going to end up running the country at some point. 

He couldn’t spot the younger Wheeler sibling anywhere, which quite frankly he preferred. He could see how it was tearing Will up watching his best friend playing boyfriend (albeit it badly) to his sister. 

As Murray made his way over to the table of food, offering Hopper a curt nod on his way, his attention was suddenly brought back to the house as a boisterous figure entered the backyard through the patio doors.

“Don’t worry folks, your jester has arrived!” and with a dramatic bow, Eddie Munson had arrived at the BBQ. 

Even in the middle of the scolding summer, the young man was still wearing his battle vest over his t-shirt (though his t-shirt did at least have short sleeves) and ridiculously tight black jeans.

Murray rolled his eyes and went to put his attention back on the food but as he glanced over he noticed something. Dustin was gesturing and calling for Eddie to come over with a big grin on his face and little Byers was smiling towards him too, but their reactions weren’t what stood out to Murray. Oh no. It was Steve Harrington’s reaction that caught his eye. As the charismatic metal head made his way over, Steve couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He had relaxed his arms and let them fall to his sides and had the most genuine smile on his face. Murray recognised the sparkle in his eyes as Eddie ruffled both the younger boys' hair before moving in to hug Steve. The hug lasted on the side of a little bit too long and Steve continued to smile brightly and keep his focus on Eddie as his little proteges brought him into their conversation. 

Murray let out a little sigh and shook his head as he smiled to himself, he reached into the pocket of his shorts and took out a small flask. 

“Here we go again…” he muttered to himself before throwing his head back and taking a big glug from the liquid in the flask. 

[pocketwei]

might be bit of a stretch but since i saw you use clip studio, would you know any workaround around brush lag in clip studio paint in large files?

my brushes start lagging at around 150px

hey! I happen to run into the same issue sometimes on large files, and it's likely due to RAM being overworked. Long story short you need to optimise your RAM, I'll detail a few things I do under the cut so it doesn't clog anyone's TL:

I work in super large files, all of which are 600dpi. Generally I'll look to lower the size of my files, so no timelapse recording on large files (this makes large files lag BADLY), merge layers as you go, lower your resolution (600 dpi is luxury and largely overkill lol I just do it out of habit, 300 is more than enough, 150 is good for drawing, personally I think 72 is too little esp if you have textured brushes). To keep the same effects and textures size on your brushes at smaller resolutions you can play around with the "enlarging ratio" (or something similar, it's "rapport d'agrandissement" in french) under the "textures" menu in your brush settings.

Something SUPER important if you haven't done it already: under "performances" in the software's settings menu, you can also allow CSP to take up more RAM. Mine's at 90%, I can't remember what the default is but you can bring it up anyway. Shut down and restart the program to make the change effective.

Otherwise, anything that can help you optimise your RAM: open your task manager (ctrl+shift+esc) and see what else is clogging it, and kill those softwares temporarily. Web browsers especially tend to take up a lot of RAM, Adobe softwares as well (it's why I switched to CSP in the first place) so if you're running Photoshop and CSP at the same time for instance, you might want to kill Ps. Same with OBS if you're streaming. Similarly, you might want to disable softwares opening when you start your computer (e.g OneDrive if you don't use it, Teams, Creative Cloud or whatever the fuck is launching on start and then passively taking up resources). Same with apps that just get minimised instead of completely shut down when you close the window (discord and Teams do this by default for instance, you can change it individually in the softwares' settings).

Last resort would be to simply increase your hardware RAM. I have 32GB which is super comfortable (and would be more comfortable if my canvases weren't 600 dpi hahaha), but I think 16GB would be enough to run CSP smoothly.

These aren't magic tricks unfortunately, I wish there was such thing, but a little optimisation here and there can go a long way. I'm absolutely not there myself so don't take my word for it, but anything you can do to free a little space on your RAM can make a little difference.

[brightdarkness-2013]

Chapter 15: And Heres Another One!

Summary:Jazz brings Prowl m&ms.

It was a boring run of the mill Tuesday afternoon. Barricade was getting a tube shoved down his throat again as he still refused to eat. Prowl didn’t bother trying to encourage him to eat once they started force feeding, but so long as Prowl didn’t mind then he must be fine. He was healing much better now that they had a little nest. He’d just lay in front of the entrance all day and briefly moved when Prowl emerged. Within another few days we were thinking of trying to merge them with another broken pod. It was a group of three that we’ve had for a while. Five wouldn’t be a complete pod, but with a larger number they could survive out in the ocean. One mating season and a mix with another pod and surely they’d have another in no time. A red mer and a golden mer and a little mini that had somehow gotten into the group. All of them had a bad habit of splashing anyone nearby, but they did it without the intention to harm or make things harder. They liked attention and liked to play with anyone who was willing. They didn’t bite or growl or hiss anymore. The golden mer didn’t join in as much and spent a lot of time grooming himself, but even he had a more playful side. They had, had a bad run in with some hunters and their pod stuck out with the glimmering scales. They were far too brightly colored for their own good and their chosen spot by the reef nearby had given the hunters easy access.

Quite honestly I didn’t think it was a good idea. Anything that had to do with Barricade was a bad idea. Trying to get him to play nice was an even worse idea.There was no way it was going to go over well. If it was possible I’d find a way to get Prowl to drop his pod member. The mer was way too aggressive and I swear he’d rip anyone or thing apart that entered his space. I could picture him slaughtering Prowl. There was nothing I could do about that and from what I had seen two of the three were fighters. The mini was more of a scout. Checking for danger and looking around stealthily enough to not be caught before returning to tell it’s pod members. The little thing was fast, but unfortunately young and the event had scarred the poor thing. Hopefully when the time came he’d keep away from Barricade.

“Prowl. I know you’re in there.”

I sat on the feeding stand as I pulled out the colored bag. I shook it a few times and watched the hidden entrance to the makeshift nest. No response. He didn’t even stir from what I could see. I frowned.

“I brought ya a treat… Blaster, I need ya!”

“What? He’s still shunning you?”

“Quit laughing at me and get up here.”

“I don’t think m&ms fix everything.” He shook his head as he climbed the stairs.

“They don’t need to. Just need to soften the blows and warm him back up to the idea of forgiving me.”

“Right. Of course. How could I have ever doubted you?”

“I could do without the sarcasm, Best Friend.”

He however just laughed at me again. “Prowl. Come here, we have a treat for you.”

And of course at Blasters call he stuck his head out. I held up the color package for him to see and he inched out a little more. Maybe he hadn’t swam up like he usually had, but this was a start and at least he was considering it. I dumped a few of the colorful candies into Blasters palm. He dipped his hand into the water and Prowl cleared the distance with a flick of his tail. It was pretty neat to actually be able to see him so clearly. We thought his movements were graceful and effortless before, but without the mix of sand and other particles that shifted around him in the sea it was amazing to see he barely moved at all. His wing fins would shift the smallest amount, almost like a twitch, and with one flick of his tail he was moving far faster and smoother than it looked like he should have. Each of his movements were precise and not without thought. He knew what he had to do and how much effort he needed before he even moved.

“So you’re still upset with Jazz? Yeah I know what you mean. He can get on my nerves sometimes too.” Blaster glanced back at me as Prowl took the candy from his hand.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I am a delight.”

“Most of the time. You’re persistent, which can be annoying at times, you come up with schemes that are unnecessary in every way shape and form, and of course we can’t forget the fact that despite your chipper, music loving, and friend making personality you can be a devious bastard. Maybe you don’t like your sister too much but apparently you like her enough to prank her ex for a week.”

“Hey, my ‘schemes’ make people smile. Plus he was an asshole and shouldn’t have dumped her for that slut Lacey. They didn’t even last a month anyway.” I countered with a hint of defiance.

“Did he really deserve you hacking your way into his school account and replacing his debate report with a history report on pimps and hookers?”

“Yes. If he didn’t want his account to be hacked he shouldn’t of had his password set as his dog’s name. He bragged about it enough.” I replied and he rolled his eyes.

“...Your Schemes make everyone uneasy.”

“Oh really? Because I’m pretty sure my last ‘scheme’ was your surprise birthday party.”

“You led me into a room blindfolded to get ambushed with silly string and then you mixed mentos in with the ice bucket and way too many times to count someones drink exploded.”

“Hey it was fun. It was a great party.”

“Ok yeah it was fun, but I still think you could step back a bit sometimes.” He relented.

“That’s what I thought.” I grinned as I made an attempt to offer Prowl some m&ms only for him to turn away. “Really? I thought we had something special.”

Blaster took the chance to laugh at my misfortune once again. I was very tempted to shove him into the tank.

Next

First

Masterpost

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.25<< >>Ch.27

Notes: Taking a peek into a therapy session for Miguel.

Chapter 26: Spreaded Wings in the Winds

Word count: 2.7k

Shades are drawn down, and a lone lamp covers most of the area that the person sitting adjacent to the hulking man needs.

Time was ticking, and so were his thoughts. His eyes always looked at the ceiling, but today he chose the ground, taking in the sounds of flipping pages or tapping on a screen. 

She was efficient, but Dr. Penelope never makes him feel like he's some sort of guinea pig to be studied under some microscope. He was always grateful for that.

“I'm always ready to continue on. Now that I know I'm not necessarily confined to this one singular event, I want to venture on, but there's these moments where I look up to the sky, waiting for that bleak, multicolored death.”

There was a slight pause. “Have the nightmares been coming back from the last time we spoke, Mr. O'hara?”

His eyes closed for a second, and he enjoyed the silence before fluttering them back open.

“I did have a couple.”

“How many in the span of two weeks?”

He tilted his head. “Maybe three? Four? Between three and five.”

She notes it down and reviews older observations. “And I assume you've been practicing the exercises?”

“Yes. She helps me out when need be, but I've been mostly trying for myself.”

“And you've expressed your concerns about Mrs. O'Hara attempting to jump in when you want to practice it alone, like I've asked, right?”

He softly laughed. “Yes, she gets worried every time, but I told her it does make me slightly more nervous if she tries to intervene sometimes, so she understood and will let me be if needed.”

“That's good. Now, have these nightmares been related to your thoughts about the world disappearing?”

He's glad to have gotten used to that clock. At first, it was the most obnoxious and irritating noise in the world or in all of the multiverse.

But now, it's a strange comfort.

“Yes. Because it switches between Gabriella and mi Lun- my wife. Or there are moments where the two merge, and I'm doing everything in my power to keep them alive.”

Miguel fidgets with his wedding band, twisting it back and forth. Soft breathing matches up with the clicking of time.

“Would you like to discuss the most recent one?”

Biting his tongue, he debates. Dr. Penelope places the notebook to the side, providing that much-needed space.

“This time, they were together. Not merged, but separate. Mi osi- Gabi, was holding her hand, and they both had this look of calmness to them. Like they were... happy.” More twisting of the ring. “The world around us was disintegrating, and I was screaming, begging, and commanding them to stop standing there and let me get them to safety.” 

A pregnant pause, then a long sigh. “But they kept smiling. Hand in hand, smiling and telling me it's going to be okay. That things were going to be okay.”

“Did you still try to run for them?”

He shook his head. “I—I didn't.” He swallowed back the lump, the stinging settling in. “My brain was hounding me to ignore what they were saying, that they didn't understand the danger they were in, but my body... My body decided to stay rooted to the ground. I couldn't move a muscle; I could only watch as the colors came closer and closer. I needed to save them, but... but I didn't.”

The pen scratched on the pad. “It sounds like you were in a battle with yourself. The internal conflict of being at war with oneself.”

Miguel hummed. A mixture of needing to repair these infringements or allow the problems to heal naturally without integrating himself into a mess that's technically not his fault.

“I feel as though the control that's been primarily dominant has been shifted. I have my moments where I feel indecisive, and I can never feel if that's a good thing or not.”

She wrote something down and nodded to let him continue.

“When I get that way, I don't feel that resonating anger. I do feel hopeless in a sense when it's out of my control. Like the other day, when mi Lu- ah, my wife, was cooking up chicken in the oven, she needed to bend over to get something.

“Now this was before she forced me to go sit down and relax, as I didn't want her standing on her feet for so long, but I was willing to compromise.”

“And what was that conclusion you came to?” A click of a pen.

“If she really needed help, she would call for me. But here's the thing about mi coraz- my wife. She can be unyielding at times. Trying to redirect her is like trying to stop an unstoppable train heading full force into a wall.” A smile was on his face. 

“Once her mind is set on something, she will do it. She won't ever say it out loud, but I can tell when she's thinking it.” 

A shift in the seat. “So when I saw her struggling, my brain went to ‘make her sit down, whether she likes it or not. She is clearly straining herself.’ And I went into it with that mindset I wanted to suppress, but it got to me.”

Dr. Penelope was scribbling down on her notepad when she turned back to him. “Your aspect to garner that control?”

“Yes. I did manage to talk myself down, but by the time I was over there, she was already sending me back with the item in question in her hand.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I think my problem is that I'm still not used to not doing everything. I do have someone who is willing to help and even take some of these burdens and blame off of me when something goes wrong.”

He lays back.

“I believe that my mind keeps wanting something to go wrong. Not like a small glass of milk spilling on the ground. That's a mess anyone can clean up, but something more devastating.”

More notes are being jotted, typed, and jotted. He always amused him when she used both the holopad and a generic pen and paper.

“Do you think it'll be a fatalistic outcome?” 

“I don't think it's that. Possibly? More like anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

“Murphy's law.”

“Yes. That's the one. I'm aware it's a morose, fatalistic view, but that's the philosophy that wants to keep sneaking in. It might be a fatalistic look when I say it in the open.”

Dr. Penelope removed her glasses and scooted up in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “Did you know that the law has been skewed?”

“It has?”

“Mhm. The original saying got misinterpreted by somebody. An air force was conducting research on high-speed jets, and Murphy griped about some of the technicians. He originally said, “If there's any way they can do it wrong, they will.” Eventually, it began to spread around the base, stating that if things go wrong, it's Murphy's law, and here we are.

“But funny enough, he later stated that it was meant to be ‘If it can happen, it will;’ in a more motivational sense, not the latter. Because, guess what? That mindset they held that not everything would go wrong, but it could go wrong, worked, as there is now safety in the skies and on the roads we drive.

“The truth is, things may go wrong; it will happen, but there will be those who keep trying to find that positive component. It's all about how you go about these things. It's more of a motivational perception that many don't realize. It's how you handle those situations.”

“I've been told that by two important people.”

“I can take a guess, but we will discuss that another day.” 

She went over her notes and took several seconds to cross-examine from the screen to the paper. She turned to the clock and nodded her head. 

“For your homework, I would like for you to take someone's word when they assure you they have something under lock and key. The only time you may intervene is if they are actively expressing their need for any help.”

His fangs popped out along with a grunt. “I will try my best.”

“That's the best thing you can strive for.”

The twinkling jingle alerted them that it was the end of the session. Miguel sat up and stretched his back; a satisfying pop drifted in his ears.

“Would you like to add more time for today?”

They were over their usual forty-five minutes, and he needed to get home. 

“No, not today. Thank you, though.”

“Of course, I will see you at the same time next week, right?”

“Yes, I will be here. And if I don't, she will make sure I'm here front and center.”

A wispy chuckle parted from her. “I know she will. By the way, how is Mrs. O'Hara coming along? I think I last asked about her a few weeks ago.”

“Seven months in. She's trying and fighting, but I can tell she has moments where she's ready to reach in and rip it out herself.”

“I don't blame her. Do you know what the gender will be?”

He shook his head. “Keeping it a surprise; besides, I don't think we really care; we just want the baby to be thriving and happy.”

There was fondness behind that lopsided grin. “It's been a process, but I can surely say I have seen the progress made, Mr. O'hara.”

“You can?”

“Mhm. From when you first got in touch with me, I felt that apprehension in your voice. Then, when you came in for the first appointment, I will never forget that.”

“Yeah, she did most of the talking for me.” A mutual laugh.

“She did, but you did find your own voice, as we wouldn't be here now.”

He did with the much-needed push.

“Do you believe you've made progress?”

He blinked, claws folded, his forearms resting on parts of his thighs and knees. “I…”

He was transported into that spaceless void, and the only thing in sight was the question.

Has he developed and improved over time? He's never really thought about it.

Dr. Penelope scooted back into her chair, ready to hear any of his thoughts.

It was still for about two minutes.

“I think I have.” His heavy brows lowered, ready to jump back into the mindscape, when Dr. Penelope waved her hand.

“See this as extra credit. It's not mandatory, but it's there if you'd like. Think about how you progressed over the course of time. Rather, it may be one week or a full year; see how far you have come. You may ask fellow friends, your wife, or whoever, but most importantly, I want you to take into account how much you have grown and accomplished.”

There must be growth within him. “Yes ma'am. Thank you, Dr. Penelope.”

“No need to thank me; this is for you. I'll see you next week, Mr. O'Hara. And tell Mrs. O'Hara, I said hello.”

“I will. Have a good rest of your day.”

Stepping out of her office and into HQ, Miguel debated if he should go through the building and talk to the others, or take it easy on himself and chat with them another day.

Taking his watch out, he checked the time and the location to make sure it was set to home.

“I think I'll give myself ten minutes here. Yeah, I can do that.” And with that, he made his way down the long corridor.

• • •

Swishing to the beat of the song, a low buzz didn't keep the same notes or try to harmonize with it. It did add a visionary ambience as you thought of a multitude of swirling colors and shapes.

“Mi Luna.” You could hear the tiny smile in his voice.

“Mi Estrella.” He could definitely hear the giant, sizable grin in yours.

You placed a pot filled with uncooked rice in the sink and waddled to turn to your husband, arms held out.

“Chicken teriyaki and jasmine rice?” Miguel sauntered over, delicately pulling you into a hug, minding your protruding belly.

“With fresh cabbage, squash, and carrots.” 

“Mm, suena muy delicioso.” He placed a lingering kiss on your forehead until he made his way down to his knees.

“No me olvidé de ti, mi pequeña estrella fugaz.” He rested his palms on either side of your stomach, planting tiny kisses all over. “Mis galaxias.” His lips stayed for a few more seconds before standing up.

“How did it go?”

“It was pretty nice. It took a minute to get back into it, but it went well. And Dr. Penelope says hello. But how have you two been doing? Have they been giving you any trouble?”

His fingers dipped to your underbelly, diligently massaging any harboring pain.

“Besides the many cases of flutters and the endless, rampant kicks, it's been going okay today. I think they might have tired themselves out. I swear, I'm going to put them in kickboxing or track and field.”

“If they have my speed, good luck with the second option.”

You blew a raspberry at him, causing him to crack up laughing. 

Going back to the rice and cleaning it, Miguel took in the rushing faucet, your voice droning, following a note to the next from the current song, and the peaceful atmosphere of birds chirping and winds breezing from the opened window he now spotted.

His heart was at ease.

“Mother keeps hounding me about the gender of the baby. My gosh. One call claiming it's for an update, when in reality it becomes a thirty-minute lecture about the ‘importance of knowing your baby's gender,’ and blah, buh-blah. I'm shocked it's been her; it's usually dad who does those weird ramblings, but–”

“Mi Luna, do you think I've progressed?”

You turned the water off, tilting your head up to him. “Do I think you've progressed?”

“Si. I'm sorry for interrupting you.”

“No, no, it's okay. I would rather rant about that later on. Now on to your question.” You were facing him again, arms folded over your stomach. “Do I think Mr. Miguel O'Hara has progressed? In the past month or year and a half?”

“Year and a half.”

“Hmm, let me think.” You purposely ran your pointer over your wedding band and looked to the ceiling. “You say what's on your mind a lot more easily; you still hold things in, but everyone is allowed to keep some thoughts and sentiments to themselves.”

You winked, making you both grin. “You have gotten a lot more patient. An example will be whenever Peter or Ronnie call and start their craziness. I notice you exude that forbearance, which is really good.”

A thumbs-up, but Miguel knew you weren't done. “You still have moments, but you do ease up on yourself if something goes wrong.” You bob your head and tap your chin.

“You have gotten to understand your self-worth more, and it's so amazing watching you get here and continue to grow every day.”

That warming smile was always there as you took his hands and had him put them on your belly, your hands on top of his. “You have progressed so much, mi Estrella. I am so happy for you, and I will continue to be no matter what. I will walk down the path with you every step of the way. My star is seeing that he is bright and wanted like the others.”

Thud.

“Thank you for giving me these opportunities. For giving me this life to do my best, not only for you, for this little one, or for the ones who are or will be around me. But for me.” He felt fluttering. A sense of gratitude. A sense of profound joy and bliss. “Te amo, mi estrella fugaz.” He rubbed your tummy.

“I love you, mi Luna.”

“I love you too, mi Estrella.” Your lips met in a deep kiss.

“Need help with dinner, mi corazón?”

“Nope. I got it, so you go ahead and do what you have to do.”

There was no need for rebuttals, as he pecked your cheek and went to go read his books about gardening.

The field is everlasting. The smells of soothing lavender and the golden bounce from the sun to the already bright marigolds.

His path was grueling and treacherous, bound no matter how much he wanted to escape.

Now, he sits in the flowers, with daisies, tulips, and more sprouting, watching the birds and butterflies who finally left their confined space to fly free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@prozacgooble @sanguwuxyoonbummy @ella-janehaven

[peaceoutofthepieces]

could you write dialogue prompt #1 ("marry me") for post canon nick&charlie? maybe you could also include hug #13 or #22 ♡

Anonymous asked: 42 of the dialogue prompts with nick and charlie please 💛 I love your work

these prompts felt like they worked well together, so i’ve merged them—hope you don’t mind! (i’m assuming you’ll mind more that these requests were sent over a year ago, and all i can say for that is i’m sorry, i should have been more informative about the fact i am useless)

1. “Marry me.”

42. “You’re a complete moron!”

22. can’t stop yourself from hugging

The injury knocks Nick out—quite literally. It’s only brief, but the gap in his awareness is there; he comes to on his back in the mud, the shouts around him drowned out by his own groan and the pound of his blood in his ears. His stomach roils, and he gasps so he doesn’t heave, then gasps again at the sharp pain that pangs from his left ribs. He twists his body to press a hand to the sore spot and lets out a shout as pain zips through his right leg, seeming to span from toe to hip and back again. For a few seconds, all he can hear is ringing, and then the cacophony of panic overwhelms him. 

“Nick! Nick? Can you look at me? Hey. Can you focus on me?”

Nick blinks, then blinks again and again until the black fades out to the edges and he can make out the blurry lines of Reid’s face. His mate-slash-captain-slash-coworker looks more distressed than Nick has ever seen him, which is to say he remains fairly composed. 

“There you are, mate.” Reid musters a weak smile. “Just stay put, alright? Callum’s run to get Rogie.”

“Fuck me,” Nick breathes. Sharon Rogers is the school nurse, and Nick knows that despite her job being mostly limited to scraped knees and seasonal bugs, she’s got a fountain of knowledge at least far beyond any of his teammates. Still, the reassurance is lost on him; he barely hears the words before they’re forgotten again, blocked out by the pain shrouding him. 

He registers her arrival and responds to her questioning with mostly grunts and swear words. He finally clocks in when she tells him the ambulance is on the way. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, eyes widening and then clenching shut as his head throbs weakly. 

“You’ll be alright, Nick,” Sharon assures. “But you’re not getting up on your own. You haven’t broken anything in your leg, but you might have torn or sprained something. Nothing that can’t be fixed, but it hurts like a bitch. If you’ve done damage to your ribs or there’s any possibility of a head injury, it’s better to wait on someone more medically trained to move you.”

Nick makes a noise to show his understanding and focuses on managing his breath, which aches with every rise and fall of his chest. He’s glad to not be moved further yet—the thought alone makes his teeth grit against a wash of pain. Sharon mainly works on keeping him conscious for the next while. Her approval leads him to believe they succeed, but his awareness spaces out enough that his memory of the period is spotty. The paramedics arriving escapes his notice, and the next thing he knows he’s swearing in pain as he’s being loaded onto a stretcher. 

~^~

Nick’s ribs aren’t broken, but they are badly bruised. They ache with every rattle of his breath, and it sends the message of pain down his leg in zips and jolts. His leg isn’t broken either, but it is sprained. He’d pulled a ligament in his ankle and almost torn one in his knee. Thankfully, neither are severe enough to require surgery, but Nick isn’t finding much comfort in that at the moment. As Sharon had put it, it hurts like a bitch. 

It’s eased considerably by whatever they’ve doped him with, and where he felt overly aware of his body before, it’s become somewhat detached. Now, his mind is allowed to drift away and give him moments of rest. He loses time in fits and starts, only aware because nurses will appear at his bedside when he had been alone in the room the last time his eyes were open. Everything is hazy and dreamlike and he welcomes it. Anything is better than the nightmare of that initial fall. 

They’re keeping him overnight for further observation, which doesn’t overly bother him. When he catches a nurse with enough time to speak before they bustle away, he only asks her one question. “When can I have visitors?”

“Visiting hours start at six. You have family you want to see?”

Nick shakes his head, then stops, furrowing his brow. “I mean, yeah, but—I just want to see my partner. Charlie. He’ll be panicking about me.”

The nurse brightens, her smile warm and indulgent. “Husband?”

It comes out without any real thought. The idea of not seeing Charlie is unbearable. Nick doesn’t even consider it for a moment. “Yeah,” he lies. 

“I’ll send him your way as soon as I can.” She winks at him and bustles away still smiling, which makes him feel sort of nice. The days of doubting his sexuality and feeling scared any time he had to say words like ‘boyfriend’ are long behind him, but their effects will always linger. Getting such a warm response about his husband from a stranger is uplifting. He smiles dopily in response before he catches himself. 

He isn’t seriously thinking about that. Is he?

The medication must be strong. 

He drifts in and out in the time between speaking to the nurse and, apparently, the start of visiting hours, because before he knows it, Charlie’s rushing towards him. 

“Nick!” Charlie’s at his bedside in a blink, and there he hesitates. Nick reaches out, and it’s apparently all the permission Charlie needs. Just like that, he’s lurching forward like he can’t stop himself and giving Nick a fierce hug. 

Around the head, at least. He is, thankfully, clearly aware of Nick’s injuries and trying to refrain from touching him in any way that will hurt. Hugging Nick’s head to his chest is a compromise, Nick’s sure, from Charlie not being able to hold himself back entirely. 

Nick, personally, has no complaints. He reaches his arms to embrace Charlie in return before there’s an explosion of protest from his ribs. With a wince, he lowers his arms back down and settles for pushing his head against Charlie’s sternum. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Nick murmurs, slightly slurred. Despite the flare of pain, the drugs are still clearly working. 

Regrettably, Charlie pulls back, but Nick is content enough to be able to look at him fully. That is, until Charlie deals a sharp flick to his forehead. 

“Ow,” Nick says. “That could be dangerous. I could be brain damaged.”

“You’re a complete moron!”

“Wow. Love you too.”

With a huff of exasperation, Charlie shakes his head and snatches up Nick’s hand. Charlie threads his other hand through Nick’s hair, and it’s only when Nick notices it trembling that he further notices the tears threatening at the corners of Charlie’s eyes. 

“Hey,” Nick says softly. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing serious. It’ll take time to heal, but then I’ll be completely fine. I am fine.”

Charlie swallows and briefly takes his hand from Nick’s hair to scrub over his eyes. Then he nods. “Tell me what happened?”

“Bad tackle. Mainly my own fault, though. Slipped in the muck and went down funny.”

“God, Nick.” Charlie pulls the chair from the corner to the side of the bed and sits, grasping tightly to Nick’s hand once he’s settled. “I thought when you went from playing to coaching, I could worry less about you getting injured. I thought when you went from coaching to primary teaching that I wouldn’t have to worry at all.”

Nick closes his eyes. “I know, I know. I just…you know I still love it. I thought just having the friendly matches wouldn’t be much to worry about.” He sighs. “But maybe I just have to accept I’m getting too old.”

Charlie huffs softly, leaning forward to card a hand through Nick’s hair again. “I think that might be a bit of an exaggeration but I also have to agree.”

“Wow. Thanks, love.”

“You were the one that said it!”

“Yeah, and I was joking. It’s the drugs talking.”

Charlie snorts. “Strong stuff, hm?”

“Must be.” Nick hesitates, then decides it could end up much more embarrassing if he doesn’t admit the rest. “I, uhm, might have already lied about some other things.”

Nick realises his mistake when Charlie’s eyes widen and he clutches a little tighter to Nick’s hand. “What? Is it worse than you’ve said?”

“Is—oh, no, no. I’m fine, Charlie, I promise. Well, okay, not perfectly fine, but it’s nothing serious. I wasn’t talking about that.”

Charlie leans back in the chair. “Okay…”

“I just, uh, might have said something stupid. To the nurse. About you?”

Charlie’s expression grows increasingly confused. “Why were you talking about me?”

“I was asking about having visitors and explaining I just wanted to see you, and like, she just kind of assumed.” Nick flicks his gaze away. “I just didn’t correct her.”

“Nick, I honestly have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“She thinks we’re married,” Nick blurts, and Charlie blinks. “She—I told her I just wanted to see my partner, you, and she was just like, husband? And I thought if I said no maybe you wouldn’t be allowed in to see me because you’re not, like, family—even though we are regardless of that—and so I said yeah and—”

“Oh my god, Nick.” Charlie cuts Nick off, covering his face with his free hand. Nick’s heart dips towards his stomach, and then he realises Charlie is laughing. 

And suddenly Nick’s offended. “What’s so funny?” 

“You’re not dying, you idiot.” Charlie huffs. “Of course I can come see you. It’s not restricted to family only.”

Nick frowns, defensiveness bubbling somewhere amongst the drowsiness from the drugs. “But, like, Covid and everything.”

“Nick, that was literal years ago.”

“Yeah, but, it changed the hospital restrictions.”

Charlie nods, eyes wide and amused. “Years ago.”

Nick opens his mouth, then closes it again. He squeezes Charlie’s hand. “I didn’t want to risk not seeing you.”

Charlie’s following sigh is much softer and, Nick likes to think, more fondly exasperated. It’s with loving laughter that he reiterates, lovingly, “You’re an idiot.”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that—”

Charlie silences him with a kiss, which is, honestly, fair. Nick has no arguments or complaints. He has said enough stupid things today as is that it’s probably safer his mouth is otherwise occupied, at least for a time. 

Then, with Charlie’s mouth still only a breath from his, he’s saying, “And, honestly…when she said it, I didn’t want to say no.”

Nick categorises the words as a mistake the instant they leave his mouth. It isn’t because they aren’t true; it isn’t even because he thinks Charlie will react badly to hearing them. It’s because he isn’t supposed to say them here, like this. It’s because it’s nothing they haven’t implied before, but it cannot become more than implication, not in any way less than Charlie deserves. The shiny silver band residing in a velvet box in the depths of Nick’s underwear drawer—the only item of Nick’s clothing Charlie does not make a habit of digging through—is less than Charlie deserves, but it is at least more than this. 

Nick’s sure, as the distance grows between them, that Charlie agrees, but Charlie surprises him. He strokes a thumb over Nick’s cheek and offers up his softest smile. “It does have a nice ring to it,” he murmurs. 

Oh. Nick swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Charlie nods. “Don’t you think so?”

That’s an obvious enough tease that Nick huffs. “You know exactly what I think.”

Charlie rests his arms on the bed and his chin on top of them, gazing up at Nick sweetly while remaining careful of Nick’s injuries. “Tell me anyway?”

“Charlie,” Nick groans, rolling his head away. “This is unfair. I’m not in my right mind.”

Charlie snorts. “Are you ever?”

“Oi.” Nick glares at him, but there’s no heat in it. He drops the expression completely when Charlie leans in and kisses him, another short peck that draws another slew of idiotic words from him. “I’d like you to be my husband,” he whispers, comforted that the words don’t have to travel far, leaving his lips to be almost immediately swallowed up by Charlie’s. “I’d like to be your husband. To marry you, someday. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

Charlie’s gaze burns against Nick’s, and his next kiss is sure and insistent. Nick loses himself in it. His sore ribs strain and he doesn’t care, can’t find it in him to be bothered by the pain, can barely acknowledge it under the all-consuming want. He has always considered Charlie a safe place, the one place he could turn to and immediately feel soothed, and it’s proven now. Charlie is a more sufficient balm than any drug. 

“You should,” Charlie murmurs as he pulls away, and Nick furrows his brow. “Marry me,” Charlie clarifies. States, really. 

Asks, Nick realises. 

He stares and stares and Charlie simply waits, nervousness lurking in the deep blue of his eyes but the hints to a sure smile on his lips. 

“You mean it,” Nick says, realising it’s true as he says it. “You’re actually asking me right now.”

Charlie nods, smile simultaneously growing and becoming more hesitant. “I swear it wasn’t how I planned it. You deserve the best proposal ever and now I don’t even have your ring with me. But honestly, I haven’t been able to figure out how I should do it and I have no idea what would be considered the ‘right time’ and you’re kind of proving either of us could die at literally any time and I don’t want to miss—”

“Yes,” Nick cuts him off. 

Charlie blinks. Pays back Nick’s long stare. “Yes?” he questions. 

“Yes, of course I’m going to fucking marry you,” Nick says. “I can’t believe you stole the proposal and you have a goddamn ring too and neither of us have them on us, but yes. Obviously yes.”

The joy that lights in Charlie is instant, laughter falling from him in chimes of disbelief. “You got me a ring?”

“You damn well know I did.”

“Yeah.” Charlie beams. “Yeah, I figured.”

Nick grabs Charlie’s hand and squeezes. He runs his thumb familiarly over Charlie’s knuckles and imagines the feel of metal under his skin. He looks up from their hands to find Charlie watching him, equally enamoured. “Fiancé has a pretty nice ring to it, too,” Nick says.

Charlie squeezes his hand in return. “Yeah. It does.”

[hollowistheworld]

Gifts

Day 6 of IBWeek2023, hosted by @the-bureaucracts-are-everything

Also on AO3

It had started with the fly, with Gabriel’s stunned expression as he said “No one’s ever given me anything before.” It had started with a unprecedented pang of sympathy, followed by a consuming desire to shower Gabriel with presents. Beelzebub had recognized the feeling for the death knell it had been, the moment it was too late for them to end what they’d begun with him. 

They’ve been a little obsessed with gifts ever since. They hadn’t given many before all the truth had come out and they’d ran off, on account of Gabriel only having so many pockets to keep things in, and Beelzebub not having a lot of shopping options in Hell. 

Now, they have a house they’d half made, half taken over, and it’s filling up with stuff. 

Gabriel took over the closet first, which Beelzebub was happy to let him do. Closets, actually, plural - one for outdoor wear, one for casual wear, one for extremely casual wear, one for exercise clothes, and one for Beelzebub, still mostly filled by Gabriel. They’d had a brief disagreement about chairs, Gabriel preferring ones that fit snugly, with high arms and low backs, while Beelzebub favored tall backs and enough space to sit any direction they wanted. They’d spent whole days in human furniture shops working that one out. Humans had hit on something with sectional, build-your-own-style couches, and it turned out they were both willing to compromise on style if they were in one another’s laps. 

And then Beelzebub had started going in on the gifts. Mirrors engraved with Gabriel’s name around the frame, some taking up the length of the wall, others small enough for him to carry in his pocket and take them out to admire himself whenever the mood struck him (he had not, in fact, been familiar with mirrors, and had been delighted by the first one Beelzebub had presented him with). A steadily growing mug collection for their specially ordered hot chocolate was taking over the kitchen, most of them consisting of angel, demon, or fly puns, which never failed to make Gabriel laugh, no matter how many times he read them. 

Gabriel had once told Beelzebub their laugh was the most beautiful sound in the universe, and Beelzebub had to return the sentiment. Anything that might make Gabriel laugh was something they needed to have. 

Today’s gift was a pretty silver watch with ticking golden hands, with Gabriel’s name engraved across the back and intricate links keeping it around Gabriel’s wrist. 

Gabriel hums happily as Beelzebub fastens it in place, then leans over to press his forehead against their temple. “You bring me the nicest things.” 

“They make you smile.” 

“You make me smile.” 

That brings a smile to Beelzebub’s own face, and they burrow closer into his side. Some days they just can’t seem to be close enough, like they could tear themself open and put Gabriel into their chest, merge the two of them into one being. Those days usually involve the two of them spending all day on their couch or their bed, playing with each other’s hair, laughing just from the sight of each other just because… Just because they’re so happy. 

Neither demons nor angels have ever been known for being happy. Angels are meant to be peaceful, which isn’t even remotely the same thing, and demons are meant to be dangerous. Happiness is for humans, and even then there’s always been a suggestion that happiness is something they have to earn, not something they’re permitted to just have. 

Beelzebub’s faith in the Great Plan has fully disintegrated, because they absolutely haven’t earned happiness, but they have it, and they’re keeping it. Neither Satan nor God would be capable of prying it away now. Beelzebub would wage war on them both at once to keep it.

Gabriel’s arms are tight around their waist. “I should get you things more often.” 

Beelzebub runs their hands through Gabriel’s hair. He’s always whining that they’re messing it up, but Beelzebub had made a point of not doing it one day and he’d pouted horribly. “I have everything I could ever want right here.” 

“Well, so do I. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve more.” He tangles his fingers in their hair, then traces down the line of their nose. “Unfortunately for me, your favorite thing is flies, and I don’t know where to find you more of those.” 

“I think I have plenty anyway,” Beelzebub says with a laugh. “Don’t worry about me, my sweet.”

Gabriel huffs. “When do you even find the time to get these?”

“While you’re running.” That is, without a doubt, the most bewildering thing about Gabriel - the way he goes out every day and just runs. Beelzebub loves him a lot, loves him so much they sometimes think they’ll go mad with it, but they don’t love him quite enough to join him for that. But that means it’s one of the few times they can stand to be apart, so Beelzebub has taken to wandering the nearby shops, usually coming back with prizes. 

Gabriel’s gazing lovingly at them and they nuzzle further into his hand, smiling. “They always said in Heaven that liking material objects is a demonic thing. Were they wrong, or are you an exception?” 

Beelzebub shrugs. “I had more stuff in Hell,” they admit. “But I didn’t care about any of it. It was mostly chairs and stacks of paperwork. I like having more space now.” They run their fingers over the links of the watchband. “And I like giving you things more than I like having my own. You angels, never allowing yourselves any indulgences.” 

“Indulgences are demonic,” Gabriel reminds them with a smile.

It still sets their head spinning sometimes, how little Gabriel cares about things like that. How quickly he’d thrown away all of Heaven’s rules and restrictions. Beelzebub had done the same - they’d once thought their loyalty to Satan overruled any and all desires that could ever be created. Now, they don’t even think about him anymore, and if Gabriel thinks of God it’s never for long. Their former bosses are nothing to them now. 

Beelzebub sighs contentedly. “Does that mean being content with what you have is angelic?”

Gabriel shrugs one shoulder and admires his new watch again, pulling Beelzebub closer still with his other arm. “You know what? I don’t think I care.” 

Beelzebub lays their head against his collarbone. “No. Neither do I.”