#as opposed to choosing more outfits that are in the same vein as what we see her wear in canon

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Yeeeessss Norman in turquoise is amazing <3 along with the "Touch off" colors, though comparatively I see Ray in red much less.

I also like how you cut off the trio promo art around the waist given everything going on with that lol

I hope that if Ray ever gets a Nendoroid (hopefully soon, since it's been 2 years since Norman released and he was 2 after Emma I think??) he gets a blue box, as Norman has a green one

like LOOK AT HOW RHEY SWITCH COLORS W MERCH SOMETIMES tell me Ray Nendoroid wouldn't be complete with a blue box

i will never forgive TPN Committee for assigning Norman green and Ray blue in like 80% of the merch but yes hopefully for the nendroid collectors out there with Ray being one of three most popular characters (and more importantly most profitable) 🤞

[lepusrufus]

To bargain for immortality pt.2

Finally, she felt well enough to leave the infirmary room for good. Her internal organs were at peace for the most part and she could keep some food down without the risk of seeing it for a second time. Her sinuses still seemed to refuse to recover though. Occasional nosebleeds would have her head spinning and the scent of blood so often present within the castle was somehow too offensive to her senses. Nicole couldn't help but wonder how exactly she got it this screwed up, but then again the first few days of the infection were a painful blur that she'd rather not remember.

For now she was content to sit in front of the fireplace with the rest of her family. They decided to have a movie night to break her out of the mopey state she had been in and, for the most part, it was quite the success. She wasn't paying much attention to the projector screen, some sappy scene from a movie chosen by Daniela playing at the moment. Instead, she was simply enjoying the close proximity to Cassandra that she so dearly missed in the last few weeks. Nicole was in the brunette's lap, with hands loosely around her waist and leaning against her shoulder. She was vaguely aware of Laura complaining about the poor life choices of one of the characters only to be unceremoniously shushed by the youngest sister. It made her chuckle.

Bela was passing the popcorn to her mothers when a knock on the main entrance reached their ears faintly. Lady Dimitrescu narrowed her eyes in the general direction of the sound, and listened. Soon enough the rapid steps of Alexandria, their Steward, reached them.

"My Ladies, Mother Miranda's assistant is here."

The whole family got up hesitantly and tried to look as presentable as possible, given their "lazy day outfits". For some like Bela that was a baggy shirt and shorts, while for the Lady it was one of her trademark white dresses. They made their way to the main entrance of the castle, where the assistant, a woman in her late thirties and the air of an annoyed teacher, was waiting. It was Alcina the one to ask why she was there.

"Mother Miranda wants to see um… Nicole was it? Yes, to take a look at the regenerative abilities."

"Why not do it here like last time?"

"Mother Miranda's laboratory is far better equipped for whatever she may want to test. Unless you have something to say against her wishes." She finished that with a raised eyebrow that would've gained her a talon through the skull were she not there as per Miranda's wishes.

Who's talons exactly was debatable.

"I'll come too," Cassandra spoke up from just behind Nicole.

That only got her a dismissive wave. "No, I was told specifically to only bring her. Come now, we don't want to make Mother Miranda wait."

With that, the woman turned around and started walking towards a carriage that would take them away. Nicole looked briefly at her family. They all had either confusion or mild concern in their eyes. All but Alcina who looked as if she'd like to protest and snap at the woman but was holding her tongue.

She reassured Cassandra that she'd be fine and started jogging after the assistant.

---

Needless to say, that was Nicole's first time stepping foot inside the underground network of tunnels. Not that she complained. Few people went there willingly and probably fewer left the same way they came in.

The ancient looking hallways were in such stark contrast with the occasional medical equipment and the pristine looking labs with doors left slightly ajar that Nicole had to wonder if the woman had no taste for a consistent aesthetic. At least Lady Dimitrescu kept all wiring and modern devices carefully hidden or blended in with the castle's decor. Here, the harsh neon lights illuminated worn out stone so dark it was almost black. Not to mention the smell of… old that seemed to ooze off the very walls she was walking by.

She was led inside a spacious lab, the bluish lights above being too bothersome for someone who got used to the warm or natural light in the castle. The room was rather long, numerous hospital beds lined up against a wall, some separated by white curtains and some left visible. An almost imperceptible whiff of an all too familiar foul odor reached her nose, but it was mild enough to be easily ignored. Nicole had a suspicion that the unmoving person laying in one of the cots further away could be the source, but she sighed and hoped not to join them by the end of the day.

Mother Miranda was sat at a desk, microscope in front of her together with a small stack of documents and a laptop. She was typing in what could probably be notes on whatever she was looking at, when icy grey eyes finally shifted to Nicole.

"Get changed and lay down," she ordered, not even moving from her spot.

The assistant that had brought her here, pushed a hospital gown that had been pulled out from a cupboard in her arms. At least she was allowed the decency of changing into a bathroom as opposed to stripping then and there in the middle of the room. The gown was surprisingly comfortable, fabric folding around her body and being held closed by a loose ribbon that she tried at the side.

Once she was back in the lab, she was ushered to one of the beds where she laid down, nervously waiting for whatever Miranda had in mind.

It was quite odd to see her without her usual attire, especially without the gold talons that Nicole was now far more familiar with than she'd ever hoped. The white lab coat looked far too normal on her and, were it not for the unmistakable cold eyes and regal posture, the woman would’ve been unrecognizable.

She finally got up, a few documents in hand, and approached her. The papers were handed over to the assistant, along with a few other objects and finally, Nicole had her full attention.

Mother Miranda bent down, scalpel in hand, and grabbed one of Nicole's wrists. Just like she did back during the first examination, the blade was dragged across the length of her forearm. Despite fully expecting it, Nicole couldn't help flinching at the pain, but she kept her eyes fixated on her arm, at the blood slowly starting to flow from the wound.

Soon the same tingling as before took over the pain and before their eyes, the skin started to stitch itself back together.

"Time," Miranda asked while wiping the blood to allow for a closer inspection of the now good as new skin.

"Five seconds."

"Alcina's?"

"Three seconds."

Miranda hummed, seemingly pleased with the results. Or at least as pleased as the woman was physically capable of being.

"Hook her up to the cardiac monitor," she further instructed while moving to retrieve something from another cabinet.

The assistant, Emma, if the tag pinned to her lab coat was to be believed, stuck a series of electrodes to her chest and abdomen. Nicole bit her lip to stifle a yelp when one came uncomfortably close to the still sensitive skin of the scar.

In no time, the machine came to life, familiar beeping sounding through the otherwise silent room.

"I hope you're not afraid of needles," Miranda said while grabbing the same arm she had before, lips pulled into a faint smirk.

Nicole only shook her head as she saw the needle of a syringe attached to a transparent slim tube slide into her arm. How ironic would that be. The sting was close to imperceptible, taken over by the now familiar faint tingle. Unlike with the cut, it didn't fade away, most likely due to not being able to fully heal the small wound with the needle embedded in the skin and vein.

She looked away, in the direction of the other occupied bed in the room. It was far away enough that she couldn't make out any detail, only messy brown hair sprawled on a pillow. The face was turned towards the wall and body covered up to the neck. She grimaced and decided instead to focus on the beeping machine, mildly annoyed by Miranda's lack of properly separating her dead lab rats from the living ones. At least she hoped she'd stay living.

The numbers on the machine started out normal. With the slight uncomfortable feeling of blood being drained however, her heart rate started to slowly increase.

Alright. Normal enough. Especially when someone is clearly in a fucking blood draining mood.

Nicole decided not to look at exactly how much blood Miranda was drawing, keeping her eyes glued to the various color coded numbers. The heart rate kept increasing until Nicole could swear she could feel her heartbeat ringing in her ears. She gulped. Still relatively within the norm.

Two things were at odds however. First, the blood pressure remained constant, almost as if her body simply refused to acknowledge the fact that it was currently being drained. Secondly, the temperature rose from the normal 36 degrees to a staggering 41 in less time than it should have.

"What the fuck…" She couldn't keep her tongue at the weirdness of her situation, her brain thankfully choosing confusion and curiosity over the dread that it probably should've felt instead.

Mother Miranda didn't seem to care though as she turned to type something on the laptop that she brought over from the desk. She tapped her finger on the device for a few seconds and finally spoke up.

"The accelerated healing means the blood is being regenerated constantly, thus not decreasing in volume. Which explains the constant pressure." She narrowed her eyes at the monitor once again. "It doesn't, however, explain the heart rate and temperature. Any bright guesses?"

It took Nicole a second to realize the question was actually addressed to her. Miranda seemed in an oddly good mood. Not any less hell bent on causing her pain, mind you, but she also seemed genuinely curious. Being a biology nerd will do that to you, she couldn't help but think.

Nicole hummed and thought for a second. She tried to recall any information about the topic at hand that she had studied prior to running away.

"Heart rate could just be the normal body response that stayed even with the mutation. Like… like a reflex. It remains even though it's not needed." Then she tapped a finger on her chin trying to find a less random explanation. "Or maybe it's the body's way of making sure that even while healing all body parts remain at least decently functional. No idea about the temperature though," she shrugged.

Miranda once again typed something up and then, without warning, pulled the needle out of Nicole's arm. She flinched, barely holding in an angry protest as she turned towards the woman. Which was a mistake. She couldn't help the gag that raised in the back of her throat at the sight of the metal container full of blood.

No, no, blood did not bother her. That would've cut her career as a medical examiner short before she even stepped foot in med school. It was the knowledge that that was her blood that made her stomach churn. The container could easily fit three liters of liquid in it, and it was full to the brim. Not to mention the smell that assaulted her still messed up sinuses mixing oh so perfectly with mr. corpse over in the corner.

Miranda just chuckled at her sour expression. "Do you think your darling wife would like to have this?"

With a sneer, masked by Nicole turning once again towards the monitor, she couldn't help slipping an edge of snark in her reply. "No need, she likes it fresh."

The numbers were back to normal, all but for the temperature that was taking slightly longer to go down.

---

By this point her vocal cords were raw from screaming and each shuddering sob felt like clumps of spines in her throat. Nicole was curled in on herself, small frame trembling pathetically on top of the uncomfortable bed. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, the tingling sensation feeling like needles constantly pricking at her skin around and under the wired leather cuffs wrapped around her wrists. The frantic beeping of the machine was grating to her ears.

An electric shock test.

Of course.

Mother Miranda decided to test out how the increased heart rate worked. Results? Her body vehemently refused to allow her to pass out. Even when the shocks traveled through every part of her body, causing the nervous system to short circuit. Even when damage to internal organs and muscles ripped painful sobs from her throat, that turned into gags as soon as the tingling turned to nausea. Even when she could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage so fast that she was sure the small organ would burst any second. But it didn’t.

Every muscle in her body flared up in a sensation of painful pins and needles when Miranda pushed the button to release another shock. The cardiac monitor started screaming again and Nicole brought shaky hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the sound. Her whole body was on fire while all the damaged tissue repaired itself, making her stomach turn painfully. She felt like throwing up. Not that she had eaten anything today, but bile and thick blood still coated her esophagus. It was all swallowed back with a disgusting gulp.

The nausea was oh so kindly accompanied by searing pain from her still damaged sinuses, who’s condition only worsened exponentially with the electricity. The blood that seemed to coat all the way up to the inside of her mouth felt horrible mixed with the putrid smell of death.

She swallowed again, but that proved itself a bad decision as now that same smell permeated the very inside of her nose and mouth and throat and the feeling of blood sloshing on her tongue behind clenched teeth made her head spin.

She lurched forward, a small river of dark blood flowing from her mouth and nose, into her palms that she instinctively brought to her mouth. Wet coughs made it splatter into crimson splotches on the white sheets, herself and anything else within proximity. It took surprisingly long to realize that, after the initial wave that rose up her esophagus, the rest of the blood was from her sinuses. It was cruelly invading her nose and sliding back into her throat only to come out of her mouth. Fuck fuck fuck-

“What’s wrong?” Miranda’s tone lacked any trace of sympathy.

Nicole simply coughed out the remaining fluid from her mouth and unceremoniously grabbed a piece of cloth from Emma’s hands. She pressed it to her nose, only to feel it soaked against her skin far too soon.

“Damaged sinuses, as you said,” she croaked, her voice sounding so unlike her own.

That made Miranda frown. She kept that same expression while noting down the previous results. “It should be healed by now.”

“Well they aren't,” Nicole spat. The blood and the horrid smell were clouding her mind and, as many knew, pain and holding her tongue did not mix well in her. “And did we really have to do this in the same room as a dead fucking body?!”

Nicole’s angry outburst gave the woman pause. Annoyance mixed with a hint of confusion on her face. She looked at her assistant, an eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“No. Just- just anestesia.” Emma answered promptly.

“What the fuck do you mean anesthesia? Anesthesia doesn’t make you smell like a goddamn decomposing corpse, do you have cotton stuck up your noses?!” Thankfully the bleeding was starting to subside, which meant there was nothing to stifle her steadily raising angry tone.

Miranda, now sporting a scowl, got up and grabbed Nicole’s chin between two fingers. It made her flinch back, but there was no escaping the iron grip.

“I can assure you that the man is not dead, simply under anesthesia and recovering from a bad infection.” She moved Nicole’s head from left to right, eyes scrutinizing as ever.

Afterwards, she turned back and wrote something down on a piece of paper and simply instructed Emma to wrap up and lead Nicole out. The sudden shift not only in demeanor, but also in her position from the bed to standing upright was mildly dizzying. She swapped the gown for her normal clothes as quickly as she physically could, not wanting to spend another unnecessary second in this underground grave.

While she was ushered out the door, Mother Miranda’s sickly sweet voice rang after her.

“I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Her stomach turned.

---

The trek home was short and silent, Nicole simply wanting to get home as soon as possible and get a damn hot shower and sleep.

She bid the young man that was accompanying her goodbye the moment the Castle’s entrance was within jogging distance, and hurried steps took her to the imposing doors. It was Alexandria to answer her knock, Nicole having left her own keys in her bedroom.

“Welcome back my la-” the polite smile was all but wiped off the woman’s face, replaced by wide eyes. “Are you injured?”

Nicole looked at her confused, then down at herself. A muttered curse escaped past her lips when she remembered the bloody mess on her skin. “I’m okay. Just-... just don’t tell anyone I’m here yet. I'll change first.”

Her plan went out the window when a set of hasty steps came booming toward them.

“Nico-”

Cassandra’s voice died in her throat when her golden eyes landed on Nicole’s small frame, dried dark blood on her face and arms and her clothes stained. An angry growl slipped from between bared teeth.

“What the fuck did she do to you?”

Nicole was quick to answer, too tired to deal with anything other than a few hours of sleep. “I’m okay. I’m just-...” she shook her head, then turned to the Steward. “Alexandria kindly ask a maid to draw me a bath.”

“At once.” And with that the woman turned and scurried away, most likely also not wanting to be in the vicinity of an angry Cassandra.

---

The hot water felt like pure bliss on her skin. It seemed to make every muscle relax and get rid of the awful tension. She leaned back, eyes closed and hands idly moving through the water.

It was just mildly difficult to fully relax with Cassandra muttering and pacing back and forth in the same room though.

"I'm-... I'm not letting you do this again."

Nicole simply sighed and started to scrub away at dried blood. The miniature red waterfall from earlier had gotten blood all over her arms and chest, some splatters even getting on her legs. Her face was also a mess, trails of blood going from her nose and mouth to the chin with smudges and splatters.

"What did she even do to you?"

Before she had a chance to reply, a knock came from the door and a maid entered with a few clean towels and a change of clothes from Nicole's own bedroom. The girl didn't linger, simply giving them both a courteous bow and exiting the room.

Looking for something to change the subject, Nicole focused on the pleasant honey smell. Honey with a slight citrus-y undertone, maybe lemon or orange.

"Did you get a new soap?"

Cassandra stopped pacing, brows furrowed. "No? It's the same one."

Confused, Nicole brought a hand that had just been scrubbed with that very soap right under her nose and took a deep inhale. It was indeed the same one. Chamomile and mint. She sighed in annoyance and leaned back against the cool porcelain while Cassandra came and bent down on one knee to be somewhat on eye level.

"Nose still not working properly or…?" She said while gingerly tilting Nicole's chin up with two fingers. She grimaced at one yet to be washed trail of dried blood that made its way to her wife's thin upper lip.

Nicole simply shook her head and grabbed Cassandra's hand. "Can you… go get ready. I'm beyond tired and just want to lay down with you."

Cassandra pursed her lips but nodded none the less. With a kiss on top of red hair, she turned and left the spacious bathroom, door shutting with a heavy thud.

Left alone, she scrubbed every inch of skin again and took a few extra minutes to enjoy the warmth of the water. It felt so incredibly odd to not feel any actual pain after the day's events. Any trace of what her body went through had been erased by her newfound ability, not leaving behind even the faintest mark of a scar, nor blackened skin caused by electric shocks.

She pushed herself out of the tub, grimacing at the slight pink tone the water had taken. Body and hair quickly dried with the towels, she put on the clothes, a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top, and finally stepped out of the bathroom too.

Cassandra was waiting for her in bed, velvety dark robes hanging loosely on her shoulders and eyes fixated on the window while her fingers were tapping furiously on the cover of a book forgotten in her lap. Book that was quickly placed on the nightstand when Nicole climbed in beside her and pushed her way into the brunette's arms. She was tired and absolutely not above demanding cuddles.

Her wife wasted no time in wrapping an arm around her and pulling the soft blanket up to cover them both. Nicole interlocked their fingers, absentmentally turning the ring on Cassandra's finger. The same ring she had, albeit in a smaller size. A golden band with intricate floral patterns engraved on it. It had no protruding gem, something they both opted for so that the rings wouldn't need to be taken off while working and wearing gloves. Instead, eight small ocre gems were lined among the minuscule curled leaves.

It took Cassandra about two minutes to take a deep inhale and open her mouth. New record.

"Are you… are you hurt?"

Nicole didn't look up at her, the concern dripping from her words alone were enough to squeeze her heart painfully.

"No. I'm all healed up, just tired." She could almost feel Cassandra's question of clarification, but not wanting to go over what had happened down in the laboratory so soon, she opted for something the brunette would hopefully be just as interested in. "We did get some odd results though."

At the lack of any interruption she went on. "Accelerated heart rate whenever I get hurt. Can't pass out." Which was both a blessing and a curse, depending on the point of view and situation. "Also for some reason my temperature gets really high."

"You get one hell of a fever?"

"Yeah."

Cassandra tapped a finger on Nicole's hand, mentally going over possibilities. "Aren't fevers used against infections? Maybe that has something to do with it."

A small hum passed her lips. Could that have something to do with it? It was possible that her healing abilities caused a fever in order to fight off any possible infection before it even became one. Maybe it was her body's way of lessening damage as much as possible since, as the day's events showed, the old replaced tissue had a tendency to get purged. She grimaced at the memory of slowly choking on blood and went for something at least slightly more pleasant.

"Oh and… I can't bleed out. Blood volume stays constant."

She looked up at Cassandra with what could only be described as a shit eating grin. Her wife blinked, realization seeming to dawn on her together with the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. She coughed.

"Yeah well. I'll keep that in mind. For when you don't need to sleep."

"And deny me some fun now?" Nicole's pout was purely for dramatic effect and it gained her an eye roll.

Two slender fingers gripped her chin to keep it in place while narrowed golden eyes bored into her green ones. The pout slowly morphed into a smirk. Cassandra was not the kind of person who did not indulge in her own pleasures and that, although to a more careful extent, included drinking her lover's blood. A fact that Nicole was not only not complaining about, but also learned to use in order to push all the right buttons.

When Nicole turned her head in the uncharacteristically gentle grip to plant a small kiss on the soft palm, Cassandra finally gave in. Concern was momentarily put on hold in the name of the normalcy they both have been denied in the last few weeks. She bent down, their lips meeting into a kiss that soon turned needy with tongue slipping past sharp teeth and a hand scratching lightly at her nape. Soon Cassandra broke their kiss, but only to slowly trail her way across her jawline with kisses and small nips. She bit at the soft skin right under the jaw bone, eliciting a quiet groan right by her sensitive ear. Black painted lips took her down the neck and across collarbones, planting a kiss right in between them, at the base of Nicole's throat.

When she slowly made her way to an exposed shoulder, Nicole's hand at the back of her head guided her further up, right above where her pulse was. After an inquisitive hum against her skin, she spoke quietly.

"Since blood loss isn't exactly a problem… no need to avoid the neck really."

Cassandra hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to trust her wife. She placed a gentle kiss on the spot right above where blood was flowing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The same gentle kiss that was placed on the skin countless times before and that only Nicole had the privilege of experiencing.

Sharp fangs sunk into tender flesh, the warm blood invading Cassandra's mouth making her moan low in her throat. Being used to the feeling of the bite by now, Nicole simply closed her eyes with a sigh and let her body melt into Cassandra's arms. The familiar blissful ache was welcomed, even though, she noticed, it did not bring with it the lightheadedness she had grown accustomed to.

Although she wasn't aware of it, Cassandra was, in a way, a creature of habit. Every time she would drink her blood, her hand would come up to cup Nicole's cheek, thumb slowly tracing the jawline, right before she would pull her mouth away. Every time, without fail.

This time however, when that happened, Nicole kept her in place with the hand tangled in brunette hair, her voice coming out breathy when she spoke. "Go on."

Cassandra would never admit it, but her self control would always waver while feeding. Therefore, she didn't need much convincing, continuing to take mouthfuls of blood in between a satisfied groan. When she finally had her fill, she pulled back with a bashful look in her eyes. Concern quickly flashed on her face at the sight of the crimson mess on her wife's neck.

Nicole however, not wanting their moment to get ruined, took one of Cassandra's hands in her own and slowly placed a soft kiss on each knuckle. After that was done, and the downright ticklish sensation of skin patching itself subsided, she guided the fingers over the bloody skin.

"See? Healed," she whispered.

Cassandra gingerly traced her fingers over the spot, looking for no longer existing puncture marks. She smiled upon not finding them and turned to pull out a handkerchief from a small drawer of her nightstand. A ritual of sorts, one practiced more times than they cared to count over the years. Cassandra passed the white cloth over the skin, wiping away the crimson stains while her wife relaxed into the touch.

"Feeling good?" It was a remark meant to poke fun at how much Nicole seemed to enjoy herself, but the double meaning did not go unnoticed.

A smile tugged at Nicole's lips and she nodded.

In turn, Cassandra hummed. "You taste different." And, at her lover's furrowed brows and the slightest hint of alarm flashing in her eyes, she clarified. "Not bad. Just different. Slightly sweeter actually."

"Is that so," Nicole purred, the smile returning to her lips.

Cassandra discarded the cloth on the floor to be retrieved later and shifted both of them back down on the myriad of pillows.

"Yes. Now how about you get some sleep."

Nicole wasted no time in snaking an arm around her waist and nuzzling into her side. It would never cease to amaze her how Cassandra's presence could make her feel so at ease, as if nothing beyond the castle's walls existed. At that moment, she couldn't help but be grateful for her newfound ability, useful in far more ways than one.

She stretched slightly upwards, auburn hair like a small waterfall behind her.

"I love you," she whispered against cool ashy lips.

"I love you too," Cassandra replied, closing the almost nonexistent space between their mouths in a soft kiss.

It left behind a slight coppery taste on Nicole's lips, but she couldn't bring herself to care, instead readjusting her legs to tangle comfortably around her wife's thigh.

[cherrywoes]

inferno.

𝘼𝘾𝙏 𝙊𝙉𝙀:

𝗖𝗛𝗔��𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢. 𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙.

— a person who strolls the city in order to experience it. “deliberately aimless.”

THE MORTAL WORLD was as he recalled it to be; wild, lush, and potent with life. The grass beneath his feet was cool and damp, as if there had been a light rain just seconds before he stepped out of the portal, and real. He could touch it with his fingers, feel the sunlight and energy coursing through its very veins, could feel the way the earth beneath him trembled at his touch, bowed against his power and immensity. He could pinpoint every human being on the planet down to their heartbeats, their individual thoughts and emotions, to a degree where he was certain his powers could rival even Lucifer’s, as glorious as his former brother had been.

He twisted a blade of grass between his fingertips, watching the pieces split and tear apart under the force, much like his soul and the darkness rolling like a thundercloud within him. His wings grew a steady black the longer he stood apart from his angelic soul, each feather turning more jagged, more rough, the sharpened edges growing dangerously serrated. His wings were no longer the slate gray he had sported all his life, proud of the line he toed when forever opposed both heaven and hell; they were now black as pitch, sparkling like oil in a field of water. He could even feel horns beginning to rise from the top of his skull, long, delicate things that curled around the back of his head and ended in points just above his eyes in a mimicry of a diadem.

The Nameless One was no longer an archangel, or any sort of being that existed previously. He was new; he was fresh from hell, born out of both light and dark, without a shred of divinity left within him—except maybe there was. A small spark, barely there, fighting against the evil within with all of its might, bent on surviving, existing in a world where it was unwanted.

“Who are you?” A man stepped out of the treeline. He crushed poppies and baby’s breath as he walked, uncaring of the tiny lives he had snuffed out. His hair was cropped short to his head in a style that the Nameless One had never seen before, and he wore clothing made of mixed fabrics, even shoes of bizarre color that sparked no memory within him. He was foreign, and yet he was not, for the Nameless One could smell the divinity on him, could smell Hell on him like a second natural scent, an odor of sharp citrus and brimstone. He was no more powerful than any other Second Sphere angel but could easily sit within the top of those ranks, for certain. “Answer me, Fallen One.”

Here was an angel the Nameless One did not recognize, but knew had participated in Lucifer’s crusade against God besides. He allowed the grass strands to flutter to the ground at his feet, wings—all six pairs of them—rolling in circular motions to ease the ache of centuries of torture from his shoulders and spine. While the scars on his body were forever healed, the pain within continued to linger, dragging down his coil of flesh and bone until he was almost mindless. The gravity of this world pulled upon him like chains, made him ache, made him hurt, made him feel heavy in many ways that he could not put a name to but knew existed.

“You’re an archangel,” the man continued when the angel offered no answer to him. His expression appeared almost permanently angry, or stern, and he took a step closer to him, eyes flickering over his wings and features. “But you’re not Lucifer, and all of the others are already here. So... you can only be the Nameless One. Am I right?”

“Congratulations.” The Nameless One’s voice was a multi dimensional purr, shaking the atoms around them and causing the air to physically vibrate. The flowers wilted near his bare feet, succumbing to the raw power that filtered off of his skin in harsh waves; the trees bowed towards him; the mountains trembled. “Your assumption is correct…” He paused, flicking through the other angel’s memories with razor sharp metaphysical claws until he found the right one. “Iraphel.”

“It’s Iwaizumi now.” Iraphel, or Iwaizumi, crossed his arms. At the Nameless One’s questioning look, he added,”To exist here, we must have human names. You’ll have to choose one if you’re going to stay here.”

The archangel turned his head back to the portal, sealed off and permanently closed. No other would be going through it if he had the choice; keeping Lucifer in Hell was the best opportunity he would have at being free of his beliefs and doctrine before armageddon. And Lucifer would be loathe to part with his divinity, besides, he assumed, still too caught up in heaven, in their Father, who he so desperately loved and despised in the same breath. He would not be going back to that, to an angel who regretted his decision and affirmed it by the very existence of Hell—no, he was too proud, and he had already betrayed his friend once. A second time would be unforgivable.

“I have no intention of returning to Hell.” The Nameless One rubbed his wrists where he could still feel the imprints of the cuffs used to bind him in Cocytus. He would likely never get rid of the phantom pains, but it was a small price to pay for such freedom, where God had turned a blind eye and relied on humanity’s sense of morality to provide the right path for them. “No, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Right… Well, you’ll still need a name.” Iwaizumi’s eyes darted up and down his physical form, still covered in the inhuman toga given to him in hell. “And normal clothes—”

In a brief moment, the Nameless One was clothed. He had mimicked the outfit of a human nearby, had chosen him at random, and altered the outfit to fit his human body as he pleased. It was strange to wear so many layers; a pair of undergarments, pants, a shirt, and brown overcoat that ended just at his knees. Even the shoes would take getting used to, flat and close toed and restricting. He had learned much from that human just by browsing through his mind, but it was such a small part of a vast world, he was beginning to learn. “Is this acceptable?”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Yeah, but… I guess it’s fine. Now you just need a name.”

Another facet of humanity plucked from an unknowing human; he paired one with another that seemed reasonable, disliking several of the meanings that came from some of them, and came up with one he liked, to a degree, and felt he could live with for some time if needed. “Oikawa Tooru.”

“Did you get that from someone else?” Iwaizumi inquired. At Oikawa’s nod, he shook his head and grumbled under his breath. “Just how powerful are you?”

“I am unsure.” Oikawa shrugged and knelt down to pluck a dead flower from the ground. It dissolved in his hand at the touch, crumbling into a fine black powder that smelled just like Cocytus—icy and unforgiving. He allowed it to fall to the ground with the strand of grass in a mimicry of snow, each individual flake following its own path just as he would. “Separating from my divine soul has amplified my powers. It will be some time yet until I am able to control them properly.”

“Well… Shit.” Iwaizumi exhaled a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. He rocked back on his heels, tilted his head to the sky, and groaned. “Right, huh, okay—let’s get you out of here. We can deal with the rest when it comes up.”

Oikawa held out a hand towards where he knew the city was. “Lead the way, Iwaizumi.”

For the next several years, Oikawa—his identity as the Nameless One shed from his mind like an old skin—roamed the city of Tokyo and the entirety of Japan in search of knowledge. From farming to technology, he wanted to know it all, to learn about this world his Father coveted so much, to know if he could learn to love it as strongly too—but instead, he found something else. Something equally as precious, a diamond among moissanite.

A human girl.

“Oikawa, look!” Tiny hands reached up to shine a reflective piece of multicolored glass up to the sun. Rays of blue, red, pink, and yellow reflected upon soft flesh, the corner of a [color] eye, and fewest strands of [color] hair shining underneath the light. “Look what I made today! Isn’t it pretty?!”

“Of course it is!” The archangel peered over her shoulder to look up through the glass with her. It was a depiction of an angel, ironically enough, dressed in a white gown and a golden halo hovering above its head. Interestingly, it looked much like Lucifer, with dark hair and blue eyes, though that had to have been an artistic choice and not because the child knew what the Morningstar truly looked like. “Can I keep it, [Name]-chan?”

Over the years, he had picked up on the language, dialect, and social mannerisms. It had allowed him to form a personality that was more acceptable among humans, most of them unused to the formality that angels had ingrained into their very existence. Iwaizumi had helped him along in that regard, forcing him to use casual slang, contractions, even made him learn other languages, although any language other than Japanese or Spanish was difficult for him.

Suspicious [color] eyes flickered up to regard him. “You promise you’ll keep it safe?”

“I promise.” As an afterthought, he held out his hand and stuck out his pinkie. “Pinkie promise! I’ll keep it safe, or you can hit me if I haven’t.”

In that time, he had come across her—[Name] [Surname]. A little orphan girl with no parents, no home, not even a penny to her name. It had been an accident that he met her in the first place, injured from a fight with an angel that had left him grounded for some time. She had tended to him as best as she could, but his wings just weren’t safe enough for childish hands to heal, and since then, he had a fond spot for her despite Iwaizumi advising otherwise. Human connections were dangerous, he’d told him, especially ones that came from the heart.

But, Oikawa mused, every time his best friend shook his head at him when he returned from the orphanage, what Iwaizumi didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

“How will I know if you haven’t though?” [Name]’s nose scrunched cutely in thought. “I’m at the orphanage all the time and you don’t live here.”

Oikawa hummed in thought. [Name]’s orphanage, centered in the middle of Eden, the safe realm that the first Fallen to crawl out of Hell had created to hide them from the world, was only a few blocks away from Oikawa’s apartment. While humans were allowed to enter Eden, they could never leave once they learned of their existence, and if they still wanted to, then their memories would be wiped clean. It was likely that was what would happen to [Name] one day, if she was adopted.

“You’re right.” He nodded his head in agreement. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he produced a brilliant white light in his palm—bright, but also dim, and full of color. [Name] gasped at its beauty, reaching for it with greedy hands. “No, no! This is part of my soul. You can’t just grab it like that, it’s too fragile.”

She frowned at the scolding, but dropped her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. Just be more careful,” Oikawa advised.

He had been waiting for the right moment to do this. Iwaizumi had often told him he needed to find a safe place to put the remnants of his divine soul, and what better place than a human he was fond of?

“Here.” The bright light floated above his hand for a moment before shooting into [Name]’s chest. Her hands flew to her collarbone, patting the area, and she showed no sign of pain; but Oikawa could sense her like a beacon now, a human with a hint of divinity within her. “You can keep this; as long as you never break it, I’ll make sure to never break your glass.”

The smile that erupted upon her face was both heartbreaking and beautiful.

“Thanks, Oikawa!”

one | masterlist | three

taglist: open.

[baby-blossoms]

Communication Skills

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, brief Sam Winchester x reader (platonic)

Word Count:  2060

Summary: Dean offends the reader right before a hunt. The reader, having always had a crush on Dean, takes it very personally.

Warnings: Foul language, Small amounts of violence, mentions of de*th, reader has body image insecurities. 

----

      “Remember, don’t go anywhere with him until Dean is in position, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as Sam called out the reminder from the other side of the bathroom door. You loved him wholeheartedly but sometimes it felt as if he forgot that you had been hunting almost just as long as he had, and unlike him and his brother, you had yet to be killed. 

       “Thanks for the tip Sammy,” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “I thought I’d just waltz right out with him and patiently wait for him to turn tonight and eat my heart.” 

Sam did not reply, but you heard a heavy sigh of annoyance. You frowned, turning back to the mirror you were standing in front of. You had gone out and bought a ridiculously overpriced dress, compliments of a creepy old man that got just close enough to you for you to swipe his wallet when he tried to hit on you. It was Y/F/C, the same color every victim in this case so far had been wearing.

       “Sorry Sammy, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

You said as you opened the door. Sam met your gaze, then carefully analyzed your outfit. 

       “You sure you wanna wear that, sweetheart?”

Dean said before Sam even had the chance to open his mouth. His comment was immediately met with a hard glare. 

         “Shut the hell up.” You huffed, quickly slamming the bathroom door once more. Staring at yourself in the mirror, a shot of anxiety and insecurity crept into your mind. You had felt confident in this dress. Sure, it wasn’t your usual style, but it had made you feel beautiful and powerful. Now your mind was filled with doubt. Your body image insecurities had always prevented you from wearing certain clothes, and now you wanted to rip the dress off and slip into your usual hunting gear. 

          “Good job, Dean.”

Sam said, his voice laced with subtle anger. Dean did not reply. 

          Dean Winchester was the bane of your existence, but at the same time, you wanted nothing more than to grab his stupid face and kiss him with everything in you. Currently, you didn’t particularly want to, but he wasn’t usually a blatant dick to you. Most hunters were dicks, though. Occupational hazard. After analyzing yourself for a few more minutes and rebuilding your wounded confidence, you finally left the bathroom. Sam immediately went to speak, but you silenced him with a look. You didn’t feel like talking now, it was time to get drunk and lick your wounds at the nearest bar, and kill a werewolf while you were at it. 

         “I’ll be at the bar.” 

You said, only hesitating when Dean called after you.

        “In that?”

 Opposed to your previous anxiety and insecurity, anger shot through your veins like a fire raging through California in the dry season. You considered screaming for a split second, instead choosing to calmly turn back to him, your anger peaking to the point your eyes started tearing up. You hated how only Dean could truly make you so angry you wanted to cry.

        “If you think I look bad just say so, Dean. You don’t have to make me feel like shit.” 

         You cringed internally as you felt a few hot tears escape your eyes. You rarely cried, and you sure as hell didn’t want to cry in front of the Winchesters, no matter how much you loved them both. Wiping the few tears away roughly, you turned and left without another word. 

-------

         Walking the dark streets of Chicago probably wasn’t your best idea, especially with a pure-blood werewolf running around that had a craving for the hearts of girls who roughly fit your appearance. You had never claimed to be one who planned things through in great detail, impulsivity ran through you and it showed. Your fears turned to reality when you heard someone trying to walk in stride with you silently. Continuing on your path, you mentally prepared yourself for a fight. You had an angel blade hidden cleverly in the strapping of the back of your dress. Your only concern was accessing it quickly and effectively whenever the werewolf finally decided to attack. Perhaps he was just assessing you for the time being. 

         Much to your surprise, you made it safely and quickly to the nearest bar without a hitch. Making your way to the bar, you quickly accessed a shot and downed it. Again, not your wisest choice, but you had fought off a vampire drunk off your ass before. Fighting off a pure-blood wasn’t usually quite as easy, but you had the advantage over him. An angel blade and being fully aware that the moment he took you out of the bar you should be ready for a fight. You sipped at a vodka tonic, glancing at the door as the werewolf entered. Hot. Damn. No wonder it was so easy for him to convince women to follow him home. 

        Turning away from him, you simply waited. 

       “Can I get the next drink?” a soothing raspy voice asked from behind you. You turned to meet his stare, his eyes almost glowed in the low lighting. He had the most symmetrical face you’d ever witnessed, and his smile practically dripped sex appeal. 

        “What exactly do you expect out of it?” 

You replied with a raised eyebrow. His eyes sparkled with intrigue. You could only assume he was used to girls melting at the sight of him, but you knew better. He ate every one of their hearts, and you didn’t plan on getting maimed tonight. On the bright side, you had piqued his interest, and you didn’t intend to ruin days of work by losing it. 

         “My name’s Hunter,” he said, taking a seat next to you at the bar. You had to suppress a laugh at the irony of his name. “I didn’t catch your name.” 

          You finished off your drink, calmly watching as he called for a round of shots.

“I didn’t throw it,” you replied, smirking at your own joke. Hunter chuckled and slid another shot into your open palm. You didn’t hesitate to down it, and he didn’t hesitate to order another round. “my name is Jenny.” 

         “Well Jenny, how about another few shots?” 

You grinned, adjusting in your seat to almost fully face him. 

         “It would be a pleasure, Hunter.” 

--- 

          You found yourself dancing and laughing with Hunter along with a handful of other drunk couples on the dance floor. A laugh died in your throat when you made eye contact with Dean from across the bar. He was sending the most ferocious glare you’d ever witnessed your way. He was probably tired of waiting for you to leave with Hunter. A petty alcohol-induced thought rang through your head. He can wait all night, at least Hunter wants to have fun before he tries to eat me. Your attention was drawn back to Hunter as his hands gently gripped your waist and ran slowly up your torso. You grinned and turned back to him, continuing to dance for a few minutes before he pulled you close and whispered,

          “You wanna go to my place?” 

No, I want to drink and not have to fight off a fleabag.

          “Yes,” you answered with the cutest giggle you could muster while near drunk and knowingly walking into a werewolf’s trap. “Let’s get out of here.”

           Hunter smiled, but unlike his previous charming smiles, this one almost unnerved you. Almost. You might’ve been a little drunker than you should’ve been, but you were still a hunter. This was no sweat. Following him out of the bar, you didn’t bother to make sure Dean saw you were leaving, you could feel his stare. You were always hyper aware of when Dean was watching you. You were always uncomfortably aware of Dean in general. Everything about him drew you closer, but tonight you didn’t even want to look his way.

           Hunter led you toward a questionable alleyway, and you rolled your eyes, stealthily grabbing the angel blade as he walked ahead of you. Hiding it behind your back, you felt adrenaline rush throughout your body, sobering you up. 

          “You live in this alley?” you asked sarcastically. Hunter turned, then advancing toward you. Quickly you shoved the blade into his chest and grinned at the shocked look on his face. 

           “You know,” you sighed, “I really didn’t think killing you would be that easy, but here we are.” 

Retrieving the blade, you turned and headed back to the bar. Maybe I’ll try their martinis. 

            “Y/N! Where is he?” 

Dean asked as you passed him. You practically sneered at him,

          “He’s dead in the alley. I’m going back to the bar.”

----

          Dean followed you back to the bar, and you could almost feel him trying to think of something to say to you. You b-lined back to the chair you had occupied previously.

         “Can I get you a drink?” 

You glanced in surprise to a fairly tall man hovering behind you. With a dazzling smile, you accepted his offer, and after a few drinks, you headed to the dance floor with him. He effortlessly twirled you around and made you genuinely laugh. Your fun was abruptly cut short by a painfully familiar voice saying,

        “That’s enough, buddy.” 

        Dean grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him effortlessly away from you. The other man looked ready for a fight, but Dean practically dragged you out of the bar before he had the chance to throw a punch.

        “What the fuck is your problem tonight, Dean?” you snarled, shoving him away from you. Dean looked caught off guard for a moment, irritation washing over his features when he replied,

        “I didn’t want to watch that son of a bitch look at you like you’re a god damn prime rib all night.” 

Shaking your head in annoyance, you snapped back,

        “Well, it’s better than making me feel like shit for how I look, Dean!”

        Dean’s face hardened, and he simply walked off toward Baby. You followed, determined to get some form of a much-deserved apology out of him. 

        “Seriously, Dean? You’ve insulted me in so many ways tonight, and you made me feel like horse shit!” He continued to walk to Baby as if you hadn’t been speaking to him, so you continued on, 

         “You could at least act like you care for once.” 

Your voice grew softer with every word, your anger mixing with sadness. Dean whipped around, taking you by surprise. 

          “I do care, Y/N! I care about you too much. I can’t fucking focus when you’re around! You looked- you… fuck!” he yelled, pacing between you and Baby. “I meant that you looked good. No, not good- you look fucking gorgeous in that dress and I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I didn’t know how to tell you that so instead I made myself sound like a complete dick. You look too good, I didn’t want every guy in the joint trying to pick you up all night. I can’t fucking stand watching them touch you!” 

          Wait, what? You stood staring at him in shock for a moment before Dean continued,

          “It burns me up to see you dancing and laughing with these scumbags, I just…” 

You stared at him, dumbfounded by his statement. 

          “You just what, Dean?”

You whispered. He stopped pacing and finally turned to fully face you. You both gazed at each other for a moment, then Dean had you pressed against Baby faster than you could have imagined. 

          “I just want to kiss you. I want you to be mine, Y/n. That’s all I want.” 

          Slowly, you brought one hand to his cheek, the other pressed softly against his chest, right at his heart. You could feel his heart pumping hard and fast. A smile crept its way across your lips, and you slowly pulled Dean into a kiss. 

         “You know, you could’ve just said I looked pretty.” 

You said. Dean laughed and softly kissed you once more.

          “Yeah, but then we wouldn’t be here.”

It was your turn to laugh as you replied,

           “In that case, I’m glad you have no communication skills.”

[duhragonball]

Broly for the character ask. Either version, your pick.

This seems... familiar.  Well, when I was a kid I would pick both options in Choose Your Own Adventure Books to see which was better, so I’m gonna do Broly ‘18 now.

Give me a character and I will answer:

Why I like them: I’ve got some concerns with Broly ‘18 (see below), but in general I can’t deny that they took the original version and made him a much more interesting character.   The exile from the Saiyan homeworld and Paragus’ revenge scheme are still there, but this Broly doesn’t like to fight, and he doesn’t tap into his hidden potential until well past the point where he can’t control himself.   He’s a Broly you can feel sorry for, which paves the way for a character like Cheelai to feel sorry for him.  

I do sort of like that there’s a canon-ish version of Broly that Goku can hang out with.   As a fanfic writer, I always prefer it when the source material leaves a few doors open, as opposed to just killing everybody in some scorched earth approach. 

Why I don’t: I liked the movie, but I think most of that owes to thoughtful writing, vibrant colors, and great art direction.   This could have been Dragon Ball Super: Android 13, and it still would have been a hit.   They ran with Broly because of the name recognition and to that’s fine, and they did a good job revamping the character to fit this new story, but I’m wary of character reboots in general.    Now we’ve got two Brolys and everyone’s gotta decide which one’s their favorite and who could beat who and I dunno, it becomes a whole thing.  

Like, DC Comics used to do this a lot in the 60′s and 70′s, because they basically decided that their World War II-era comics were set in a separate world from their current stuff, which meant that there had to be two Flashes and two Batmans and so on.    Which was fine for Flash, since those were two different dudes with the same powers, but the Batmen were just the same person, only one was older.   In the 70′s, they did a whole “Death of Batman” story where the old one dies, but it’s utterly meaningless, since the implication is that there’s a infinitude of other Batmen out there, including the one that appears in the monthly Batman comic.  

Of course, that’s not entirely fair, because I never had a beef with the 1986 reboot of Superman, because I wasn’t familiar enough with the older version to mind.    In the same vein, there’s a lot of fans who are totally happy with nuBroly because that’s the first one they got to know, or they just never cared much about the first one.    To each their own.

Favorite episode (scene if movie): To be clear, I did enjoy the DBS: Broly movie.   It set lofty goals and achieved them, and making a sympathetic Broly was one of its successes.   I don’t want to make it  sound like I hate the movie, but the premise still sort of irks me.   

Favorite season/movie: I guess I already covered this.    Wait, I was supposed to do a scene.  Uh... I guess the part where he beats the shit out of Frieza for an hour.

Favorite line: I don’t remember him saying a whole lot.   I guess I’ll go with that story he told about Baa’s ear, since that’s about the most talking he got to do.

Favorite outfit: He kind of only had the one.    I’ll just stick with that.

OTP: Let’s be real, because I am keeping it real.    Cheelai was the best thing about that movie.

I do enjoy the implied romance the movie has, where it’s pretty obvious to everyone that these two are supposed to hook up at some point, but it’s never explicitly spelled out.    They rescue each other-- Cheelai saves Broly three times-- and it’s clear that they’re interested in one another on some level, but that’s as far as it goes.  

Brotp: I dunno, Leemo, I guess.  

Head Canon: I’d like to think they left Vampa soon after the end of the movie and found something better to do.   Luffasworld, for instance.  I meant to blow that planet up, but I never got around to it.    Broly could run and play there, I guess.   I think I got rid of all the robot ghosts, but it’s been a while.

Unpopular opinion: Eh, I think I already covered this.   I’m not thrilled with Broly ‘18 being so strong that nothing short of Gogeta Blue can shut him down.  

A wish: I don’t know if Funimation is interested, but if they redubbed all four Broly movies with the new VA from FighterZ, that wouldn’t break my heart at all.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: FFS, we don’t need Broly ‘32 to show up and make this even more complicated.    I can just see him, rolling up on his skateboard and asking Whis and SSJ5 Goku Magneta what the “haps” is.

5 words to best describe them: He wears a green bathmat.

My nickname for them: Broly ‘18.

[cancerianprincess]

“Wicked Coronation” (vampire! T’Challa)

Warning(s): None

Recommend Listen/Song Inspo: “Stranger Things” ~ Joyner Lucas & Chris Brown

A/N: This was just a little something I decided to crank out before spooky szn was officially over after being inspired by this photo (which ALL credit for goes to @persephone​ ). Happy Halloween, you guys. Enjoy 👻🧛🏾‍♂️🎃😈

______

“Unbelievable.”

Reyna scoffed as she headed back to her car, shaking her head at the vast level of tardiness her date was displaying tonight. She couldn’t believe that after willingly putting herself out there, he had the nerve to be late.

As a result of listening to her best friend, Talia, Reyna had put on her best outfit, a crimson colored velvet bodycon dress that was to die for, a pair of dazzling single dangle earrings and single matching bangles on each wrist, and her best heels which were a pair of sleek black stilettos that would have any man or woman eating out the palm of her hand. The twist out was on point, matte lipstick was popping, and her glitter red acrylics still looked fresh as can be.

So imagine the amount of irritation Reyna felt bubbling inside her upon realizing she had been stood up while looking like a full course meal.

After be more than courteous enough to wait forty five minutes past the agreed meeting time, Reyna was now heading back to her car while tapping away furiously on her phone.

‘It’s been almost an hour and he didn’t show sooo guess who’s leaving 🙃’

Reyna began fishing through her black clutch while awaiting Talia’s reply, knowing she was hovering over her phone in expectation of every last detail.

Wifey 🤗💋(2)

‘Excuse me 👀 you said what now??’

‘Do I need to make a trip that way?’

A light but warm chuckle escaped Reyna’s lips in response to the ride or die aura her girlfriend was exuberating. “And yet she loves to claim that I’m the crazy one,” Reyna thought to herself.

‘Pipe down girl, it’s all good lol. If he can’t act right then he can certainly get left’

“And he if think shit sweet next time I see him, he got another thing coming.” This time Reyna had spoken out loud, but despite the rhetorical nature she still received an unexpected response.

“Oh, entle,” a baritone voice cut through the dark. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

Well, partially unexpected response, at least.

Reyna folded her arms across her chest after stopping halfway down the alley just a few feet short of her car. “You’re late.”   

She glared intensely at the man posted up against said vehicle who was dressed in a spotless all black suit, and yet still managed to stand out in contrast to the dark of the night. The first few buttons of the matching onyx dress shirt he donned underneath had been left unfastened, leaving the fabric to hang open exposing his defined pecs ever so slightly. There was a red pocket square in the front of his jacket, and as if to accent the accessory, he held in his hand a single red rose, inhaling its scent right before his eyes cut to his other half.

“Forgive me, my love,” her boyfriend apologized. “I’m afraid I let time get away from me while I was...tying up some loose ends.” He pushed off the Lamborghini to approach Reyna, but for the two steps he took to be in arm’s length of her, she took a step back.

“Uh-uh, T’Challa. Using your ‘voodoo magic’ is not going to get you off the hook for this so don’t even try it,” Reyna reprimanded him. “What ‘loose ends’ were so important that you had to keep me waiting for nearly an hour, on tonight of all nights? It’s not like we have all the time in the world!”

Since the night Reyna had accidentally ended up in the wrong Halloween party to say the least, T’Challa turned rescuing her from a group of savage gargoyles into a tradition of treating Reyna to a night out on the supernatural side of town. In the past four years since that fateful encounter, it was fair to say that the two had fallen for each other, regardless of the vampire/mortal dynamic that frequently posed as a challenge for them. But, nevertheless, Reyna adored her other-worldly beau and accepted him wholeheartedly, fangs and all. If anything, the true nature of his origins fascinated her.

Which is why T’Challa had finally decided on what to grant his lover with as a reward for finishing up graduate school. And what better gift was there than making Reyna a part of his world rather than just a frequent visitor?

“Well, usana, not that I need use of my powers to get you to forgive me, which you and I both know,” T’Challa stated. He quickly stepped in closer perimeter of Reyna before she had the chance to retreat any further, placing the lone flower in her hand.

“But I suppose you have waited long enough for your surprise,” he went on, a devious smirk playing at his lips. In the mere seconds that Reyna had become distracted by the gorgeous creature’s charisma, he had circled around his girlfriend like a vulture as she closed her eyes to sniff the rose.

Burying his face in the crook near Reyna’s collarbone, and running his hands along her amber skin until they were wrapped snugly around her waist, T’Challa spoke seductively into her ear, “Time to get a taste of what we’ve been missing out on.”

And with that, before Reyna even had an opportunity to utter a syllable in protest, T’Challa bore his pearly white fangs, and bit directly down into the right side of her neck.

*******

Whatever pain had hit the new grad student from the chomp in her flesh went away as quickly as it came. The second Reyna felt the teeth sink into her vein she could have guessed correctly what was happening, but of course there was no time to fully analyze the possibility. Because the moment her eyes had snapped open just as fast as they’d clamped shut, Reyna found herself standing in the VIP section of the same forbidden nightclub she’d stumbled into over four years ago.

Perched on the overlook she could see the entire dance floor below packed and lively beneath her feet with every fictional creature one could think of when it came to spooky season. Their forms collided together rhythmically in time with the music blaring through the speakers, while the colored strobe lights flashes different hues of red and purple creating endless shadows against the walls.

Moving closer to the railing, Reyna noticed that her body felt different; that it felt...strange. A good kind of strange. Her chocolate color orbs now glowed the same shade of scarlet as her dress, and all her senses seemed to amplified ten times over, including her ability to easily detect a lingering presence hanging over her shoulder.

“Enticing, isn’t it?” T’Challa asked from behind her. “You see, since the minute we met I detected there was something special about you, however I failed in putting my finger on it right away. Still I longed to know more of you anyway, despite it going against my conventional practices.” He drifted to Reyna’s side, continuing with his thoughts while watching over his subjects along with her.

“But with the passage of time, I was able to uncover at last what it was that inevitably drew me to you.” The demon turned to Reyna, cupping her chin in his grasp to direct all her attention to him.

“It was your passion, Reyna,” T’Challa confessed while staring into her newly colored irises. “Your captivation with the unknown, the way you’re enthralled by mystery; it was in your eyes the first night we met. Instead of turning away from me in fear, you allowed your fascination to learn more about my world guide you. I knew then, that I could trust you to be mine.”

The two were now inches apart, giving the demon leeway to close the gap by pressing his lips to hers. Reyna melted into the kiss, finding herself more attracted to her boyfriend as ever due to his observation of her. She moaned lightly into his mouth, only to let out a slight whimper when he broke away.

“Now done with school, you have no more immediate obligations holding you to the mortal world permanently, but if you still choose to walk away, then I possess a potion that will reverse the bite I gave you if consumed before sunrise,” T’Challa muttered, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“But, neglect to take it by then, and your days as a mortal will be over.”

The vampire began backtracking slowly to the center seat that served as his throne until seated back upon it with one foot placed across the opposing knee.

“So, what do you say, my love?” His eyes blinked closed briefly, glowing blood red when they opened again as he made his final offer. “Will you join my world? Lead along with me as my equal in ruling over these heathens?”

Reyna stood and thought for a moment, remembering that she owed her good friend details about how the ‘anniversary dinner’ had went once it was finished. Knowing she would get a kick out of spinning this one, she could barely contain the smile spreading across her face.

“Darling,” Reyna started, running her tongue across her freshly obtained fangs while stalking over to her soulmate seductively. “It would be an absolute honor to call you my king.”

But that conversation would have to wait until later, because right now, Reyna was about to become Queen of the Underworld.

~~~~~

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[eirianerisdar]

Dooku, Qui-Gon’s death

Part of Before the Shatterpoint, a series that focuses on moments before pivotal events in galactic history; from Utapau before Order 66 to Luke watching his last Tatooine sunset, and more.

Also posted to FFN as a collection of oneshots

Before the Shatterpoint, part 6/?

The news of Qui-Gon’s death reaches the Temple just as Dooku returns from a self-imposed reconnaissance mission six grueling months long.

He had needed to see the state of the Republic for himself, without the Council’s directives. 

He stands there for a moment, in his spotless, impeccably furnished quarters, with the reek of a decaying Republic clinging to his sentinel-shadowed cloak, and stares at the comm in his hand; as if challenging it to repeat the report it has just produced in a metallic-edged voice devoid of all but professional calm.

Masters and Knights of the Order: We regret to report that Master Qui-Gon Jinn has rejoined the Force. He fell in the line of duty, protecting the Queen of Naboo as he was charged to do in his service to the Republic. Master Jinn’s body has been returned to the Living Force on Naboo; for those who wish to attend and pay their respects, a separate memorial service will be held in the Hall of Eternal Rest at the sixth hour postmeridian, three days from the date of this message. May the Force be with you.

Mace Windu had not even the decency to tell him in private. 

And Dooku had considered him almost a friend.

It is not often that Dooku feels the weight of almost seven decades of existence, but he does now. He allows his travel-stained cloak to drop behind him, crosses to the table on boots caked with the dirt of a thousand dying worlds that the Republic chooses to turn a blind eye to. They track grime across the spotless floor, turns the shining surface into corrupted grey.

He lowers himself into a chair, and folds his hands in front of him.

He should have sensed it.

Why had he not sensed it?

The Force has been…distant, of late. The light not quite as bright as it had been in his youth, as though the crystal of his heart has dulled with the sights he has presented it with. 

World after distant world, Hutt, Trandoshan, pirate, mercenary; a million specks of filth festering in the glittering façade of a Republic grown greedy and complacent, with an Order of cowards at its bidding. Dooku had watched from a dimly-lit tavern in the furthest reaches of Wild Space as the young Queen of Naboo addressed the senate on a holo-screen above him; watched as the politicians fingered their corruption-lined pockets and decided that her world was not worth saving.

The Council, of course, had done nothing. They had sent his former padawan on a fool’s errand; and ultimately, his utter ending.

The chair opposite stares at him mockingly, as though the straight-backed slab of priceless Felucian wood laughs for the lack of a brown-haired padawan in it. 

But that had been so very long ago; nearly four decades, now. Dooku had been a Knight fairly freshly knighted, and Qui-Gon not so much younger than him as to voice any differing opinions a young Jedi might have.

And Qui-Gon had many differing opinions.

In the end, it had been…simpler, to step back. To allow Yoda to teach Qui-Gon that travesty of a lightsaber form, to know that no matter what Dooku taught, and said, Qui-Gon would always have a different perspective. And Qui-Gon, in turn, had learnt to pick and choose his battles. It had not been a particularly close partnership, by any means. 

But Dooku had not thought their bond so weak that he could not sense the passing of his former padawan, even a hundred light-years away.

Padawans. 

What of his grandpadawan?

What of Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Surely the boy is more a young man now; with scarcely a few months before knighthood, he would only need an experienced eye in the short term, to correct the many indulgences Qui-Gon no doubt lavished upon their partnership.

With this comes a ridiculous thought. Would Dooku presume too much, if he offered…?

His comm chirps; a different sound, now, to indicate a text-based message. He slides his fingers out of a clasp so tight that he is almost surprised by their numbness, and flicks open the display.

The short lines of aurebesh fill him first with shock.

Then anger. 

And disgust. 

It would seem Obi-Wan Kenobi is no longer a padawan.

Or a simple Knight, either.

If the Council thinks it wise to place a freshy-knighted, grieving young Jedi in charge of the training of a nine-year-old who had never heard of the Force until three weeks past, then who is Dooku, respected Jedi Sentinel and once a Council member himself, to oppose them?

It is enough.

The Jedi are the crystal of the Force, they say. 

The anger flickers at the edges of his consciousness, slides questing fingers into the cracked crystal that is his heart. It pauses for a moment, slithers before him, as if waiting for his reply. 

Dooku looks the shadow in the eye, appraisingly, and nods once.

The world sharpens like never before, and if the Force screams as he takes control of it, he relishes in the sound. Rage. Power. Determination. There is fury at his fingertips, lightning in his veins. 

He palms the lightsaber at his belt, allows it to float before him, at eye level. The components make no sound as they separate themselves from ach other, skirting around the turbulent shadows that flicker from his fingers. In the centre of the disassembled weapon, his lightsaber crystal shines a bright gold, the same hue that he spotted far off in the dim caves of Ilum, as a padawan himself. 

Dooku reaches forward and plucks the crystal from the hovering components with a long thumb and forefinger. It burns against his cold fingers, blazing with a light he no longer has. 

Too long has he been a Shadow cast by the Light. It is time he willingly entered the darkness. 

He drops the crystal in a flimsi envelope and uses the internal Temple comm to summon a messenger. When the junior padawan knocks at his door, Dooku hands him the envelope with a clipped, “For the attention of Master Yoda,” and cares not that the padawan stares up at his yellow-tinged eyes with ill-disguised fear.

There is no need to send further words. The crystal is a message enough.

Dooku crosses back to the table, reassembles his lightsaber with a careless flick of his fingers, and retrieves a new outfit from his chamber; one he owns due to his birthright, but has never donned before now.

When he is robed in sable tunics bearing the coat of arms of the Count of Serenno, he crosses over to his study, slides open a drawer he has not touched for over thirty-five years, and withdraws a box painted in dust.

The lid clicks open at his touch.

The dark brown braid is still there, coiled around itself with the journey of a teacher and his student marked with every bead and twist. It was put in that box the day it was severed from a newly-knighted head, and there it has remained until this moment.

It is likely Qui-Gon thought he had done away with it.

Dooku closes the lid. 

Strictly speaking, there is no purpose in bringing it with him. It could even be viewed as a weakness. More would be served by burning it and leaving the blackened beads on his meditation cushion for all who choose to see. 

But he cannot bring himself to do so.

So he pockets it, and turns on a crisp, newly shined heel. The door hisses shut behind him with finality. 

Dooku leaves the Temple not through its massive entryway, with its towering colonnades drenched in the gold of Coruscant Prime’s sunset; he leaves instead through its Eastern hangar, with his silhouette thrown out before him by the artificial lights that illuminate the hangar floor. His personal fighter lifts into the cooling air, and it too chases its shadow until it is swallowed whole by the oncoming night. 

When he reaches Serenno a day later, there will be a letter waiting for him at his estate, bearing a unique signature.

A stylized S in old Basic, signed in crimson ink.

Next up: as per reader request! I’m open to suggestions!

This is also cross-posted to FFN, if you missed the note above!

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[juliatakesnotes]

Experience as Art: A Trip to Oaxaca with Pocoapoco's Jessica Chrastil | Apiece Apart

Can you share more about your upbringing? What led you to explore this space of living a creative life outside the role of an "artist"? 

I grew up in a family that loved learning for learning’s sake. My mother (not an artist by any known definition) has always viewed reading and researching — on nearly any topic — as the most thrilling way a person could possibly spend a day. As a child, boredom was never an option, the fact that knowledge was out there waiting to be had was like open access to an goldmine. As a kid I loved skimming through the encyclopedia —  science, people, art, countries, beliefs — so much information available in one place and context and because of its basic proximity it all appeared connected no matter how disparate it was. So comforting and exciting.

My father is the same way about people as my mother is about information — he never misses the chance to talk with anyone, hear their story, find an avenue for connection no matter how brief the interaction. In this vein, I have so many friends and people in my life who are not practicing artists, but who have the most most creative, diverse, innovative, and engaged approach to day to day work and life, as well as in the way they choose to document or share this work/ knowledge. It’s endlessly inspiring.

The process of learning, of experiencing, of connecting has always seemed like this fantastic project of sorts that never has to become a piece of art or even a means to an end but is more like the continuous building of a personal library. 

Are there any texts / quotes that have been particularly significant in thinking or researching more about this?

Essays in general are a favorite, writers that write non-fiction in a way that is as dynamic, experimental, and rich as fiction. Of course Joan Didion, her language of experience and research. I like Alain de Botton’s approach to philosophy, or anyone who manages to convey knowledge and a thought process through an unlikely shape or voice (can be anyone: My five-year-old nephew makes the most amazing drawings of the periodic table and the history of the British monarchy...)

What are some realizations about life, art, and the connection thereof that the residents have taught you? 

I get to see Oaxaca through new eyes each time a new person or resident comes through. The way people react to and connect with a new place or community is fascinating — especially when they come at it exploring whatever they are passionate about. It's like seeing each person wear the same shirt with an amazing, yet completely different outfit to a party. 

So much innovation and creative output stems from a person's deep knowledge of and subsequent ease with their particular craft or topic. Photographers become so obsessed and vocal about light that for weeks all I can see are the shapes of shadows on walls. Florists use little purple bananas to create beautiful floral designs and centerpieces. Chefs seem to use the same bags of beans I see everyday to create meals so distinctly different from each other. One favorite project was a designer who photographed "mistake sculptures" all over the city, random stacks of objects that people here use to hold parking spaces. Yet when he presented photos of the mistake sculptures they looked so intentional.  

That said, I think I originally had an idea that people were going to be most excited about what specifically they were researching but I believe people have been most excited and inspired by the connections they’ve made with people here, people from/in Oaxaca, as well as the others taking part in the residency. 

Why Oaxaca?

Pocoapoco, or poco a poco, means “little by little” or “slowly,” “gradually.” It says a lot about the approach to this residency project, and definitely about life in Oaxaca. Maybe subconsciously it came from what I was looking for upon leaving New York — more time to let things unfold, more time to learn, less about finishing, and more about experiencing and creating a space for anyone to do the same. It’s a commonly discussed fact that Oaxaca is a great place for ideas but can be an impossible place to actually get things done. 

In general, the residency provides a space for those looking to explore or expand their creative work. We host artists and non-artists in a variety of fields to support research, conversation, and community surrounding this work, process, and purpose.  This happens through month-long residencies as well as week-long residency / workshops, and a variety of individual projects and collaborations. A large part of this is about working closely with individuals and organizations in the Oaxaca area to provide education, inspiration, and cross–cultural exchange within these creative dialogues.   

Prior to moving to Oaxaca I was in New York and before that California for a so long, working in food and restaurants. In New York I was creative director at an NGO, we worked with artisan businesses around the world. I traveled a lot and spent a huge amount of time talking with people all over about how and why they create — also exploring how travel and culture and experience is so deeply embedded into and influential on the work we do, artistic or otherwise. One of these projects was in Oaxaca, and I suppose I fell in love with the place. There was very little logic involved in moving. I had lived north, west, east. Now south. This is a stopping point.    

Talk more about the difficulties that come with being an outsider in a new place. And on the flip side, what is gained? 

There is a deep level of awkwardness and self-consciousness (at least personally) on entering a new place, especially a place with such deep history and customs and roots. On trying to simultaneously respect that place, understand those terms, navigate your way into it and meld with it, and still maintain the sense of self that is so crucial to any good relationship. It’s hard and makes me feel like such a floppy ridiculous adolescent all over again.  

That said, I think self-consciousness is important and it keeps us on our toes. But there is also a fine line between self-consciousness and being crippled by over-analyzation which puts a wrench into making any connection with anything. I’ve gone through so many iterations of this balance in the past year and a half.   like to think that lately there are fewer wrenches, a bit less awkwardness. A little more trust and commitment.  

People come down often and glamorize life here, but this has definitely been one of the hardest transitions of my life. I suppose this is also because building the residency has meant navigating Oaxaca and how to most gracefully enter this place, while also quickly becoming a bridge for so many others coming through. This is wonderful and so fun but also brings a sense of responsibility and nervous protection on both ends. It feels important that the residents are understanding and considerate of this balance —  when to bring a strong sense of self, ideas, and needs to the table, and when to step back and just listen, learn, observe. I suppose that is why to do it here, because Oaxaca has made the residency project not just about a "residency" but about exploring the connections between places and people and ideas, about thoughtful interaction, about how to be a responsible traveler and artist, a compassionate and curious human.   

Below is a list of questions that one of our partners here wrote for a group of photographers coming down in hopes of getting them thinking about what it meant to be behind the camera here. I think it’s pretty relevant to everyone coming through to explore a topic or project. 

How does the photographer affect the context/environment? Is it possible to capture those effects?

How does the environment affect the photographer? Is it possible to capture these effects?

What is the difference between a touristic photo and documentary photo?

When taking photos, are you giving and creating, or are you extracting something? 

Are you on safari or are you creating meaningful interactions?

How does the camera make you closer to or separate you from the experience and the context?

How are you present in your pictures? Does objectivity exist in photos? If you are portraying reality, what does everything else portray? 

Is your personal story present in the photos you take? Can you show this in them while photographing others?

Is it possible to portray the similarities between you and the people you are taking pictures from? The differences? 

Which long lasting elements, as opposed to instantaneous, do you find in your photos? Why would they be important for the future?

Could you describe an image from your life which is not a photo? Why would an image be different if you have it physically? Do you think it’ll portray what you’ve been thinking all this time? 

Do “mental photos” exist? How would you share with others what you see if you could not take photos? Could you start a photography project with the idea to take as few photos as possible? 

Do you ever feel lonely or in a strange place of being a conduit to others’ creative process?

I’m doing it by myself but am rarely alone. I’m always working with someone doing something though those things and people change. I’ve gotten a chance to work with so many of my closest friends and so many people I respect, both from Oaxaca and from the US. I feel less like a conduit and more like a beneficiary. I get to take part in all these processes that I never would have been able to otherwise. When I was a kid one project my mother gave us was to make small books profiling different categories of artists —  names and biographies of baroque composers, impressionist painters, etc. It was this idea that if you couldn't be a musician and a painter, learning about the lives and work of musicians or painters is the second best thing. That’s kind of my life right now. Loneliness can be hard…but I assume that’s part of being human. 

  (via Experience as Art: A Trip to Oaxaca with Pocoapoco's Jessica Chrastil | Apiece Apart)