#M“V���W

[mblue-art]

once again i was fueled with coffee (did not sleep the whole night) but this time i doodled college au to cope bc ofc i did (also did not feel like sleeping wooo)

[childrenofcain-if]

legend say moles are where your lover had kissed you the most in your past life! how would the RO’s feel about an MC who says that softly and kisses them where their moles are? (eg: under their lip, on their hand) (i have a mole on my shoulder blade so i find that an adorable concept!!!)

C LACROIX

the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something faintly metallic, the kind of scent that lingered just before a storm. C’s face, sharp and unforgiving, was tilted slightly toward the heavens, as if they could challenge the gods themselves to a duel. there was something tragic in the way they stood, their shoulders rigid with the weight of an expectation they could never quite escape, their posture a careful construction meant to keep the world at bay.

you had seen them like this before—brooding, simmering with an anger too vast to contain. they were always a contradiction, a child dressed in the trappings of a young adult, lost between the glory of their lineage and the wreckage of their own shortcomings. and now, as you approached, their eyes flickered with something close to desperation, though they would never let it fully manifest.

you noticed it first, the small, dark mole at the edge of their collarbone, just where their skin dipped into the hollow above their chest. it was a mark you hadn’t seen before, but the sight of it held your attention. a story your grandmother had once told you flickered at the edge of your memory, and before you knew it, the words were spilling from your lips.

“legend says moles are where your lover kissed you the most in your past life,” you say as a form of greeting, your voice low, like a secret meant only for C. your breath fanned against their skin, warm and soft, and you felt them tense, just slightly, beside you.

C’s transfers their gaze to you, like they were waking from a dream, and they looked at you with something you couldn’t quite name—something tender, and maybe a little afraid. their lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. instead, they just watched you, their gaze dark and searching, as if they were trying to decipher a language they didn’t know they spoke. the winter wind tried to creep into the thickness of their overcoat, but they didn’t even bother tightening it up.

without breaking eye contact, you raise your hand to pull the neckline of their long-sleeve sweater down. your lips lean in to meet their exposed collarbone, to that tiny, insignificant mark that suddenly felt like the center of the universe. you kissed it gently, reverently, as if it were a sacred thing. the moment your lips touched their skin, you felt them shudder, a breath escaping them like a sigh, like the release of something they hadn’t known they were holding on to.

the silence between you grew heavier, thick with the weight of things unspoken, things that had always been there but never acknowledged. at least not since the night of their confession. but there you were, hidden away from the rest of the campus, in a world where only you and C existed.

C’s hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, their touch achingly tender, as if you were something fragile, something precious. they pulled you closer, their forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, you just breathed together, your hearts beating in sync, the world forgotten.

“is that true?” they murmured, their voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the darkness. “about the moles?”

you smiled, a small, secretive smile that they couldn’t see but could feel. “maybe,” you whispered back, your lips brushing against theirs as you spoke. “i like to think so.”

C didn’t respond with words. instead, they tilted their head slightly, capturing your lips in a kiss that was as soft and tentative as the one you had just given them. it was a kiss that held no demands, no expectations—just the simple, undeniable truth that, in this moment, you were theirs, and they were yours.

and when you finally pulled back, you saw it in the pale green of their eyes—the way they softened, the way the walls they kept so carefully constructed seemed to crumble all over again. they didn’t say it, didn’t have to, but you knew. knew that in this life, in every life, you had been marked by them, and they by you.

V NÆSHOLM

the chapel was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like you had to hold your breath, like any sound might shatter the stillness. the dim light from the stained glass windows cast kaleidoscope shadows on the stone floor, coloring the cold gray with muted reds and blues. V was sitting in one of the back pews, their head bowed slightly, fingers clasped loosely around the small cross that always seemed to be in their hands. you wondered how long they had been there, lost in whatever prayer they whispered to the man on the cross.

you slid into the pew beside them, careful not to disturb the silence. V didn’t look at you, but you could feel the tension in their body, a tight coil of worry or doubt or something else entirely. it was strange, seeing them like this—so still, so pensive. you had always known V to be composed, always in control, but here, in this sacred space, it was like they were unraveling thread by thread.

your gaze drifted to the small mole just under their lip, barely noticeable unless you were close enough to see the details of their face. it was a mark you had never really thought about, but tonight, it drew you in, a tiny speck on the otherwise perfect canvas of their bronze skin.

“do you know what they say about moles?” you whispered, leaning closer, your voice a soft murmur that barely disturbed the air between you. V’s head tilted slightly, acknowledging you, but they didn’t speak, waiting for you to continue. “they say they’re where your lover kissed you the most in your past life.”

V blinked, their fingers tightening on the edges of the bench as if it could anchor them. “is that so?” their voice was soft, almost hesitant, like they weren’t sure what to make of what you’d just said.

“yeah,” you breathed, your words coming out on a sigh, and without really thinking, you leaned in and kissed the mole beneath their lip, your mouth barely brushing their skin. the gesture was simple, almost chaste, but it felt like it held the weight of a thousand promises.

V’s reaction was immediate but subtle—their breath caught, their hand trembling slightly as it moved to your arm, not to push you away, but to hold on. their eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, it was like the world stopped, like the silence in the chapel was no longer oppressive, but comforting, like a warm blanket wrapped around the both of you.

when they finally opened their eyes, there was something new in them, something soft and raw and maybe a little bit terrified.

“you shouldn’t… you shouldn’t do that,” they murmured, but there was no conviction in their voice, just a tremor that gave them away.

“why not?” you asked, your lips hovering near theirs, the question more a breath than a sound. “maybe it’s true.”

V’s grip on your arm tightened, and they looked away, their gaze fixed on the altar as if searching for answers in the flickering candlelight. “because…” they trailed off, their voice breaking, and you could see the conflict in them, the way their stony faith warred with something deeper, something more human. “because it makes it harder to... keep away from temptation.”

you smiled softly, a smile that V could feel more than see. “maybe purity isn’t about keeping away from temptation,” you whispered, your words brushing their lips like a prayer. “maybe it’s about knowing what’s worth giving in to.”

V didn’t reply, but the way they leaned back in to kiss you in that moment—hesitant, tender, as if they were afraid you might disappear—told you everything you needed to know. and when they finally pulled back, there was a tear slipping down their cheek, catching the light like a drop of liquid silver. you wiped it away with your thumb, and for the first time, V let you see them, all of them, without the shield of their faith or their fear.

and in that moment, you knew—this was a feeling that had been written into the stars long before you had names to give it.

W OSTENDORF

the night air was cool, drifting in through the half-open window, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth. you and W were lying on the old, worn-out sofa in their suite, the one that creaked whenever someone moved too suddenly, but right now, everything was still. the room was dark, save for the dim light of a solitary lamp that cast long shadows across the walls.

W’s head was resting against the back of the sofa, their eyes half-closed, their features softened by the quiet of the evening. There was something about the way the light played across their face, catching on the angular line of their jaw and the delicate curve of their pink lips, that made them seem almost ethereal. you noticed it then, just below the curve of their jaw, a small mole nestled in the hollow of their neck.

the words came to you unbidden, a soft murmur in the stillness. “legend says moles are where your lover kissed you the most in your past life.”

W’s eyes flickered open at the sound of your voice, a small crease forming between their brows. for a moment, they said nothing, just looked at you with that intense, sapphire gaze that always made you feel like they were seeing right through you. there was a weight to their silence, something sacred, and you wondered if you had overstepped, if maybe this was too much, too soon.

but then W’s expression softened, the tension in their features melting away like snow under the sun. they tilted their head slightly, giving you better access to that small, dark spot on their skin, their breath hitching ever so slightly as you leaned in closer.

you pressed your lips to the mole, a kiss so soft it was barely there, but you felt the way W’s body responded, the way their hand held the back of your neck, as if grounding themself in the reality of your touch. the scent of their skin—faintly citric, with a hint of something darker and richer, like a strong cup of earl grey—filled your senses, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to just this, just you and W, and the space between you.

when you pulled back, you could see the way their chest rose and fell a little faster than before, could hear the slight unsteadiness in their breath. W’s eyes fluttered closed again, but this time, there was something different in their expression—something vulnerable, something raw, that they’d never let anyone see but you.

“do you believe in that?” W asked quietly, their voice low and rough around the edges, like they were speaking through a dream.

“i don’t know,” you admitted, your voice just as soft. “but i like the idea.”

W didn’t say anything for a long moment, their thumb tracing absent patterns on your skin, a slow, rhythmic motion that was oddly comforting. and then, just as you were beginning to think they wouldn’t respond, they spoke again, their voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

“if that’s true,” they murmured, “then i must have fallen for you in every lifetime. in every timeline. in every universe.”

you leaned in and kissed the mole again, a slow, lingering press of your lips against their skin. “then you’ll have to keep loving me for a thousand more lifetimes,” you whispered, the words a soft promise against their neck.

W let out a breath they’d been holding, their eyes opening to meet yours, and in their gaze, you saw something that felt familiar. it was the same exact gaze they had thrown at you when you were six, when you had defended them against a playground bully and promised them you’d always be there for them.

the realisation of it would hit you like a truck then—W has been in love with you for the better part of their entire life. it didn’t matter how many times you were both reborn, it didn’t matter where you were reincarnated, it didn’t matter how many times you’d remade the introductions; W would fall in love with you every single time.

D DIACONU

the night was alive with the thrum of distant music and the low murmur of conversations bleeding through the walls. the party was in full swing somewhere beyond the closed door and into the opposite suite. but here, in the dimly lit bedroom, everything felt suspended in time. D leaned back against the bed’s headboard, the half-smirk playing on their lips softened by the shadows that draped across the lines of their jaw.

you were perched on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat radiating off their skin, but not touching. D’s eyes, a metallic shade of gray that seemed to shift colors with every flicker of the low lava lamp, were fixed on you, intense but playful, as if they were daring you to make the next move.

you noticed the mole just beneath their collarbone, proudly visible as they had discarded their t-shirt prior to welcoming you in their dorm room. it was small, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t tear your gaze away.

the words spilled out before you could stop them, your voice a low murmur in the intimate silence. “i heard that moles are where your lover kissed you the most in your past life.”

D grinned widely, a flash of white teeth against the paleness of their skin. they tilted their head slightly, amusement dancing in their eyes as they watched you, waiting to see where you were going with this.

“is that right? well, lucky me then,” they teased, but their bravado faded when you leaned in and kissed the mole softly. it felt like a branding iron against their skin, scorching and almost painful.

D’s breath stuttered, a slight choking sound that betrayed the storm inside them. for a moment, they were caught in a whirlpool of emotions, fear and longing mingling in a way that feels too intense, too fucking real. they didn’t know what to do with this feeling, this surge of something that threatened to drown them. their heart pounded loudly in their chest, each beat a reminder of how terrifyingly alive they were feeling in that moment.

they wanted to pull away, to retreat into the safety of their walls that they’d worked so hard to build, but they can’t. your touch was magnetic, drawing them in like the metal which shared the same color as their eyes; even as every instinct screamed at them to run. they stared at you, as if trying to understand the significance of that small, intimate gesture. trying to understand why did you even do it.

“that... that was the wrong thing to do,” D breathed out, their voice rough with an effort to push you away emotionally. “you’re playing with fire.”

but you didn’t pull back. instead, you smiled softly, your hand finding its way to D’s cheek, tilting their head just enough to meet your gaze.

“maybe i like the heat.” you replied, your voice is steady and reassuring. “maybe i don’t mind being burned.”

but there’s also a challenge in your eyes, alongside an understanding of the battle that raged within them.

D felt the tension in their chest tighten, the fear of opening up their heart again clashing with the undeniable truth that they wanted you. needed you.

they swallowed hard, feeling the way that their heart was racing, how it was skipping all the beats it shouldn’t be. this was dangerous, they knew it, but they were too far gone to pull back now.

you leaned in again, pressing another kiss to their collarbone, lingering just a moment longer this time before travelling up to their neck. D closed their eyes, trying to anchor themself, trying to make sense of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm them. but they are being pulled in the currents of you, and for the first time, they weren’t sure if they wanted to be saved.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

the library was a sanctuary for the thinkers, the poets, and the dreamers. it was where the only light came from the dimly flickering lamps and the soft glow of a dying sunset filtering through the stained glass windows. shelves rose like ancient trees, their spines a forest of forgotten stories, a testament to the weight of knowledge held within the four walls. dust motes drifted lazily in the air, suspended like tiny stars in the darkening room.

M stood by one of the tall windows, half-hidden in the twilight. the pale, cool light reflected on their tawny face like a heavenly mirage. their fingers rested on a leather-bound volume they had not yet opened, their attention instead on the gathering dusk outside. in the moment, they were a figure caught between the worlds of the living and the dead, as if they were both here and somewhere far from what normal folks would imagine.

you stepped into the room, making a beeline for them after you spotted them. your footsteps were almost soundless against the polished wood floor, but M sensed your presence immediately. there was a subtle shift in the air, a tension that wasn’t there before, and M’s hand tightened slightly on the book’s spine.

their eyes, a shade of deep umber, flickered toward your direction, curiosity mingled with the faintest hint of unease. M had always been told they are the very definition of posh, and they had worked hard to maintain that image—detached, reserved, a perfect balance of manners, decorum and intellect. but here, in the presence of you, that carefully constructed persona began to shift again, like the earth preparing for a quake.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the only sound is the distant rustle of pages turning, the soft creak of the old wooden shelves as they settled into the silence. your eyes glanced over the tome they’d been holding, and your lips quirked up in a knowing smile.

“there’s a legend in that book that says moles are where your lover kissed you the most in your past life,” you whispered, your voice low and full of secrecy. there was also a softness to the words, a kind of gentle magic that made them feel lighter, more significant.

your gaze fell to the small mole just beneath M’s lip, and without hesitation, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the spot with a tender reverence.

M gasped, a sharp intake of breath that betrayed the calm exterior they were known for. the touch was electric, sending a shiver down their spine, and for a brief moment, M is unprecedentedly unmoored.

they’d been kissed before, of course, but not like this. not with such purpose, not with a whisper that seemed to echo in all the chambers of their heart. they felt the weight of your words fully, as if they were touching something beyond the physical—a connection that transcends time and place.

“M…” your voice was a soft breath against their skin, and you pressed another kiss to the same spot, lingering a fraction longer this time. there was a sweetness to it, a kind of innocent affection that was almost unbearable in its swooning simplicity.

M’s hands trembled slightly, and they reached out, almost hesitantly, to touch your arm. their fingers brushed against the fabric of your sleeve, and for a moment, they just stood there, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of your body so close to theirs.

they didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such tenderness, such unguarded affection. they’d been trained to command, to lead, but here, they felt utterly lost, and good god, they didn’t want to find their way out of this labyrinth.

“don’t do this to me,” M whispered, but there was no real warning in their voice, only a soft, aching plea. “you know this can’t happen. we can’t happen.”

they were pleading for mercy, an admission that they were not as strong as they have always pretended to be. your hand came up to cradle M’s face, your thumb brushing gently against their cheek.

“whatever happens, we’ll get through it,” you whispered, your voice a balm to M’s doubtful heart. “i’m here for you no matter what.”

you placed one final kiss on the mole beneath their lip, and M felt something inside them break free—a dam that had held back months of longing, of wanting to be seen, to be loved not for who they are, but for the person behind all the titles.

M’s eyes fluttered open, and for the first time, they met your gaze without the shield of their usual poise. there’s a question in their eyes, unspoken but clear: can you really love me for who i am, with all my flaws, all my fears? for all that i am and all that i am not?

and in your beaming smile, they found their answer.

[2004hitalbumsevenswans]

I really enjoyed Batman: Caped Crusader. I was worried (like everyone else) that Bruce Timm would push his Bruce/Barbara obsession, but they barely interact when Bruce is out of costume, and he’s all business as Batman. Barbara is (presumably) about the same age as Bruce in this adaptation, she’s a young public defender, who still lives at home with her dad. Commissioner Gordon is mentioned to have 30 years on the Gotham police force at one point. And the series is loosely based on Batman: Year One by Frank Miller, and has Matt Reeves as a producer. It’s definitely an interpretation of the early years of Batman.

The setting is vaguely and aesthetically set in the 1940s, mirroring the original Batman and riffing on DC comic stories and character interpretations from that time. Clayface’s story and appearance is based on the original interpretation of the character, which I really enjoyed - especially as someone’s who’s read the first couple years of the original Detective Comics/Batman stories. (There’s also a lot of great references to the Adam West show, and a couple of its themes are reimagined for this more noir story.)

I could see the series setting up something between Bruce and Barbara potentially, but their interactions are really blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. There’s a moment where Bruce’s is climbing back onto the Iceberg Lounge yacht and he uses a pick up line on her, which she scoffs at, then he proceeds to use the line on two other young women. There’s another moment that you could say is pre-flirting, or is at least setting up a foundation to further a relationship between the two. Where Barbara makes a comment about Batman letting himself into her office unannounced whenever he feels like it, and she tells him she needs a way to contact him, and he gives her the Batphone number. At this point I think you could make more of an argument for a Harleen/Barbara pairing than her and Bruce.

I think the characters would both individually need a lot more development to be in a romantic relationship. I’ll say this even though I know it will be an unpopular opinion: in this interpretation I wouldn’t mind putting Bruce and Barbara together. I know that’s practically sacrilege coming from someone who’s favourite character is Oracle but hear me out.

My main issues with Bruce and Barbara together (especially when it comes to Timm’s work) is the age difference. It’s often debated but Barbara in most iterations (including current comic canon) is around the same age as Dick, usually a couple of years older, 2-3 at most. Bruce is depicted as having at least 15 years on her, if not more. And most stories that have Bruce and Barbara together also fixate on her being batgirl. Then there’s the tendency to make a Nightwing-Batgirl-Batman love triangle which I don’t want to get into but I hate completely.

None of that is happening here. Barbara has her own storylines that are just as prominent as Bruce and Harvey’s. She’s an adult with agency and flaws and is just as fleshed out as any of the other characters are. I wouldn’t be surprised if the show takes a season or two to develop a romantic relationship between the two of them. Bruce is completely focused on being Batman and sees Bruce Wayne as a persona. He’s callous with peoples feelings (Harvey, notably) and is shown to struggle with smaller acts of empathy, opening himself up to people, and honestly, social skills. The last of which doesnt doesn’t affect him too negatively because he’s a rich and well known man in Gotham.

Compared to the Bruce Wayne of BTAS it was a smart choice to show a Bruce/Batman who struggles with people and emotions. It reminded me a lot of Reeves’ the Batman. In wider Batman media you usually see two types of depictions: a compassionate Batman (which is where I would place BTAS) or a more emotionless, be-stoic-and-punch-the-bad-guys-and-look-badass version that is usually just a male power fantasy.

This version of Batman sets up the foundation for a storyline that is relatively unexplored, and I’m sure they’re going to explore it more in the next season (which has already been greenlit).

I was surprised at the lack of adult themes in the show, it was marketed for an adult audience but could easily fit into a PG13 rating, but that was probably on purpose. I was impressed they managed to have so many strong, fleshed out storylines in only 10, 30 minute episodes. But I wouldn’t expect anything less of Bruce Timm, or some of the other names I recognized attached to the project in various ways (Greg Rucka, JJ Abrams, Matt Reeves, and Ed Brubaker).

While there are a lot of critiques of Timm I agree with, I generally enjoy his work and the care he puts into it. I love Greg Rucka and was really excited to see that he wrote the episode that was more Renee Montoya centric. And while I have my issues with Ed Brubaker, I do enjoy his work.

While the series is visually and technologically based around the 1940s, the politics are more modern. Harleen asks Renee out on a date and she talks about it with Barbara openly. I saw one review call the show “race blind” which I would not agree with. Most of the racism is implied through euphemism (the scene with Lucius Fox and Gentleman ghost), but it’s still felt as a point of friction for multiple characters, it affects how they interact with the world around them. There’s also a line spoken by either detective Flass or Bullock that implies no one in the GCPD wants to follow Renee because she’s gay. It’s cut off before the last word, but again, the meaning is implied.

An issue I always had with the Timmverse is its depictions of female characters. They always feel less real than their male counterparts, less important and less visually stylized. All the important (read: desirable) women have the same body shape. They’re thin and extremely, unnaturally curvy. I’m aware that these characters are supposed to evoke that 50s comic pinup imagery but I always thought it was a bit much. Male characters - even before the animation downgrade in BTAS season 4 - were always way more unique from each other than the female characters. That wasn’t something I felt with Caped Crusader. The three most prominent female characters (Barbara, Renee and Harleen) were all different from each other, with different heights, body shapes, hair and clothing styles. They also all had 3 distinct personalities that were built up through the series. I would argue that the show was as much about the “supporting cast” (characters like Harvey, Commissioner Gordon, Renee and Barbara) as it was about Batman.

Overall I was really impressed by the show. I was disappointed with how short it was. I hope that Renee’s personal life gets a focus with the next season, and I hope they bring back Greg Rucka to write it. I love how he wrote her in Gotham Central. I was a little annoyed that they introduced the Joker at the end of the series (as a peak into the next season). I think he’s too over saturated as a character, and sometimes his introduction into a Batman story takes over everything else, and he’s depicted as Batman’s Moriarty. I do have hope that this won’t happen in Caped Crusader, because it seems that villains will be reoccurring, but there’ll be a large cast, just like in BTAS. That aspect did remind me of the way characters were introduced in those early Batman comics, it really has the same vibe. I also really really do not want Harley to be involved with the Joker in any way. Please keep her as a separate character, this new interpretation of her is great as is, he doesn’t need to be involved.

I would also be interested to see if the show develops Barbara’s character into Oracle. I could see that happening with the introduction of the Joker at the end of season one. Maybe they’re going to rework the Killing Joke? I couldn’t see them having her as batgirl, but I would be interested to see how they worked Oracle into a world with 1940s technology. I’m thinking back to her as Oracle in the Doom that Came to Gotham, and how clever that was. I’m sure they could do something just as interesting with her here. Something more supernatural feels like a long shot, because Timm usually sticks to the more “realistic”, street-level versions of Batman, but they did introduce Gentleman Ghost. So it’s a possibility.

One thing I did think could have been better was some of the voice work. Not the voice acting itself, but the design. It felt too polished alongside the score and the animation. I wish the voice acting had been more atmospheric, had more depth. It felt too clean. Hamish Linklater was great as Bruce/Batman. Following Kevin Conroy is no small feat, and Linklater’s performance felt reminiscent of Conroy without sounding like an impression. It was quiet and unassuming, yet strong.

I’m not usually someone who watches things more than once, but I’m definitely going to be rewatching Caped Crusader soon.

[chonkymoth]

Loki Laufeyson in Loki, S2E6: Glorious Purpose // Excerpts from Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Hercules by Jeanette Winterson

[csyakult]

✻ ⌣ 🦦 ˚ 𖤛

[nonnieapple]

⛈☂ Strings☂⛈

 • (Marshall Lee x reader)  • r a t i n g: t e e n & u p • 2 4 2 5  w o r d s  • p o s t e d 24.09.2023     🌧 navigation  ☔️ SEQUEL • s u m m a r y: marshall likes snooping around, and you like peace and quiet.

The rain fell on the grasslands of Aaa and surrounding areas. The animals in the forests hid under trees, candy citizens ran into bars, and Marshall Lee floated high off the ground. 

  He floated to the empty Tree House. The willow branches dripped with cold water and glistened like rhinestones. He tapped on the glass. No one answered. Adjusting his jacket and turning invisible, he let himself in, prying the glass up with his claws. It opened with a slight screech. He flew in, shaking the raindrops off his leather jacket. 

  The water dropped to the wooden ground. He looked up and flinched, turning visible as he was met with a figure on the couch in the kitchen. 

  They held a left-handed guitar made of bone, decorated with worn stickers. They held a pick shaped like a heart as they strummed out chords of Francis Forver, strumming the e-string angrily each time they messed up, concentrating so hard it was almost intimidating. 

  Marshall floated above them as he zipped up one of his pockets.

  You jolted up, stopped playing, nearly dropped your guitar, and with wide eyes watched as some guy appeared in front of you. 

  He had mint skin, black hair wet from the rain, black and red eyes you never got used to, and an expression that confused you. Maybe fear, or worry. You screamed, and he did as well. It was Marshall Lee- kind of a friend of a friend with whom you occasionally crossed paths.   

  Kinda a person you thought was mad cool, but not someone you were close with. 

  "What are you doing here?" He asked. His voice was calm and bordering on deep. You hadn't heard him speak much, and it was startling. 

  You raised a brow.

  "I could ask you the same question!"   You jabbed. 

  He floated down, eyes staring at your instrument.

  "Nice guitar." He bent over to inspect it. You pulled away. His tone was between mocking and impressed. Personal space breached, raise the grimace shields. 

  He was acting quite calm. You were, too. Internally, though, you screamed, your heartbeat wild, hands drumming on your thighs.

  "Um... thanks? Did Fionna invite you over?" You changed your posture from a slouch to the straightest and stiffest pose known to Aaa. Even your tone was stiff. You weren't a person who was comfortable with others around, often becoming a robotic, clumsy mess, and you were even worse with people you barely knew. Cool people you barely knew? Instant death.

  "Nope."

   Your face flashed with concern. Marshall wasn't... malicious, but he was trouble, and glob forbid he dragged you into some antics. Can't a guy practice some guitar on a rainy afternoon?

   "As LSP would say, I'm crashing." He shrugged casually.

  You strummed your guitar. It was still connected to your demonic amp. The amount of demons you had to fight to get that thing was crazy. But it was worth it. The sound was clear, the controls were precise, and it sounded otherworldly, especially with deadstortion. 

  He floated near you and nearly stood on his feet. The silence hung in the air as your eyes drifted around the kitchen. 

  "Mind if I try?" He spoke gently, far more soft compared to his usual sass. It could be something he put on in front of groups of people. Or maybe your deer-in-headlights demeanor was enough to make even him more careful. 

  Your eyes fell on him and you folded your arms, not before gesturing to the instrument swiftly.

  "Uh no, go ahead." You nodded and raised your shoulders, tense. 

  Marshall scooped it into his arms. It fit great. His long fingers spanned across the frets nicely. He had hands made for playing guitar, and that made you envious. Even with practice, you couldnʼt reach so far. He positioned himself, floating mid-air. 

  Your face was a mix of curiosity and surprise. 

  "No pick? Just... fingers?" You raised a brow, the words coming out faster than you thought. He laughed lightly, and you flushed. 

  "I'm good with them." You choked on air as you sat stiffly, stifling a nervous laugh. If you were flushed before, now all your blood was definitely in your awkward face. 

  He strummed and his long ears perked up at the sound. 

   "You're left-handed?" He bit the edges of his black lips, positioning his fingers. He didn't need to take so long doing all that. He was stalling. Curious.

  "Not quite. A dragon tore off one of my left fingertips, so I can't hold down the frets without gross pain," You rambled quietly as you rested against the red cushions.

  He played what was definitely, unmistakably Misirlou. You had to close your mouth at the speed of his wrist. Looking at that shit was enough to give your wrist a sprain. 

  He lifted his hands, holding the guitar loosely as he stared in your general direction expectantly. You cleared your throat. 

  "You seem good at left-handed playing. I've only seen you play right before." Marshall's expression flashed disappointment for a second before returning to a chill one. 

  "I've had a thousand years to learn, if I couldn't play either,  that would be embarrassing." He smiled. Damn, that guitar suited him... 

  "Same with money... imagine being poor after like a thousand years..." You tapped on the table, lost in thought, partially about vampires, but mostly about a vampire. 

  "I can't, I own half of Aaa and my mom is the ruler of the Nightosphere. I used to own this Tree House!" He motioned to a part of the tree, and objects lifted to reveal an M carved into it. 

  "I remember that. I wasn't there but I heard about it." You nodded. 

  "Guess you've heard a lot about me?" He lifted his brows. 

  "Quite a- oooh. I get it." 

  "Get what?" A grin tugged at his lips.

  "That wasn't an actual question, was it?" You squinted up with a smug expression. 

  "Wow. Pretty and smart. Package deal," He said with the perfect delivery- just the right amount of casualness for the line to be missed unless you were paying attention. And you indubitably were; you dearly hoped he didn't notice and you came off as cool and mysterious. Your flush and rigidity betrayed your discomfort. 

  Marshall passed you your guitar, and you leaned on it with your elbow, brushing hair away from your face as you looked around the room, searching for something interesting. 

  Dishes. Fridge. Your shaky hands. Paintings. Tree bark. A bug in the corner. Inevitably, your eyes fell back on Marshall. Your attention jumped from his clothes to his hair, to his inhuman features. 

  "Why are you staring?" You blanched and your expression fell. You met his eyes. If you looked down you'd be even more suspicious. 

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Your eyes are...." You trailed off. Shit. You weren't looking at his globdamn eyes, but you weren't about to say "Nice cock, bro". 

  "Horrifying? Demonic?" You swore he floated closer to you. You recoiled, pursing your lips. 

  "Interesting."

  Good save, idiot.

  His arrogant little facade faded, replaced by tired disappointment. 

  "It's also interesting how you're already tall but still float."

  He shrugged.

  "Alright, I'll bite." He stood on the ground. You finally got a good look at his frame and height, and man was that good look good. Every part of him was long and slim, from his ears to his eyes and fingers, and who else knows what. You slapped yourself internally at the thought. 

   He sat down next to you, setting his right calf onto his left thigh. He inclined his head. 

  "Not literally." He flashed the tips of his fangs. He fished a box of cigarettes out of his pocket, turning to you and slicking back his drying hair.

   "You want some?"

  You grimaced. 

   "No. and you shouldn't smoke inside. And this shit is bad for your vocal health." The rain still raged on, yet it felt like a calming ambiance when in the comfort of the Tree House. 

  "Aww, come on. Just once," He beckoned sweetly, nearing your face, feigning demonic puppy eyes. You shook your head. He set them down on the couch, as well as a red lighter. So much of his stuff was red. It was like if you had everything made outta food. 

  "It's like murder. It's a slippery slope."

  You bounced your leg, checking your phone. You scrolled through your notifications. As empty as your heart. 

  "Sometimes I check my messages and realize just how bitchless I am..." 

  "Can't relate. I have lots of friends and messages...." He spread his arms over the backboard, gesturing in the air as his eyes wandered. He had a real soulful expression, as though he was speaking of glob itself. 

  Marshall dropped his arms, sighed, and frowned. 

  "Okay, yeah, I don't have anyone close to me. Sure I hang out with people but I'm kind of a loner," He admitted quietly, reminiscent of your insecure and anxious tone. 

  "You saw me earlier. I'm not much of a loner as much as I am a loser..."

  "That's where we're different. But together we make a lone loser." He gestured to his unbeating heart, speaking like a damn motivational speaker. You smiled. 

  "Perfect."

  A silence lingered. If not for the raging storm out, you would've heard the caw of a cyclops crow. 

  The silence turned strange as you made prolonged eye contact. Your proximity sent you into a fever. He didn't have any warmth- it felt like you had stolen all of it at once. 

  You tore your gaze away, opening up a portal with your pick and putting your guitar in. Marshall's eyes widened and he jerked in surprise. 

  "Where did that go?!" His voice strained against serenity. 

 "Uhhh I put it in its case. Between the Nightosphere-" You lifted your hand. 

  "The Nightosphere?" He interrupted with worry. 

  "-And the deadworlds. Let me finish." You readjusted yourself, unamused. 

  "Oh, I'll let you finish alright. Not like that. Are you finished?" 

  Your mouth was agape. 

  "You made that a lot worse than it was. Yes, I'm done." 

  You would never forget the awkwardness that plagued you throughout that whole interaction. It would forever be embedded in your cringing bones. 

  You browsed on your phone, refreshing your conversation with Fionna. No updates. Not even a bad meme. Sad. 

  Your arms rested on the table as you set your phone face down. You contemplated making tea. 

  "Why haven't we talked much before?"

  That was a difficult question. You braced yourself as you turned your head to him just a tad. 

   "Honestly? I was... afraid of you. Not because of the demon vampire thing," You quickly defended yourself. 

  "That's surprising..." Marshall mumbled.

  "Sorry." He raised his arms defensively. 

  "But because you're... I'm gonna sound stupid." You laid face down and laughed nervously, in sync with the drops hitting the windows. 

  "I doubt that. You're not Fionna." 

  The corners of your mouth tilted up, and you shot the vampire a dirty look. 

  "Shut up!" You laughed hollowly, surprised by his little joke. 

   He gave you a tight-lipped smile. 

   "You're cool, and I thought you were better than interacting with someone like me." The words did sound stupid coming out of your mouth. The thoughts were completely irrational. 

  "Someone with mutual interests and more to talk about than hacking monsters or angry exes?" He quirked a brow. 

  "I'm not trying to rationalize it. Also, I have plenty of exes to talk about." You raised your phone. 

  Marshall's face was practically begging you to not. 

  "Please don't."

   "Fine. You're safe. For now. One was a demon." You glared at a picture of them with you. He peeked over your shoulder. 

  "That's interesting...."

  "You said not to talk about it." You leaned on your palm, feigning disinterest. 

  "I take it back, come on! Don't leave me hanging," He asked desperately, ghosting his black claws over your now upright back. You shuffled away. 

  "You'll have to beg-"

  Your phone buzzed. You hummed with displeasure, reading the message right away. 

  "Glob. You gotta go, Fionna will be here soon," You urged as you stood up, straightening out your clothes and stretching as you paced around the room. Marshall paused for a second and decided to stand up. 

  "You're right. No fun getting caught." He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking to the window. You watched his movements carefully as he opened up the window, putting his foot on the ledge, and floating, defying gravity. 

  As he left, you were hit with a lot of. A lot. Just, a lot.  

  You put the kettle on the stove, sitting on the counter, relaxing, finally. 

  You had always... wanted to hang out with him, but, damn, you didn't think it'd happen. And he wasn't as intimidating as he came off! You felt all funny inside, still absolutely high off the adrenalin of it all. When you saw him appear it was like your body got restarted. 

  The water began to boil, and you poked at dry leaves of colorful tea. 

  You were surprised as Marshall flew back in. You didn't have time to process a thing. He observed you as you lounged with owlish eyes. He picked up his lighter and cigarettes. He hadn't looked away.

  "Forgot these." He glanced from the objects to you. He headed for the window again. He hesitated. 

  "These aren't tobacco, you know." 

  You raised your brows. He flew out as the front door rattled and Fionna and Cake yelled loudly. You waved to Marshall, only to see that he was gone, and the window was open. 

  You sat like a statue with a mystified gaze. 

  The kettle whistled and Fionna waved her hand in front of your face.

  Did you fumble or did you fumble hard? Maybe if you had taken the offer, something else would be ha...

  "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," Cake frowned, poking your knee. You moved the kettle and Fionna turned off the stove. 

  "No, I saw a... yep, saw a ghost. A cool ghost," You replied breathlessly and somewhat robotically as you finally managed to focus on the two. You poured hot water from the kettle into your favorite mug. It had a cat on it. Dropping tea leaves into the water, you watched as the leaves seeped a bright ruby, and swirled with darker, near-black swirls. 

  Rain still poured outside, albeit it was far calmer than previously. You hoped Marshall was fine. 

  You held up two more mugs. You smiled awkwardly. 

  "Anyone want tea?" 

[ourpokemonteamtournament]

Reminder: Only the overall poll winner will go on to the final Unown Form Bracket.

Unown Poll Masterlist

If you vote please reblog to help us get as wide a net as possible. Propaganda is highly encouraged. Round 49 Masterlist

[stormbreaker-290]

Have this as a peace offering ? :,3

H OLY FUCK I ACCEPT JESU S CRISPY-

[aoitakumi8148]

𝓛𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓤𝓹 𝓐𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝓢𝓸𝓷... 𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓖𝓸 𝓦𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓤𝓹𝓸𝓷 𝓞𝓷𝓮, 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓷...

𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓃-𝑒𝓍𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒷𝑒 ‹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝓊𝓅› 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃? 𝐼𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 ‹𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃› 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝑔𝑜?

I do not have apathy, depression, anything that would be fashionable to rant about. I am simply in pain... extreme pain. And attempting to dull the edge of it is what I have been doing since v.1. As if something has indeed been fragmented & this is the pain of my conscious life. And every time I travel the melodious/glamorous path of frenzy, every time I complete it, I am going to experience the same precious pain intensity, purity of pain/ecstasy. I am going to be eventually bound to this inmost/overwhelming awe, this vehement impulse to feel/fondle/kiss what is loved, to kneel down before it, to cuddle up to its heart, to recompense bliss with bliss... More and more. Neither the good boy nor I are free. I do not want to be free... free from... These bare feelings are ‹clawing› at the reconstructed interpretation of the organ inside me. The great minds will not know what they have done, neither will Anthony... It speaks louder-truer than anything, but the sounds are not obvious... Words. All I possess, this rich but poor instrument for... And you always do end up in the point where...

The aesthetic masterwork, perfused with the golden brilliance of authentic ideality x pierced with the darkest blade of bitter-salty inaccessibility, inevitability, impossibility.

Excruciation, pleasure, euphoria, art. Blended together. Find yourself... or lose yourself on this journey. Emotionally. Totally. An unparalleled effect... and the lulling sparkle the vessel has never actually had. Something in this body x mind has died, and I do not know if there is a way to accept it, to recover it. I have described the lesson of unprecedentedness I have learned, not the expected story of ‹insult-betrayal-contempt›. No one will ever f-g hear it. Not from me, not in this lifetime. / Loving extraordinary is priori merciless, დ/დ become telepathic... & the severest trial ~ the unhealable wound ~ is to be a 𝓟 son without the cause to be... *If I have to detest many donkeys for a chance to protect one venerated Father figure, I will go for it.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒 𝓀𝑒𝓅𝓉... 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎. 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒮𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒸𝑒, '𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓂𝑒, 𝓉𝑜𝑜. 𝐵𝑒𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊... 𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐿𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈... 𝒮𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹. 𝒮𝑜 𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈...

While I am willing to imbibe all the anguish of the human I love, to ease his suffering, the loss of us is taking its toll on me irretrievably. I see him. I see what is inside him... & I am incapable of safeguarding it, saving it truly.

I do not have apathy, depression, anything that would be fashionable to rant about. I am simply in pain... extreme pain. And attempting to put up with this gift is what I have been doing since v.1. The chest is ‹cut open› too deep, the fragility of the organ is exposed... Would you allow me to grow more flowers? I wanna do it... Because it is you, It has always been you. The one who has given us everything, endued me to the brim with the intimate fatherly affection that this organ never remembered. My eternal wish & exuberant price for humanity, the misunderstood nature. *What an odious irony. / I do not know if there is a way to recover what is gone.

I would sacrifice the lot to be with the human that needs me, needs to be healed, heals me. I would rip my core out but I cannot, the limitation of freedom. *Tell me that the ‹strings of abuse/child neglect/lies› are finally cut. Tell me to ‹celebrate›. Tell me that both 𝓟inocchio/I are wrong x naive, ‹fix› me. You have no f-g clue about it. / When it is written that your starving heart must be left half-empty & helpless... No freedom is scarier than this.

Affording harmony to the sapphire star that is going to fall away... The sentiment it deserves. All I have ever hankered for. & I am terrified of that my grandest instinct x fear will not grant any lasting peace to me.

Death will do our Sun-hugged family apart ~ but I will still be yours, for ever. The core has never felt as good x feverish as it does when with you... as astray x anxious as it does when deprived of you. I am not lying to you, I hold no resentment... Let me ‹feed on› the emotions of your heart... Even if it means your pain x my love turn the vessel inside-out & your love x my pain do the same. Not blurred, always remember. Always. If a masterpiece could be made into a masterpiece, I would prefer to share this fate. My bona fide mission, however, is not allow anything to be in vain... Even if it hurts. ~ The atrophied ability to express love verbally has been ‹roused› again, in a fervidly devoted but preciously righteous way... The lash of despair, compulsion, dream, reality.

𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒦𝓇𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝑔𝑜. 𝐼𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃... 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈. 𝐿𝒪𝒫 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝟙/𝓂𝓊𝓁𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓁𝓅𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃𝓈, 𝓂𝓎 𝓋𝓊𝓁𝓃𝑒𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇.

...Take the whole meaning of this, its flavorful, pathetic, shameless, lonesome taste. Take it all, for it is all that is absolute. Teach me how to ‹merge› with it, the mortal desire of a puppet child, a human Mastro x a faceless observer like myself ~ & when the desire full of unexploited majesty is cutting off the oxygen to the lungs... True geniuses of any kind are among the silent. These eyeballs will not dry up, never fully. I have tried so many times to resist it, but why live if you repel what puts your ‹dehydrated› pieces together? I would spare no effort to keep them hot and uncurb what is being restrained... Nothing affects self-perception and ‹unmasks› the unconscious like sensation, nothing genuinely matters without it. / Shivering with cold, this body is burning. My atrophied reality in exchange for a moment of irrepressible happiness, agony, guiltless x not bottled up impulses ~ just a moment. It keeps consuming me without reserve. I do not need God. ✒

[that-disabled-princess]

"Welcome to the Vampire History Walking Tour, would you like an audio guide?"

[aithrige]

@helluvaflames liked for a starter from Ozzie

"Fizzy, did you schedule anything during my lunch today?"

What he was really interested in was finding out if there was a chance of him being able to leave work a little early. The chance to come back home and relax with his little frog was just far too appealing. Then again, Ozzie was usually trying to find an excuse to spend more time with his boyfriend.

[duplicitcus]

"i bet you like to read a lot, too."

She'll get a flicker of violet optics, and a faint smile across heavily scarred lip-plates. His data-cables are currently logged into his console- allowing him remote access without being right in front of it. His mask lies in front of him, Ravage already going over it with the micro-tools attached to her nimble claws. She has a bipedal mode, but tends to prefer the quadruped for speed and agility.

And, of course, underestimation- since mechanisms and humans alike are content to think her nothing more than a simple mechanimal.

Soundwave, meanwhile, holds up the book of pre-Golden Age history files he'd managed to scrounge up from his formidable library.

"Soundwave," his actual vocalizer clicks on with a harsh rasp. "Reading texts. History: fascinating. Arcee: agree?"

[childrenofcain-if]

How would the Ro's take care of an MC who is so sick he can't even get out of bed?

C LACROIX

C stood at the doorway, the faintest crease of worry between their brows as they watched you lie there, your breath labored, eyes half-lidded in a feverish haze. the room felt unnervingly still except for the faint rustle of the sheets when you shifted, too weak to even call out their name when you noticed their presence.

“you look awful,” they finally said, their voice carrying the usual cool indifference, but their eyes flickered, betraying something that wasn’t quite annoyance. maybe concern. but if it was, they didn’t allow it to show.

you groaned and shifted beneath the blankets, feeling like your body was made of lead. “thanks, lacroix. that’s exactly what i needed to hear.”

they rolled their eyes but didn’t leave. instead, they pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, the sound of their shoes soft against the floor. a strange softness overtook their usually grumpy demeanor as they set down a glass of water and a bottle of medicine on the nightstand. they crouched beside the bed, eyes scanning your face like they were committing it to memory.

“can’t you be sick more quietly? some of us have better things to do than listen to your misery.” C muttered, even as their fingers brushed a damp strand of hair away from your face, a touch that was startlingly tender, especially coming from them.

you made a noise, something between a groan and a laugh. “you could’ve just stayed away,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. the fever was making everything blur at the edges, the room tilting slightly as you blinked at them. “i’m not going to die.”

their expression flickered, just for a second, and then it was gone. “yeah, well,” they muttered, looking away. “it’s not like i’ve got anything better to do.”

that was a lie. C always had something better to do. whether it was running around to find a quiet place to do their assignments or finding ways to antagonize you, their time was precious, and they spent most of it reminding everyone else of that fact. and yet, here they were, at your bedside, pretending like this was the biggest inconvenience of their life when they could’ve just as easily left you to rot in your fevered misery.

their hand hovered near your forehead, as if they were considering whether it was worth the effort to actually touch you. finally, with another sigh, they pressed their palm to your forehead. “bon dieu, you’re burning up.”

“really?” you tried to grin, but it faltered. “i hadn’t noticed.”

C rolled their eyes again, but you could hear the strain in their voice, the way it softened just slightly. “you’re insufferable even when you’re half-delirious.”

they shifted, standing up again with a sort of begrudging purpose, heading for the bathroom. you heard the sound of water running, before they returned, holding a damp cloth in one hand and picking up the glass of water on the nightstand in the other.

“you’re going to drink this,” they said firmly, thrusting the glass toward you, “and not argue with me.”

your fingers barely wrapped around the glass before it was slipping, and C caught it with a swift movement, shooting you a glare that seemed to say are you seriously this helpless? they steadied your hand, bringing the glass to your lips with more care than their expression suggested.

“go on,” they coaxed, their voice softer now, the command tempered by something almost like patience. you managed a few sips before leaning back against the pillows, utterly spent from the effort.

C’s jaw tightened, their frustration evident, but it wasn’t the kind of frustration that came from actual annoyance—more like they were mad at the situation, at you being too sick to fend for yourself, at them for caring when they told themselves they shouldn’t. they pressed the damp cloth against your forehead, their movements brusque but careful, like they were trying to make sure they didn’t hurt you, even though they acted like they didn’t care if they did.

“i’m fine,” you whispered, though even you didn’t believe it.

“no, you’re not,” they shot back, sitting down again on the edge of the bed, watching you with a critical eye. “don’t lie to me. you look like a resurrected corpse.”

“thanks,” you murmured sarcastically. “you’re such a charmer, lacroix.”

they gave a dry chuckle, running a hand through their hair as if they were debating whether to stay or leave you to your fate. but then they didn’t move. they just sat there, silent, fingers tracing the edge of the bedspread, like they were trying to figure out how they ended up in this situation in the first place.

“i’m not even a nursing major,” they finally muttered, though the edge in their voice had dulled. “i shouldn’t be here, you know. i don’t do… this.”

“could’ve fooled me,” you mumbled, eyes half-closed as the fever weighed down your thoughts. “you’re doing a pretty good job.”

“lucas used to get sick a lot,” C admitted almost reluctantly, fluffing your blanket in the process. “father wasn’t exactly what you’d call ‘nurturing,’ and mother stayed in new york for work most of the time. he was fussy and didn’t like any of our nannies either, so i had to step up and take care of him.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke as you take in the bits and pieces of their life that they just shared with you. but still, they didn’t leave immediately afterwards. they leaned back, crossing their arms again as if to make it abundantly clear that this was temporary—that the second you were remotely capable of standing on your own, they’d be out the door.

except, as minutes passed, you realized they weren’t going anywhere. you drifted in and out of feverish sleep, but every time you opened your eyes, there they were, the steady presence you hadn’t expected.

at some point, you felt them shift, and their voice broke through the haze of your fevered state. “you’d better recover soon,” they said quietly, almost like they were talking to themself. “i’m not doing this for the whole day.”

but you knew, despite their words, despite the way they acted like they didn’t want to be here, that they wouldn’t leave. not until they were sure you were okay.

“you care,” you whispered, your eyes half-closed as sleep tugged at you again.

C scoffed, but the sound was hollow. “don’t be ridiculous.”

“you care,” you repeated, a delirious smile on your lips as you felt yourself fading into sleep again.

and maybe you imagined it, but just before you drifted off, you could’ve sworn you heard them mutter, “shut up and rest, you adorable idiot.”

the next time you opened your eyes, the fever had started to ebb, and there they were, asleep, slouched back in the chair beside the bed, their head resting against the back of it, eyes closed, arms still crossed in defiance of the fact that they had stayed.

they hadn’t left you, not even for a second.

V NÆSHOLM

the room was quiet except for the soft rustle of curtains and the occasional muffled cough from you.

V sat cross-legged on the chair, watching you with a kind of stillness that felt like patience but was closer to piety. the pale light through the window seemed colder today, casting everything in muted shades of gray.

you hadn’t moved much, wrapped up in the blankets like a child, too weak to bother with the outside world. your skin was damp, slick with fever, and the effort of sitting up was too much to even consider.

V slipped off the bed and padded across the room, their footsteps silent on the plush carpet floor. they were always quiet, like they thought the world could fall apart with one wrong move. a shadow crossed their face as they looked at you, something between worry and… prayer? maybe. with V, it was always hard to tell where emotions ended and faith began.

“you’re burning up,” V whispered, their voice soft but unwavering. they knelt beside you, one hand hovering over your forehead like they were checking for something sacred. “we should get you some water. you need to stay hydrated.”

you blinked up at them, but the words were foggy, tangled in your fever. you tried to speak, tried to say something witty or sarcastic to brush it off, but all that came out was a low hum.

“shh,” V said quickly, before you could struggle with words. “i’ll do the talking. just—just rest.”

they disappeared into the kitchen, and the sound of water being poured felt too loud for the stillness of the room. when they returned, they sat on the edge of the bed, careful, like they were afraid of disturbing something delicate.

“here,” V said, holding out a glass. “you don’t have to sit up. just sip.”

you gave them a look, weakly lifting your arm, but it fell limp before you could grasp the glass. V’s brow furrowed slightly as they bit their lip. they shifted closer, gently lifting your head with one hand and pressing the cool rim of the glass to your lips. the water was cold, and the relief of it made you swallow too quickly, nearly choking. V pulled the glass back immediately.

“slow down,” they murmured, worry threading through their voice now. “it’s not going anywhere.”

you coughed, sinking back into the pillows, feeling the fever drag you down. V watched you for a long moment, their hand still cradling the back of your head. they were so close you could smell the faint scent of incense and cedar that always clung to them, like a quiet reminder of the prayers they carried around in their pockets.

“i should call a doctor,” V said suddenly, voice low but certain.

“no,” you croaked, the word scraping out of your throat like it was broken. “just... give it some time. it’ll pass eventually.” V shook their head, fingers still threaded through your hair, their touch absentminded.

“you say that, but you can’t even lift your head.” their tone was gentle but insistent, the way they always were when they were right and you were too stubborn to admit it.

you let out a weak sigh. “i’ve been worse.”

“i know.” their eyes flickered, something haunted passing through them before they could mask it. they shifted, leaning in just enough for you to catch their scent again. “but you’re not alone this time.”

the words hung in the air, thick and weighty like a promise. you glanced at V, at the way they hovered close without pressing, their usual distance gone in favor of something quieter, more intimate.

“you don’t have to—” you started, but they cut you off with a small shake of their head.

“i want to,” they said softly, their voice barely above a whisper, like the confession was too delicate for the room to hold. “i’m not leaving you like this.”

there was something resolute in their eyes now, a kind of quiet strength that felt more like faith than obligation. V had always carried themselves that way—like their devotion to you wasn’t something they chose, but something that was simply woven into their soul.

they slipped away for a moment and returned with a damp cloth. without a word, they sat beside you, dabbing at your forehead with such care that it almost felt reverent. the coldness of the cloth against your fevered skin was a shock, but you were too tired to flinch.

“better?” they asked after a long pause, their voice cutting through the haze like a prayer meant just for you.

“yeah,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut. “thanks.”

V didn’t respond, just kept up their gentle ministrations, hands steady as they cooled your skin, movements careful, precise. you could feel the way their presence settled over you like a blanket—warm, steady, comforting.

after a few minutes, you opened your eyes, catching a glimpse of V’s expression. there was something unspoken in the way they looked at you, something tender, like a thread between the two of you had pulled tighter, more fragile.

“why are you being so nice?” you asked, the words rasping out through the dryness in your throat. they smiled faintly, cutting you off again, this time with a look.

“i’m always nice,” they said, their lips curving into something soft. “though this time you might actually need it.”

you laughed, or at least tried to, but it came out as a weak cough. V’s smile didn’t fade, but there was something sad about it now, a sadness wrapped in affection.

“you’re not alone,” they repeated, softer now, like they were saying it more for themself than for you.

and in the quiet of that moment, with the room drenched in the dull gray light, it felt like a promise that would be kept, long after the fever broke.

W OSTENDORF

W hovered awkwardly at the edge of the room, a bundle of blankets clutched in their arms. they stood there for a moment, indecisive, looking between you and the blankets like they were unsure of where they were. the sunlight filtering through the curtains softened their features, giving them an air of uncertainty that was almost endearing.

you could barely move—your body ached, the fever radiating through every inch of you. the world around you felt distant, hazy, like you were stuck underwater and everything above the surface moved in slow motion.

W took a step closer, then hesitated, their brow furrowing. “i—i brought more blankets,” they said, their voice quiet, as if afraid that speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile stillness of the room. “you looked cold.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but only a raspy cough escaped. they winced at the sound, their face tightening with concern as they hurried forward, laying the blankets down on the foot of the bed. the gesture was clumsy, unsure, but filled with a kind of tenderness that was so distinctly W.

“you don’t have to stay,” you managed to croak out, though you didn’t really mean it. you didn’t want them to leave.

“i know,” they said, a little too quickly, as if they’d been expecting you to say that. they stood there for a moment, wringing their hands together like they weren’t sure what to do with them. “but i’m going to. if that’s okay.”

you gave them a small nod, too weak to argue, and they seemed to take that as permission. they grabbed the chair from the corner of the room and dragged it over to the side of your bed, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor. they sat down, knees drawn up slightly, their lanky frame awkwardly folded into the chair.

for a while, neither of you spoke. you could hear your own labored breathing, feel the heat of the fever still clinging to your skin. W’s presence, though quiet, was grounding in a way you hadn’t expected.

after what felt like forever, they spoke again, their voice softer than before. “i—i made some chicken noodle soup earlier,” they said, fidgeting with the hem of their plaid shirt. “it’s probably not very good. i’m not great at cooking, but i could… i could heat it up for you. if you want.”

you smiled weakly, the corners of your lips barely lifting. “you made soup?”

they flushed slightly, ducking their head. “i, uh, tried.”

“that’s sweet.”

they blinked at you, clearly not expecting the compliment. for a moment, you thought they might actually leave the room out of sheer embarrassment, but they just nodded, clearing their throat. “i’ll go heat it up, then.”

W disappeared into the hallway, leaving you in the quiet room, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly. you closed your eyes, letting the fever pull at you, but before you could drift too far, you heard them return, the soft clink of a spoon against a bowl breaking the stillness.

they sat down on the edge of the bed this time, the chair abandoned. they held the bowl of soup in one hand, the other awkwardly fumbling with the spoon.

“you need to sit up,” they said, though there was no command in their voice, only a kind of quiet concern.

“i can’t,” you mumbled, the effort of speaking too much.

“alright.” they swallowed nervously, then leaned forward, sliding their arm around your back, lifting you with a gentleness that surprised you. “let me help.”

their arm was steady, surprisingly strong for someone so unsure of themself. they propped you up against the pillows, their hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment longer than necessary before they pulled away, reaching for the soup again.

“here,” they murmured, carefully dipping the spoon into the bowl. they blew on it first, testing it like they weren’t sure if it would burn you, before holding it to your lips. “slowly, little at a time.”

you took the spoonful of soup, warm and surprisingly soothing against the rawness of your throat. it wasn’t very good—too much salt, too little flavor, mushy macaroni—but the fact that W had made it, that they were there, meant more than anything else in that moment.

“sorry,” they muttered, noticing the barely suppressed grimace on your face. “i—i know it’s bad. i tried out a lot of recipes and this is the only one which turned out edible. i’ll practice more later.”

“no,” you whispered, swallowing thickly. “it’s fine.”

it really wasn’t and it was clear that W didn’t believe you, but they didn’t argue. they kept feeding you spoonful after spoonful, slow and careful, their eyes darting between your face and the bowl as if they were making sure you weren’t going to collapse any second.

“i feel like a child,” you muttered, trying for a joke. it didn’t quite land.

W’s lips twitched in a small smile. “you’ve always been a little stubborn,” they said, their voice nostalgic and soft. “even when we were kids. you never liked being taken care of when you got sick.”

you smiled at that, too tired to respond. when you’d had enough, they set the bowl aside, their hand brushing lightly against yours as they moved back to their chair. you were exhausted again, your body sinking deeper into the pillows, the fever dragging at you.

“you should get some sleep,” W said, their voice a murmur. “i’ll stay right here.”

you didn’t have the energy to argue, so you nodded, closing your eyes. their presence was a quiet anchor, steady and calm, the sound of their breathing a soft, rhythmic reminder that you weren’t alone.

as you drifted off, you felt the faintest brush of W’s fingers against your hand, a hesitant touch, like they wanted to offer comfort but weren’t sure how. their voice, barely audible, floated through the thick haze of sleep.

“i’ll be here,” they whispered. “i’m not going anywhere.”

and somehow, even through the fever, even through the exhaustion that pulled you under, you believed them wholeheartedly.

D DIACONU

D stood in the doorway, the light behind them casting a long shadow across the floor. for a moment, they didn’t move, just watched you lying there, half-hidden beneath the tangled blankets. their expression was hard to read, a mixture of something close to worry but disguised beneath the usual mask of nonchalance.

“you look like death warmed over,” D said, finally breaking the silence with their usual bluntness. they leaned against the doorframe, crossing their arms. “not a great look for you, sweet cheeks.”

you tried to respond, but all that came out was a hoarse croak, your throat dry and raw. the fever made everything feel heavy, like the air in the room was thicker than it should be, and just opening your eyes felt like an effort.

“hey,” they said, their voice softening as they pushed off the doorframe and strode over to the bed, “no smart comeback? must be bad. looks like V wasn’t overreacting after all.”

D sat on the edge of the bed, their presence filling the space in that way only they could. they were close but not touching, their energy restless, as if they weren’t sure what to do in this moment.

“i’ll live,” you rasped, though the effort it took to say the words made you feel like you were lying.

D’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, but it didn’t reach their eyes. “yeah, well, not looking like it from here.”

they stood up, moving to the windows. in one smooth motion, they threw the curtains wide open, letting in a flood of sunlight that made you wince and pull the blankets over your face.

“god, why—” you groaned, voice muffled by the blankets.

“you need air,” D said, dragging a chair over and sitting down next to the bed with a sigh. they leaned back, looking at you like they were trying to figure out how much of this was an exaggeration and how much was real. “or maybe a miracle. i don’t know. you’re not going to get better hiding in the dark like fucking nosferatu.”

“pretty sure the fever’s going to kill me first,” you muttered.

D just stared at you for a moment, their half-lidded gray eyes taking in every detail—the sheen of sweat on your skin, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your breaths came shallow and uneven.

“you’re not going to die,” they said, a little too forcefully, like they were trying to convince themself as much as you. it seemed like they noticed it too because they tried to cover it up with a joke. “i’d kill you first. messy but faster.”

“i’d also suffer less,” you added with a weak chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. D’s face tightened, and without another word, they were up, rummaging around in the small bag they’d brought with them.

when they came back, they had a glass of water and some pills. “here,” they said, pushing them into your hand. “take this.”

you looked at the pills with suspicion. “do i look like i’m in the state to do drugs at the moment?”

“these aren’t— well, technically medicines are drugs,” they shook their head. “but it’s for the fever. trust me, you need it.”

you stared at the pills for a moment longer before sighing and downing them with the water. D watched you the whole time, their eyes narrowed and making sure you weren’t going to choke or spill the water everywhere.

after a few seconds of silence, they sighed, leaning back in the chair again, but there was a tension in their posture, like they weren’t entirely comfortable being still for this long.

“i’m not great at this,” D admitted, running a hand through their hair in a rare display of vulnerability. “taking care of people, i mean. but you’re not exactly leaving me much of a choice, are you?”

you glanced over at them, trying to muster a weak smile. “the door is that way.”

they snorted, a sound that was more amused than anything. “yeah, well, you’re not getting rid of me so easily, sweet cheeks.”

for a while, D just sat there, tapping their fingers against the side of the chair in an impatient rhythm. the quiet between you both wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was just... there. it was easy, even with the fever dragging at your consciousness.

D wasn’t the type to hover over anyone, to fuss. they’d never be like that. but their presence was steady, solid in a way that made you feel like maybe you weren’t going to drown under the weight of this sickness after all.

they sighed again, louder this time, clearly irritated with themself. “you know, i should’ve just left you to suffer. would’ve been funnier.”

you rolled your eyes weakly, but there was no real feeling in it. “you’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”

D’s lips twitched upward, but they didn’t deny it. instead, they leaned forward, elbows on their knees, and gave you a long look.

“you’re not allowed to die on me, okay?” they said, their tone half-joking but their eyes serious. “because then i’d have to explain to everyone why i spent an entire day sitting around and being nice to you. and i’m not doing that.”

“deal,” you croaked, managing a small smile. “i’ll try not to die just to spare you the trouble.”

“good,” they said, leaning back again, looking more comfortable now that the conversation was back in a familiar, light-hearted territory. “because i don’t do hospital visits. or funerals.”

you closed your eyes, the exhaustion creeping back in despite their attempts to keep you awake. their voice, though, kept you tethered to the room, to the present.

“sleep,” D said, gentler now. “i’ll be here when you wake up. but if you die, i’m dialing up necromancers left and right.”

“understood,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as you drifted off.

and as you slipped into sleep, you could feel D’s gaze still on you, steady and unrelenting, like they were keeping watch. like they’d fight the fever off themself if they could.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, a look of mild exasperation on their face. the room felt too large and too cold despite the covers you’d pulled up to your chin, and the fever left you tangled in a mix of sweats and chills.

“really,” M said, voice posh and clipped, “you should have called me earlier. this is entirely preventable, you know.”

you tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. “yeah, sorry, i’ll be sure to schedule my illness next time.”

they gave a small, elegant shrug, as if conceding that point, but you could tell they didn’t fully agree. M always had an answer, a solution to every problem, and you being incapacitated by something as mundane as sickness seemed to offend their sense of order.

without another word, they turned and headed out of the room. you stared after them, confused for a moment, but they were back almost immediately, carrying a silver tray with a delicate teacup balanced on it. the sight was so absurdly M—like they couldn’t fathom the idea of handling something as simple as tea without making it an event—that you couldn’t help but smile.

“chamomile,” they announced, setting the tray down on your bedside table with the kind of grace that made the act feel like a theatre performance. “good for your throat, and it won’t upset your stomach either.”

you propped yourself up on your elbows, feeling weak but trying not to let it show. M lifted the teacup with both hands and offered it to you with all the solemnity of a ceremonial ritual.

“drink,” they said. “slowly.”

you raised an eyebrow but took the cup anyway, the warmth of it seeping into your hands. “do you always take care of everyone like this?”

max tilted their head slightly, considering the question. “you’re not ‘everyone,’” they said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “i have standards, you know.”

you sipped the tea, feeling the heat slide down your throat. it was calming, the way chamomile always was, but there was something more comforting about the way M watched you with that inscrutable expression of precision and care.

“i feel awful,” you rasped, your head lolling against the headboard. “why are you being so caring towards me?”

M quirked an eyebrow, their lips curving into that half-smile of theirs—a smile that knew too much. “contrary to popular belief, darling, i am quite capable of kindness when the situation calls for it.”

“thanks,” you murmured, resting back against the pillows. “for, you know, the tea. the care.”

M’s lips twitched, almost like they were amused. “you should know by now that i don’t do things halfway.” they sat down in the armchair beside your bed, the dark leather creaking slightly under their weight. even sitting, they were composed, their posture immaculate as they crossed one leg over the other. “you’re an absolute disaster right now,” they added, though their tone wasn’t unkind. “but, thankfully for you, i’m here.”

you snorted, setting the teacup back on the tray. “a disaster, huh?”

they smiled—a small, subtle curve of the lips. “an endearing disaster.”

you coughed again, this time harder, and M immediately stood up, as if on alert. they moved quickly but with a calmness that made it clear they weren’t flustered by the situation.

“you’re overheating,” they observed, brushing their cool hand against your forehead. “i’ll get you some water.”

they returned in what felt like no time at all, a glass of water in hand. M held it out to you, not so much as letting you struggle to sit up on your own. you managed to drink a few sips, feeling a little steadier as the cold water cut through the fever’s haze.

as you handed the glass back, M’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than you expected. there was something in their eyes—a hint of concern, but deeper than that, something bordering on protectiveness.

you gave them a soft smile. “thank you. your help... it’s appreciated. really.”

“i should hope so,” they replied, straightening the edge of your blanket with a meticulous hand. “you’d better be back on your feet soon. i don’t have the patience to babysit indefinitely.”

despite their words, you could see the truth in their actions—the way they moved so carefully, like every detail mattered. M didn’t deal in overtly emotional gestures, but their care was all the more powerful because of its restraint. they weren’t going to fawn over you or make a scene. but they would sit there, beside your bed, making sure everything was taken care of while you recovered.

and as the hours passed, they remained by your side, the room filled with the quiet rhythm of your breathing, their calm presence a balm against the fever. you could feel their gaze on you even as you drifted in and out of sleep, an anchor to the world beyond the heat of your sickness.

when you woke again, the light had shifted in the room, casting long shadows across the walls. M was still there, a book in their lap, though it was closed, as if they hadn’t actually been reading it.

“you didn’t have to stay,” you said, your voice rough with sleep.

M glanced over at you, their expression unreadable but softened by the dim light. “of course i did,” they said, as if it were the simplest truth. they stood up, placing the book on the bedside table before smoothing down the front of their shirt. “now, rest. i’ll make sure everything’s in order when you’re back to your usual self.”

there was no arguing with them—there never was. and so, as you let the exhaustion pull you back under, you felt an odd sense of peace, knowing that M would keep everything in place.

[pastelaspirations]

So, u h.

H O W. HOW, I ASK. ALL I DO IS POST ART ONCE IN A BLUE MOON AND MAKE REALLY CURSED REBLOGS. LIKE, I'M SO VERY GLAD YOU'RE HERE, BUT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND HOW OR WHY YOU'RE HERE-

I also like. Make really angsty, ungodly long fanfics that I do absolutely nothing to promote on this dumpster fire of a blog, but that's besides the point- ANYWAY. HAVE SOME REALLY SKETCHY DOODLES THAT I DID TO THANK YA MAD LADS ;_;

Thank ya, thank ya, you absolute mad lads. I will uh... continue to do what I do. Thank you for joining the ride, even though it's less of a ride and more that I found an abandoned theme park ride and decided to ride it as a prolonged death wish and you inexplicably strapped yourself in next to me with the moldy seatbelt-

[shattered-tree-mural]

fUUUUCK m€€€€€€€ 1 wANT a pROBL€MATIC fRI€ND $O bAD

1 wANT fRI€ND$ tHAT hAV€ cA₤₤OUT pO$T aBOUT tH€M 1 wANT a FR1€ND tHAT 1$ oN dN1$ 1 wANT a fR1€ND tHAT mAK€$ m€ b€ oN dN1$ bY pUR€ a$$OC1AT1ON . 1 wANT tO b€ cA₤₤€D bRA1NWA$H€D b€CAU$€ 1 aM fR1€ND$ w1TH tH€M 1 wANT mY u$€RNAM€ tO b€ m€NTION€D 1N cA₤₤OUT$ aND v1D€O$ aBOUT tH€M . gRAAAAAAAAH !!!

1$ 1T tOO mUCH tO a$K fORRRR ???

tq translation :

Fuuuuck meeeeee I want a problematic friend so bad

I want friends that have callout posts about them I want a friend that is on DNIs 1 want a friend that makes me be on DNIs by pure association . I want to be called brainwashed because I am friends with them I want my username to be mentioned in callouts and videos about them . GRAAA!!!!!!

Is it too much to ask for ???

[mosalahd]

everyone’s favourite main character of brazil nt for @queerbenched !

send me football players to doodle!