#but this is starting to feel like Something in the wilderness is able to break through and take control of her at night

[harrowharkwife]

i hope yellowjackets never gives a clearcut answer vis a vis the whole "how much of it is the supernatural and how much of it is the trauma" question, but like, at this point my best guess for tai is that she physically has a screw loose in the most literal sense possible. like something is not right up there. and i don't even mean in the mental illness sense, they're all deeply traumatized and different shades of mentally ill at this point, but like- this degree of sleepwalking, and dissociating, and losing time? it's giving neurological damage, it's giving uniquely horrible and very strange form of traumatic brain injury. like that plane crash knocked something Loose i swear to god

[peachesofteal]

Mermaids

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/mermaid!reader 8.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Dark themes. Magical beings eating human hearts. Magic. Blood, Violence. Explicit sex. Blood kink. Breeding kink. Creampie. Dubious consent. Possessive Simon Riley. "And with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp, you crawled from the sea to break that sailor's heart" - F+TM

It begins early this year.

Earlier than usual, when your hunting ground in the mortal world was just starting to turn green, shaking its frosted and frozen branches free to make room for bright blooms and emerald leaves. Just as the steps of Brighton Pier changed from ice slick ledges to waterlogged, weeping wooden planks, and human clothing shifted from long coverings that protected their fragile membranes from the bitter wind to soft and flowing fabrics that allowed their bodies to breathe.

This time of the year the mortal world was alive. Full of rebirth and growth, strong and vibrant.

Vibrant, like the song that began early this year, the frequency echoing deep below the water’s surface to where you waited for its pull. The siren song of a true treasure, far beyond any other, the melody of your chosen, the ebb and flow of the rhythm that is not unlike the sea. The siren song of a mortal’s heart, the cacophony able to reach you and your sisters far below the swell and crash of the ocean, far beyond where the light ceases, the melody possessing the ability to pull you to the surface once a year.

Once a year, to hunt.

One a year, to dance and drink and fall in love, if only for a night.

Once a year, to sacrifice a human heart.

Your eldest sister holds you tight to her body in an embrace as the sun rises. Elegant fingers fuss with your hair, smoothing and tugging and pulling, a vain attempt at taming something wilder than her own heart. Her face is grim, a black void that reflects no joy or excitement, just dread. It is a mirror of yourself. It is a pain that you know too well.

“What bothers you?”

You are the last two left on the beach. The others have all gone, eager to stretch their legs and seek their own songs, the trill of the blood bubbling up in their veins, their bodies pulled like magnets to the source. One heart, one song, one human male for each sister, poor mortals who have no idea what awaits them today, their ignorance bliss on the last night of their lives. Your sisters, as well as you, all live for this night. The joy of the love, the thrill of the hunt, the taste of the ichor that sustains you. The anticipation of this night fills your dreams with swirls of violent songbird chords and sweet melodies of affection. It is all you talk about for cycles, leading up to the day when you leave the water at sunrise and your tail shifts and shatters to reveal two very human looking legs.

“I am weary.” She tells you plainly, an announcement that does not come as a surprise. You have watched how she fades. Watched her linger in the darkness of the caves, watched her float lifelessly on slow currents, gaze hollow, vigor lost. “My song is faint.” She pushes further, holding your hand tightly as she releases you from her embrace. “I think I may not take a heart this year.” But we must. Must we? It was a question unanswered, but one that plagued you both. How else could you live, if not for these sacrifices?

“You would choose to die.” You surmise and she gives you a curt nod, as if it is obvious. As if her admission does not rattle you down to your very bones. Perhaps you too, one day, would make this choice. Would choose not to hunt. Choose not to love and lose. The notion pains you, fills you with sorrow as it has for many, many years. This was not an unknown feeling, even though you still experienced the joy, the bliss of your hunting, of the harvesting, you still felt the pang of loss every time, stronger and stronger as the years ticked by.

“It aches now, knowing I will fall in love this night, just for it to end as the sun rises.” The sea crashes onto the beach behind the two of you, and her lips part with a smile before she leans in to graze a kiss along your cheek. “Happy hunting, my sister.”

The song encourages you onward, leading you through a maze of streets and buildings while the sun rises and lingers in the sky. You comb the city for your male, following the electric hum of the song through alleys and neighborhoods, stopping to enjoy the day, your one day on land, as often as you can. You relish in the things that are rare for you, the taste of coffee and human food, the smell of flowers in the park, the feel of grass on the bare pads of your feet. The dress you’ve chosen flutters in the breeze, allowing the cool air to caress your skin softly, and the sun beams down on your exposed limbs, warming you under its light as you indulge in mortal world. It is nice, you decide while you bask in its rays, to feel the sun as humans do. Such spoiled creatures, being so close to something that gives so much life.

That same sun begins to sink lower behind the skyline and you’re still mindlessly gazing at small insects and diving birds when your heart trills, the force of the song slamming between your ribs, a smattering of warning bells going off within you. He’s close, your blood croons, so, so close. The incessant rattle, the insistent pull is enough to bring you to your feet and anxiously smooth the wrinkles of your clothing, eyes darting wildly around while you hunt for the source, feet flying beneath you. So close, so close. 

You come to a stop in front of a pub where a black door is propped open, music and revelry echoing from inside. Here. He’s here. The supersonic vibrato that hums in your own blood draws you into the dimly lit bar, and you hear the song in his veins grow even stronger when you step through across the threshold. He is not hard to find, this close, and your magic strings out before you, weaving and seeking past the bodies that dance closely on the floor, each as desperate for one another as you have grown for your mortal and his song.

 He stands in the back, half covered by shadow, the dark pitch of the room matching his clothes and the mask he wears over most of his face. Everything about him is bigger than the males that have called to you in the past, his height, his arms, the width of his shoulders, even the feeling of him in this place. Everywhere you venture, every spot you position yourself in, you feel his eyes on you. He is unusual, and watches, from his vantage point, his companions, other humans, the bartender.

You perch atop a barstool on the opposite side of the room to study him. His eyes carry a ferocity, a heaviness of emotion that stirs the blood running through your own veins until it is pounding in your ears. The severity of him nearly intimidates you, the level of his awareness, the pools of his amber rich brown eyes occasionally flicking over to where your fingers wrap around a glass of beer, the heat of his gaze searing away at your skin underneath the dress. The mask confuses but does not caution you, and your own heart now beats in time with his due to your proximity. Handsome. You muse to yourself, caught up in tracing the outline of his cheekbones. Beautiful, in a dark way. 

There is something about him. Something ruinous, something different. Something you cannot name.

It is of no consequence. You are the huntress. You will have your prize, your immortality, the taste of his heart on your tongue. His death becomes your life. His love, his heart, becomes yours, for eternity.

But how nice, might it be, to keep this one? It is an impossible thought, a dreamless idea, but one that still crosses your mind. The fantasy of falling in love for eternity, of having more than one night, more than the blood and violence that follows, more than the loss that would sustain you. If it were to be one, you know you’d choose this one. Your thoughts stray to your sister for a moment, imagining her alone beneath the surface, mourning the centuries of life she has lived, the centuries of love she has lost. Did she know this feeling? This hopelessness, this despair. Your lips tug downward as you consider her words. It aches. It aches, knowing I will fall in love this night, only for it to end as the sun rises. Gloom washes through you, your own yearning itching inside your soul, your desperation for your human itching at your skin. It aches. It aches, it ach-

“Hello.” Someone says from behind you, a deep, distinct voice, and you snap upwards, straightening your posture to turn into the body that crowds you. You jerk backwards on the stool when you realize how close he is, the action unsettling you from your seat, and you slip forward, nearly falling free from your wooden perch. Balance on land is difficult, and yours is perpetually off, a skill you've never mastered. A massive hand wraps around your elbow to right you, gently steadying you, and your jaw goes slack when you finally look up.

It's him. 

“Hi.” You smile, trying to recover from your less than graceful impression. Your heart thunders in your chest, and the melody inside him screams for you.

“I’m Ghost.” He motions to your mostly empty beer and raises his completely barren one in return. “Buy you another?”

The indulgent smile that scrawls across your face is practically involuntary as you give your answer.

“Sure.”

His name isn’t Ghost, but he keeps his true name close and won’t give it to you. You give him a nickname, one you usually use on land, and he doesn’t bat an eye, even when you tell him it’s a pet name and not your real one with a wink. The name Ghost doesn’t strike you as odd, after learning what he does, why he keeps it tucked away, and you marvel at him while he tells gives you bits and piece of himself, occasionally peeling his mask up to drink. He’s a solider, a Lieutenant in a special task force, some of which he happens to be out with tonight. He likes bourbon, specifically from a certain region in America, and he smells like the forest. You lean closer, completely unable to stop yourself, inhaling as deeply as you can, breathing in the mossy, earthy, green scent that hovers in the air around him. It was heady, and endless, and wrapped you in a dizzying cocoon of memories that you couldn’t place, but clearly envisioned. Forests, teeming with life and glowing chartreuse from top to bottom, oceans with aquamarine waters, shallow pools for you to bathe in under the sun, the water crisp and cold, your skin eagerly soaking it up its potent brine. Sapphire skies, the beaches stretching on and on, their seas fathomless, their bounties endless. You push closer, nosing as near as you can to his skin and take a lungful of the air. Strange. You knew humans wore things to mask or change their scents, but had never encountered one so… affecting.

“Alright, love?” He brushes the lightest contact of his fingers against yours, and you straighten, eyes ducking down in embarrassment.

“Yes, sorry. I- I was… distracted.”

Unusual indeed. 

One drink turns to many, and you carefully note how Ghost’s posture becomes more relaxed, shoulders less tense as the two of you indulge. He continues to surveil the room, observing and cataloguing, and you find it dangerously appealing, how in tune he is to his surroundings. How vigilant. Your hand lays gently on his thigh when you can no longer hold off the desire for physical touch, and he inclines his head to speak above your ear, the warmth of his cheek behind the fabric pressed casually to your head.

“D’ya want to go somewhere else?” Yes. You nod, and he motions to his group before excusing himself, his large body cutting a path through the packed room like he’s parting the sea.

You note the couplings around the bar as Ghost approaches his companions, leaning down to speak to one who is seated, legs spread wide on a faux velvet chair. He has a mohawk, and cerulean blue eyes that trace you from head to toe after Ghost begins to walk back towards where you're seated. You break the eye contact hastily, observing the others, pity pulling on your heart strings over a distraught female who sits in a corner, watching another with longing. The state of her broken heart is written all over face, her body rife with grief. The object of her affection, another stunningly beautiful female, dances with a different mortal, her artfully woven hair spiraling from her shoulders in tune to the way she moves her body. They have it so hard, you think. The song does all the work for us. You never have to woo your mortals, just provide them with the opportunity to find you. The song pushes them to seek you out, drives them to near madness unless they are in your company. They don’t always love you back, as you love them, certainly. But you never have to vie for their attention, never have to posture for their affection.

A large hand takes yours, warm and beating with the pulse of his heart, the rhythm of the song.

“Ready?” You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out, and the feeling of dread, the ache swamps you for a passing second. I think I may not take a heart this year. All you can do is nod.

As he leads you through the crowd, you cannot help but reach forward with your free hand and clasp onto the dancing woman. She pauses, eyes lighting wantonly when she sees you, but you push a sprinkle of magic through her, sparking desire in the base of her consciousness for the mournful dove in the chair.

You don’t look back at either of them as you leave, and silently pray to no one that they find happiness in love, that they relish it and keep one another, if only for you.

You bring him to the beach, as is your custom. It was where you felt safest, closest to the ocean, it’s where your power felt most pure should you need it, should something go wrong. You shiver at the thought, shoving down the memories that threaten your balance, and you clutch Ghost’s hand.

“Come down here often?” He inquires and you shrug, a response you know mortals are fond of.

“I like it here.” You offer, and he hums in acknowledgement. You tug him towards the overhang of the pier, where the shadows will shield you, where no one dares to venture. The only light comes from the moon, it’s silver glow glittering dimly through worn wooden pier slats, and you watch it catch his eye, his pupil expanding and contracting as you step closer and closer. “I want to kiss you.” you implore. “Will you remove your mask?” The song. You’re depending on the song to help you with this, depending on his desire, the power of the melody in his veins to urge him to comply with your request, and when he tilts his head like he’s considering you, you hold your breath.

It happens quickly. He removes the mask in a fluid motion, and then his lips are upon yours, hot and seeking, tongue exploring your mouth while yours opens for him, your body clenching with dizzying desire at the feel of his touch against your skin. 

“I knew it.” You gasp when you pull away and trace the fine point of a fingernail down his jaw. “I knew you were breathtaking under there.” He chuckles.

“Happy you think so.”

Your mouths melt together as he holds you around the waist, your bodies getting closer and closer until you can feel the hardness of his cock in his jeans, feel the scorching heat of him through his clothes. You are desperate for this mortal, your desire to feel him moving inside of you nearly as strong as the lust you feel to taste his heart. You sink to the sand together, a dance of limbs and movements that have you panting astride him when he settles, propped up on his elbows.

“Simon.” He says mid breath. “That’s my name. Want ya to have it.” Simon. 

“Simon.” You whisper it, and he nods before pulling you back to him, two large palms cradling your face like you’re a delicate creature. It makes you feel special, makes you feel cherished, like you’re something gentle to be treasured, and not a monster out for his life. You kiss him tenderly, one more time, as softly as you can manage, your heart trembling inside your chest, before your teeth bite into his lip, the ferocious intensity of the act returned by him, his mouth meeting yours full force. You bite again, and this time his flesh gives way, bright, mineral rich blood bubbling from the tiny cut and you eagerly lap at it, the ichor coating your tongue and exploding across your senses. He laughs, the echo of it rumbling deep in his chest, and you place your hand against his heart greedily, the vigor of its beating nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. The length of his cock throbs between your legs, where only the fabric of his jeans separates you, and you rut against him helplessly. Sparks ignite between you, your body shuddering when his hands hook into your hip, strong grip guiding your movements against him. Your magic swells inside of you, and your head spins.

Take him, take him. Take his heart, take his song. Have him, his love, his heart, for eternity, forever. 

You push him onto his back, dress rucked up around your hips, fabric pooling around the two of you.

“I want you.” you tell him, fingers fussing with his clothes, encouraging him to strip his shirt free and then unbutton his jeans. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and sloppy but you can’t find a care. You’re too filled with want, overflowing with desire for your mortal, your desperation mounting as he stills you, tracing a finger over your ribs and then down your pubic bone to where your slick, silken folds wait to be touched.

“Simon.” you whisper his name again, the word close to begging, and he shushes you, swirling a finger down where you’re leaking, circling the swollen bud of your clit with agonizing strokes that fill your senses with electricity.

“Shhh. I know what you need.” He soothes, and deftly pushes a finger inside of you, stroking along your walls. You shiver, face dropping into the crook his neck, and he turns his head so that the soft puff of his breath wafts over your skin as you whimper. “Does that feel good?” He asks, pressing another inside, his thumb flicking over your clit in lackadaisical patterns. You moan, body welcoming his touch, and you nip at the skin of his shoulder, eager to tear it apart, to taste his blood again. His other hand pushes at the back of your head, until your teeth are flush with his skin. “Go on.” He urges, and your eyes slip closed with bliss while you break the thin membrane, blood pooling to the surface as he lets out a small grunt. Your tongue swirls in it, painting his skin ruby, and you drag your lips downward, over where his heart pounds wildly in his chest. For you. It pounds for you. It sings for you. 

“I need you inside me.” He pulls at the straps of the dress, divesting you of the top, exposing your breasts to the cool air and silver light of the moon. His thumb rolls one of your nipples and you feel for him, already free from his under garment, the things humans wear under their outside clothes, and you swallow when you feel the size in your fingers.

You sink down onto him with a hiss, body stretching for the intrusion, cunt spasming around the width and length as it fights to make room. He pets your hip soothingly, and you sit straight up, letting out a cry when you feel the true length of his cock inside you, the absolute fullness of it nearly seated in your belly. When you look back down, your eyes trace the smear of blood from his lips and shoulder, and your tongue darts out against your own skin, seeking the flavor of ichor that waits on the corner of your mouth.

Something glitters in his eyes, something shifting as if he finally recognizes the danger he’s in. Even here, with you astride him, split open his cock, hips stuttering in slow circles, wariness flexes across his face as if he knows, finally, that he is the prey and you the predator.

“It’s okay, do not be afraid.” You reassure him, stroking a fingernail over his breastbone, to where his heart flutters beneath your touch. He blinks, eyes blissfully blank, the firm grip of his hand on your hip relaxing before he says:

“Will you not tell me your name?” A long sigh slips between your teeth. Mortals. So hung up on familiarity. But how could you refuse a dying man his last request? Your lips kiss the shell of his ear as you give it to him, the point of your fingernail pressing into his delicate flesh, desperate to seek the strong muscle beneath, the song in his blood echoing through your own bones with supersonic vibration. The sounds and colors of the mortal realm all increase, too bright, too loud, everything shaking like the earth is suddenly trembling and then-

Something snaps inside of you. Magic, raw and powerful, a force unlike anything you’ve ever felt spills into you, your body being washed over with the rush of floodwaters, your heart and blood now singing for him, yearning for him, desperate to be consumed by him. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

The claim burns beneath your skin, your magic twisting away into something completely new, something more powerful as your mind grapples with the changing reality.

In the next moment, you’re spinning, tumbling through the air until you’re on your back, splayed beneath him, hands trapped at your sides. Your legs are folded underneath the width of his torso, your body opened for him just so, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, stretching the slick walls of your cunt with each punishing thrust.

“I-“ the words are cut off sharply when he seals his mouth to yours, teeth gnashing and gnawing down from your lips to your jaw and then up to you ear.

“You,” He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, and you gasp. “are mine, little huntress.” It is a vow, snarled through clenched teeth, and your own body betrays you by tightening around him, eager and willing to be claimed. The air is hot, humid and electric with magic, the burning effects of your error travelling through your every vein, every cell of skin. The utterance of your name, the act of your own foolishness strings heavily between you, while your body tenses underneath him.

“Simon.” You breathe and he only nods, holding your cheek in a gentle palm, stroking a loving touch across your face.

“Sweet little Nereid...” He names your kind with a growl, and your heart slams in your chest, his cock thrusting into your cunt wildly, desperately. “More beautiful than the sea herself.” The laugh is crooned, like the satisfying scratch of a needle against a record, and his fingers stroke your clit while he presses himself to you, your hips pinned beneath his weight, your body immobile. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” He smiles darkly, lips curling with sinister satisfaction, and you feel the cold hand of fate reaching into your own chest cavity, rooting around in your soul until magic is searing across your skin, a bending and scraping feeling digging underneath your ribs, your own magic twisting and clawing until it burns away into something new, something changed, something imbued with him.

No. It’s not possible. 

“You… you’re-“

“Yes.” 

Simon cares little for the mortal realm. It’s pace and its noise and its scents are all cloying to him, obnoxious and foreign, the general rush of its inhabitants and their lack of care for their world offensive to him and his kind. They do not care for their realm, and do not take care of it ether, instead choosing to let it rot and fester beneath their feet, their drive and determination to outdo one another single handedly responsible for the destruction of most of their world. They call it something here, 'capitalism', like naming it will excuse it, while Simon just calls it murder, and greed.

Mortals and their extreme indifference do allow him certain things, however. Their love of violence and obsession with wealth put even the most well-off of his kind to shame at times. His kind loved things that shone, certainly. But mortals? They loved things that bled. It was this lust for power, this ravenous streak of greed that gave him the opportunity to position himself as he has.

As a hunter. A killer. A ghost.

Simon had been hunting for the thing he loved for a very, very long time.

And tonight, he was finally going to bring you home.

The first time Simon saw you; over a century ago, it was beneath Brighton Pier. You had a human male panting after you as you walked beneath the wooden overhang, your hand cupping his cheek softly, eyes full of tenderness and love. Simon, and the man, were both entranced by your beauty, the way your body moved under the night sky, how your skin seemed to glitter against the sand. Simon watched as you led him to where the moon couldn’t reach, beneath the shield of the slats, the dark of the evening hiding you from all prying, curious eyes, except for his.

He watched you take the male inside your body, watched you lavish your tongue across his neck and chest, watched your lips form sweet words of reassurance and honey while you tasted his blood. He watched the nails of your fingers gleam in the low light, watched them sharpen and then dig, scratching and clawing beneath the threads of the male’s skin, until you held an ichor rich organ in your palm, a complex system of vessels and ventricles, it’s sinew glowing red beneath your touch. He stood in awe as you devoured it, your feeding turning into a frenzy as you consumed it piece by piece, the male bleeding out and dying slowly, all while still buried inside your cunt.

After your feast, you dragged the male’s lifeless body down the sand to the water with you, where you pulled it beneath the waves, never to be seen again. Surprised, and intrigued, he stood at the water’s edge, watching the tide that was tinged red lap calmly at the shore. He knew humans had a taste for blood, but this was another desire onto itself. What were you? 

The following year, Simon couldn’t help but return to the same area in hopes of spotting you again, the creature unknown to him, a mystery begging to be unraveled. You appeared at dawn on the same day, with a horde of others, who then dispersed into the city and surrounding areas, following the sound of a song he could not hear. He became a creature obsessed, tracking your every movement, watching your every hunt and sacrifice. He stood in the dark while you made love to the mortals whose lives you would take, watched you hunt with wild abandon, watched you enjoy the small, tiny things in your eternal life that others often overlook. He began to know you, began to learn what you liked and didn't, began to learn what made you smile. 

You became the brightest spot in his own too long existence, the yearly reminder of love, of vitality, of life. He loved you, desperately, recklessly so. His dreams were filled with soft, sweet visions of you, bloody moments of passion and adoring, lingering kisses that he swore he could still feel when he woke.

It took time, too long of a time, before he discovered who, or what, you were. He spent a century trying to learn how to lure you to the surface. Simon tore apart libraries, bargained favors across dimensions, granted wishes and wove powerful spells just to trade for information on you and your sisters, the Nereids, the lasting remnant of a forgotten power, reclusive magic lurking inside the deepest depths, a realm inside a realm, never to be discovered unless you wished it so. And even then, the additional answers he sought were scarce.

Every year, he returned to the human realm to see you, tucking himself away in cloaks of magic and darkness so that he could creep as close as possible to you. Every year, he watched you hunt, watched you capture your prey effortlessly and consume their heart. He watched you shed a tear for them. Watched your drag their corpses down the beach to the sea, where you carried them into the water with you before disappearing all together.

Eventually, time began to change you. He watched you regard your lovers, your mortals with callousness, and cruelty. He watched you treat them with tenderness, and adoration, caring for them, making their ends sweet and soothing their fears. He watched you stand on the beach for hours at dawn and try to fight the urge to hunt. He burned to take you away from this world, to sever you from your ocean, bring you home to him, but your kind did not live in his realm. He was unsure how to sustain your life, and the search for answers was slow. Years went by, and the soft dreams that he had always welcomed turned to nightmares, fueled by the fear he’d lose you before he even had the chance to try to bring you home. 

A decade ago, he watched you falter. Your body trembled as you took your sacrifice, your cries so hysterical he was certain you’d draw the entire block to where you hid in the shadow of someone’s gaff. His own body was rigid with tense, untethered magic that sought to lash out, and he was rife with worry that you’d give yourself away, you’d be caught by some mortal force and unable to return to the sea when the sun rose. The fear he felt was unreasonable, uncontainable. He'd level the city to protect you, to keep you safe, and he nearly did. He almost took you, that night. Was quite close, so close that he was crossing the street in front of vehicles and preparing to pull you into his realm when you composed yourself and completed your harvest, the glowing organ in your hands proof of your will to live, to love.

He rarely left the mortal realm after that. Only to seek his final answer and solidify his plan, his masquerade as the masked Ghost allowing him to exist in the realm indefinitely, giving him the availability to be close for when the time was right, for when you would be ready.  

A year ago, you were the last to return to the water, your steps slow and clumsy, your eyes tired and weepy. You appeared satisfied, but as you looked back on the city from the shoreline, he saw the hint of desolation in your eyes, the shadow of dejection haunting your face.

It was more than enough, to spring him into action. More than enough, to find your promised mortal for next year and steal his song, bringing it into himself by a small piece of blood magic, something so simple and obvious Simon cursed himself for not realizing sooner.  

This morning, as he observed you and your sister on the beach, he knew he had been right. He could see it in your face. The pain of sadness, of loss twisting your elegance into an ache, those feelings compounded by the admission of your eldest sibling. This could be your last hunt.

It was time to bring you home. Forever. 

“That her then?” Johnny nods, indicating he’s looking the same direction as Simon, watching you walk down the curb, paper coffee cup clutched in your hands, face smiling at the sun.

“Yes.” Simon answers, shifting uncomfortably. The bloody song has been heating his flesh for weeks, boiling in his veins and driving him practically mad. Nymph magic. Its incessant hum has been battling his own power, jockeying for position as it worked to pull you to the surface. Combined with his own, he wasn’t surprised it possessed the ability to bring you up earlier than normal, encouraging you and your sisters through the depths and to the shore. If his blood was singing, then so was every other poor sod’s in this city. 

You cross the street into the park, dress swaying around your hips, and he indulgently stares at the form of your body, the set of your shoulders, the texture of your hair. He closes his eyes to breathe, reaching into himself to get a handle on the battle of will going on in his blood, the warring magic factions pushing and pulling beneath his skin, begging to be let out, trying to lash out. Soon. He reassures himself. She will be with him soon. 

He can smell you from here. You’re ripe. Overflowing, your scent is like a flickering ocean breeze, briny and cold but full of life, of promise. You’re ready, ready to be taken from this awful realm, ready to be bent underneath his body, ready to be crying on his cock as you come while he floods your womb with himself and his power, tying you to him for all eternity.

That is, if he can get you to relinquish your name.

It is a key piece of his plan, and the one that worries him the most. 

He knows you do not give it freely; knows you keep it guarded. It’s like you’re already aware that he waits in the shadows for you, watching, keeping track of every step you take, every year, from sunup to the next, until you slink beneath the water where he cannot follow.

The pressure inside his body is nearly unbearable by the time you step into the pub. Dozens of heads turn towards you, mortals’ eyes roving all over your body like you’re a treat for them, like you’re something delicious they’ll have an opportunity to taste. Foolish, greedy mortals, too busy staring dreamily at you to recognize the predator that you are, or the predator he is, oblivious to the two hunters in the room with them right now. He wonders, if you'd bathe in their blood, given an opportunity. The image makes him smile. 

Johnny clears his throat expectantly, and Simon nods, casting a glance over to where Gaz sits with a pretty female on his lap, her attentions focused solely on him, her eyes heavily lidded with lust. Johnny gives him a nod.

“Good luck.” He offers and Simon waves him off. He’s no need for luck. His blood sings your song.

“Ready?” He nearly loses control when he watches your face fill with despair for a moment after his question, his aching need to soothe and comfort you almost forcing his hands out to touch you. I'm here, little huntress. You are not alone anymore. He cannot tell you this, not yet. So instead, he applies pressure to your hand gently and waits. When you nod, he breathes just a tiny bit easier. 

He cannot stay in this place any longer. The eyes, the mortals, their inane thirst for alcohol and violence starting to scratch underneath his skin. He needed you, needed your name, needed to take you home to his realm, and all this noise and smoke and foul-smelling liquor stood in his way. The feeling of your hand in his soothes him, calms the anxious explosion that’s building in his chest, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough, until he has what he wants.

On the way out, he does not miss your little spell. He is, and has been, the most powerful creature in this room. He has felt every ounce of magic used, by you, by Johnny, by Kyle, all night long. It makes his heart swell when he feels your effort to push the dancing female into the arms of her scorned lover, makes his heart soar when he realizes perhaps, you have not given up on love, on life. Perhaps, you just need something else, something other than the hunt, to live for.

He allows you to take your time beneath the Pier. He cannot rush you, cannot allow you the feeling of anything being amiss, being off. You are so close to the sea, so close to the edge of the water that if he spooks you, it will be too easy for you to slip away. Too easy for you to be lost beneath the surface, again, just as you have been for hundreds of years.

When your teeth tear into his flesh he nearly moans, almost loses control again, but tamps down the urge to spring forward and toss you into the sand beneath him. He needs your name, needs your name so bloody badly it has his head spinning, his entire being desperately urging him to act, to claim, to take you. Your cunt is searing hot around his cock, your body shivering in his arms as you rock your hips delicately, eyes watching him half addled, crazed with the lust for his blood, for his heart.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He thrusts slowly up into you, and pity flashes across your features as you bend forward to brush your mouth against your ear. He feels your lips part, hears the intake of your breath and then-

You’re his. The magic begins immediately, bonding you to him, searing you into his soul and vice versa, the song in his blood slipping away until all he feels is the combined force of your power and his, the melding of souls and magic that will guarantee your existence in his realm, by his side, guaranteeing your survival, your ability to thrive. He takes advantage of your confusion, of the chaos that rises in your heart and flips you on your back, spreading your thighs wide beneath him and plunging his cock as deep as he can. So close. So, so close, and then you will be truly his, for as long as you both shall live. 

“I-“

“You,” he thrusts harder, desperate to claim you. “are mine, little huntress.” He hisses it, pushing the words forward with the brunt of his power, and you gasp before whispering his name.

“Sweet little Nereid…more beautiful than the sea herself.” He kisses your throat, stroking your clit at a torturous pace while your confused gaze tracks his every movement. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” The magic pushes through your blood and bones, continuing to stitch and sear you to him, and he can’t help the feelings of possession that come over him.

His. His. His. 

His magic cuts and gnaws at your own, ripping and shredding it to bits until it’s infected with him, the strength of your name, your free admission to him, turning you inside out, changing the very chemistry of your body. He watches with dark satisfactions as your face shifts, your lips parting with understanding, eyes widening with your knowledge of the truth.

“You… You’re-“ Clever little huntress.

“Yes.” He purrs, and punches his cock back up inside of you, pressing close to your cervix, your body wet and needy, just for him. You shudder and blink hazily, confusion flickering across your features while his magic roots around inside of you and binds you to him, cell by cell. He can still smell you, smell the cool salt air of the sea that comes from your skin, smell the ripeness of your body, your willingness spilling forward in the air, the scent of sweet honeysuckle and sea holly. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your body rocking swiftly in time with him while your brow furrows, like you’re not sure what you should be doing. He licks at the stain of his blood on your lips, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you let out a sharp whine, small hands flexing against his chest.

“No.” you admonish, face stricken. “No. No, you t-tricked me.”

“I did.” He agrees, reaching between the two of you to rub your clit in a swift circle, your breath hitching. Your face twists into something sour, but your cunt clenches around him, and his lips curl into a crescent moon smirk. “Are you going to come on my cock, sweet one?”

“Unnf.” You moan nonsense, turning your face away from him but he does not stop, hips snapping against yours, his body working to bring yours closer and closer to its climax.

“I think you are.” He hisses and grips your jaw to turn your eyes back to him. They’re wet with tears, but he doesn’t see fear in them, doesn’t see the despair. Only flares of rage, and the heat of desire, the electricity of the magic that is now shared between the two of you. He smiles triumphantly. “I think,” he relaxes his pace, dragging his cock out of you painstakingly slowly, gaze never leaving your lovely face. “you’re going to come for me, and then I’m going to breed you, little huntress.” You tense around him, squeezing his cock, the words pulling a delicious, physical reaction from you that shakes his focus for a moment. His palm lays flat over your lower belly, low enough that his thumb can feel the hardness of your clit, can stroke around it’s hood while you gasp and convulse in his arms. You shake your head stubbornly, chest heaving for breath, and he slams himself back into you, your spine curling forward into his chest.

“Gods.” You cry out, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto, finding his shoulders and sinking deep, deep enough that he knows you're drawing blood. It oozes from the tiny wounds, tracing down his skin and when you pull away, your fingers have been darkened with it.

He watches with small wonder as you slip them into your mouth, face going slack with bliss, cunt spasming around him while he strokes deep. His skin prickles, mouth finding yours again, and you moan into him, uninhibited, full of abandon.

“I have watched you for over a century, my sweet Nereid. Watched you hunt, watched you love, watched you lose.” He slows to look down at you, caressing your face with a gentle touch. “I have watched the light fade from your eyes, watched despair take over your existence.” Your gaze widens, mouth dropping open in surprise, and then closing abruptly, eyes softening around the corners.

“Simon.” You murmur, pressing your finger to the weeping wound from your teeth.

“My huntress. You will never be alone again.” He noses your jaw, licking and sucking against your skin, cold brine exploding against his tongue. Your scent crests, peaking with the honey flower and salt, your body yearning beneath him, cunt milking his cock. “Come for me.” He encourages when he knows it’s time, when he sees the glossy want all over your face. It doesn’t take much urging, another stroke of your clit and you’re coming, body locking up around him, muscles straining as you cry out, face full of bliss and legs tense around his hips. You clamp down around him, holding him deep inside your body like a vice but he works you through it, thrusting slowly inside your scorching cunt, your walls desperately trying to keep him inside. “There you go.” He soothes, fucking you through the aftershocks, your face still twisted up. “That’s just what I needed.” The orgasm makes your more pliable, more soft and less angry, and he sees in your eyes what he knows to be true. You want this. Perhaps this is not what you would have chosen at first, perhaps the magic was too strong in your veins in the beginning, but your body knows what your mind works to accept. You are choosing this, choosing him, over the hunt. Over the sacrifice. Over the immortal life of loss.

So, so close.

He folds your legs towards your chest, opening you deeper and you mewl, lips parted in dazed, post orgasm glow. He can’t help but kiss you again and again, his painfully slow thrusts forcing irritated breaths to puff from your nose.

“Something you want?” He teases, and you nod, pressing your face into his shoulder and groaning into his skin.

“Simon. Please.” You voice breaks, and he feels your cunt pool around him, liquid heat forcing him to grit his teeth in an effort to stave off his own orgasm.

Ask me for it, little huntress. 

“Please, what?” He mocks, thumb pressing down on your clit hard, causing you to keen. He doesn’t move, just stays steady inside of you, your cunt working pull him deeper.

“Please, please. I want-“ you gasp when he bites the skin of your neck, and he smiles wickedly. Your cunt practically strangles him now, body working to drag his orgasm from him, magic singing in both of your hearts.

His. His. His. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

Your scent overpowers him, the swell of the ocean behind him combined with the salt of your essence pulling him harder into your gravity.

“What do you want?”

“I want your come.” You beg and he snarls, finally losing control, fucking into your eager body with abandon, hard and punishing while you moan and cry beneath him. He takes your earlobe in his teeth before whispering a vow:

“Then you shall have it.” He plays with your clit, the intensity of his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts and you pant eagerly. “You shall have it every day until you are full of me, full with my child.”

“Yes.” You moan, and he feels you moving towards another climax, your muscles spasming and eyes slipping shut.

“I’m going to breed you, give you my baby, sweetling. Make you mine, forever.” Your back arches and you wail, your cunt clamping down on him again, and he thrusts as deep as he can, chasing his release, fueling his burning desire to empty himself inside of you. He lets go completely, untethers his magic, lets it fully fuse with yours as he spills inside of you, the pressure of his orgasm working against your aftershocks, and your own magic that wraps itself wildly around him, clawing at the seat of his power, desperate to attach itself.

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

His. His. His. 

You fall asleep on his chest, body relaxed and sated, mouth open in a small o. He needs to get you up, needs to get you ready to travel to his realm but in this moment, he’s content to sit here, against the old wooden pier, timing the rise and fall of your breathing and planning for the future, for eternity.

“Will you care for her?” A musical voice asks from a short distance, and his head snaps up to see your sister, the one you stood with on the beach this morning, inclining her head towards your peaceful, sated body that sits snugly in his arms.

“Always.” He promises, and she nods, eyes looking down the shoreline.

“I am happy for her.” She looks sad, forlorn, not unlike how you appeared hours ago.

“It is not too late, for you to hunt. There is still plenty of time before the sunrise.” He tries to encourage, and she nods.

“Perhaps.” Simon briefly wonders if Kyle or Johnny are still in town, a sinister idea forming in his mind, taking shape before his very eyes. He pushes, just the gentlest bit of magic, the piece that’s mixed with yours, towards her. A long moment passes, and then, “I think I’ll walk.” She motions up the pier and gives a goodbye nod, as he strokes a hand down your spine when you shiver in his arms.

You do not stir until she is a speck on the horizon, and when you do, you lift your head wearily, like you’ve slept for a thousand years.

“What’s going on?” you murmur, shifting your dress so it covers your thighs. He presses a light kiss to your forehead before giving an answer.

“We’re going home now, little huntress.”

[tabithatwo]

up late thinking about lottie longing for a connection with callie, because callie represents both the baby that lottie once put all of her hopes into, and because callie represents a time and place that lottie misses so deeply (because all of them miss it, don’t they? even the ones who it hurt the most?)

and about callie longing for a connection with lottie, because lottie could be a mother, she could care, she does seem to care, after just seconds she cared, because she saw who callie was, she told her she was powerful, she not only noticed what callie wishes so desperately that shauna would but she voiced it, and because lottie knew her mother before, before the wilderness, before she lost jackie, before she turned into this shell of a woman, and all callie has ever wanted was to get a glimpse of the mother she could have had without that baggage.

and shauna seeing lottie and callie connect, even just briefly, and it causing the instincts of fear and of protectiveness to kick in when they’ve been absent for so long, when she’s barely, if ever, been able to apply those instincts to callie, because she just started to realize that callie was real, like, a few hours ago, so give her a break, okay?

because lottie wanted shauna’s baby then, and it terrified shauna into even greater madness. and lottie wants shauna’s baby now, but it might just terrify shauna into greater clarity this time.

because the wilderness that lottie proclaimed sentient and powerful, that she said was something to be thanked and respected? whether mystical or mundane, it doesn’t really matter: that wilderness took jackie. it took the baby. it took shauna’s sanity. and shauna’s maternal instincts, the ones that would tell her to protect callie from ordinary things, like loneliness and predatory men and feeling unloved, never kicked in. because shauna’s mind is still out there. with jackie, with the baby, with dangers far greater than suburban new jersey could ever know. that is what’s real to her, that is still her reality.

but lottie did something. she brought that reality back, and she allowed it to seep into civilization. and that might be more disorienting, more confusing, to some. but shauna has been existing wholly in civilization, with a mind so fractured it conjured pieces of the wilderness every single day and let them penetrate everything, until life became murky and unnavigable. but this? now? the threat of the trappings of the wilderness cropping back up is real and present, and suddenly shauna’s fears aren’t all in her head. reality has shifted, and she’s come out ever-so-slightly more sane for it.

so now shauna is pretty certain that callie is real. and she’s very certain that the threat, the same threat that took jackie, that took the baby, is real, too.

so I think that shauna might start trying to be a mother just yet, because if anything could do it, it’s the feeling that the wilderness is trying to take someone from her again.

[fairysteve]

Steve spends the first week after graduation trying to find a job and himself. He goes in and out of stores, leaving applications and looking through their shelves.

His parents are home; his dad is just waiting for an opportunity to kick him out or force him into an office job depending on if he's in a good mood or not when Steve inevitably gives up.

Of course, Steve has no plans on proving his dad right by giving up. His parents didn't even have the decency to attend his graduation; they only came home to confirm his college plans, hoping for something to brag about. Steve can't count how many times he's been called a disappointment in the last week.

He comes home with a job at Scoops Ahoy and a tarot deck. His parents leave the same way they came; without telling him.

The second week after graduation is interesting. Steve spends the days working for minimal wage with a coworker that makes fun of him and the evenings trying to learn tarot.

After the first time that he successfully does a reading for himself, he starts remembering the herbal remedies his mum would use when he was young and often got sick. The more he uses the tarot deck, the more he thinks about her herb garden and books, the more aware he is of his failing hearing and vision on the left side.

The latter has more to do with his job than the tarot deck, but it does make him wonder if there's anything he can do with plants. He can't go to the hospital without risking breaking the terms of two NDAs.

So Steve finds the books his mum used and starts reading them, writing down notes for what plants would be good to start growing, for what remedies actually seem helpful. What makes for helpful teas or incense or oils, what makes for good charms to carry around.

He remembers best through repetition so he makes rituals of the most useful things; it also helps getting him to use it. Much like how his self-care routines are rituals in a way.

Steve knows people are starting to whisper about him, knows that it's strange that he's carrying around plants and a tarot deck, that he takes moments out of his day to remember to breathe and recite self affirmations like they were spells. His hair is growing longer and wilder, he tilts his head to see and hear better, he's no longer trying to repress hundreds of small things just to fit in. He's letting himself be strange, letting himself use movement to process his emotions and repeat sounds because it feels good. He stops trying to force words out when there feels like a disconnect between his brain and mouth.

It's a month after graduation when he's taking the trash out at the end of his shift and hears something behind the dumpster. There's a small kitten that seems to be screaming with how loud the meows are.

Steve has never been allowed a pet, but he loves petting Tews when he's over at Dustin's, and it would help him feel less lonely. So he takes the kitten home.

Once he has given the poor thing a bath, the kitten turns out to be completely white, and very skinny. Steve has no idea how old it is, doesn't know what he should feed it, and it's too late to take it to a vet.

He's thinking about possible names as he's going through the fridge for the milk; the only cat names he knows are Mews and Tews. He's trying to think if it has to end with -ews when his eyes land on the slices of honeydew that his mum had left behind.

Steve feels quite proud of himself for naming the cat Honeydew; it follows the one rule for cat names that he knows of, and he can call it Honey for short, which is very cute.

Dustin laughs at him when Steve first tells him about the cat, and takes to calling Honeydew for Dewey, as in the Dewey Decimal System. Steve doesn't bother correcting it; he's pretty sure Honey is deaf. It explains the loud meowing and how the cat never seem to react to noise.

He still wants to be able to communicate with his new cat, and maybe it would be good for him too, so Steve borrows any books on ASL he can find. And he makes sure that Honeydew knows that the sign for Honey is its name.

When Steve does take Honeydew to a vet, he gets it confirmed that the kitten is male, around five weeks old, and completely deaf.

Honey's eyes turn green with time (kittens all have blue eyes the first six weeks).

Steve carries Honey around on his shoulders a lot.

thanks @metalmunch for the name!

[mirrorpriest]

Creator Reader dropped into Mondstadt

[the description of mondstadt’s wilderness doesn’t fit what’s in game but shhh i’m working from imagination here, POV also gets a little fucky in here bc i started with key scenes i wanted to hit in the story and then started writing for reader immersion]

The waterfall does little to wash away the buildup of oil and grime in your hair, hardly budging the dirt caked to your skin. It’s so different from the warm showers and fragrant soaps you are used to. The cool of the water at least feels good in your mouth, washing down the berries you had been desperately scavenging for the last few days. They were sweet and sour at first, a refreshing treat when you could find them, but the more you ate the more upset your stomach became. You can hardly bear the thought of another handful, but you haven’t seen another person in so long. Only the occasional white bird or wild boar kept you company. You are left to wonder how far from civilization you are. Will anyone find you before you waste away?

Perhaps it’s fortunate, then, that you will die in such a beautiful place. You had never taken the chance to appreciate nature so thoroughly, but the weather in this strange land is cool and temperate, the breeze always carrying the scent of something fresh and light you can’t quite place your finger on. Your head is clear, for once, of any trivial worries like catching the train or when your next shift will be; how much money you’ll be able to make or who at the drug store finds you unattractive. But that’s only because now you are worried about what you’ll catch from drinking the pond water, when you’ll be able to find your next meal, if you’ll ever see your loved ones again. What you wouldn’t give to be able to listen to your mother retell the same stories from her youth you’ve heard a million times. One day, you had simply woken up here. And, perhaps one day, sooner than you would hope, you will fall asleep here for the last time.

So lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the creatures watching you from the trees until their bodies break through the brush, dark and furry against the green, green foliage. They emerge as one, ambling forward with graceless movements. Your eyes, once upturned to the rushing water, cautiously watch them approach. They stand on two legs, but look nothing like any person you’ve ever seen. Like any beast you’ve ever seen. Your arms fold into your chest, body shrinking at their attention. If not for the matching masks upon their faces, they would be staring unabashedly.

But they are the first sentient beings with the ability to help that you have seen in days, the first thing to find you amidst the thick of the forest, and you smell the burn of a campfire on their fur and tattered clothes as they draw closer. They don’t shy away as you move through the water, waiting at the water’s edge to meet you. The closest one, indistinguishable from the others, steps closer on clawed feet that distort under the clear water. The closer you move, the more monstrous their features seem. Fur covering their bodies, clawed fingers, pointed ears that fold back as you approach, but they make no move to attack. Heads folded down solemnly.

You reach out a cautious hand, finger outstretched to trace the paint across this strange creature’s mask. It stays eerily still, leaning forward for your touch, when the silence is broken by a loud, guttural cry. The furry creatures spring into action, scrambling to turn towards the distant cry, when a large sword comes from the brush and knocks them all back into the water. You startle into the pond, stumbling backwards into the waist-deep water.

There is the swing of metal and the strange cries of the masked creatures, a man in black knocking them all back with little effort. This man speaks in a language you don’t recognize, but you can tell his tone is stern and unyielding. It’s so sudden in the calm of the forest, the first voice you’ve heard in so long, that it rings in your ears. The creatures hardly have the chance to fight back, some raising flimsy, hand-crafted weapons, before their bodies are scattered along the ground. The loud clomping of a heavy creature comes up behind the man, you turn away from the carnage then. The sound of a heavy body taking blows and disgruntled screaming follows, it forces your hands up to cover your ears. Suddenly you long for the worry of finding berries and cleaning away dirt over the worry of who will be merciful towards you in the end. You can’t tell which creature you were close to touching, now among the indistinguishable bodies that litter the bank of the pond. The area falls silent once again. The strange man, who felled the beasts you hadn’t even the chance to meet, stands among the falling clouds of dirt, his brow pinched and mouth open around his heaving breath. His eyes watch you like a hawk, searching your face for… Something. You feel yourself, once again, shrink away at his gaze. His chest is broad, rising and falling in great puffs, and his large hands still clasp the claymore in their grip.

He speaks words you don’t understand, his great weapon vanishing in a shudder of light, as he takes a tentative step closer to you. He’s remarkably pale, made even moreso against the dark clothing he wears. But you know you have no choice but to meet this man halfway, reaching out a hand to be pulled from the water.

To see the water cascading down your skin, glimmering like the brightest gem. Shining and unblemished, the sun reflecting all around you in a way he hadn’t ever allowed himself to imagine. It would be blasphemy to imagine your skin so bare. Flesh like smooth, tumbled stone. This red-haired stranger coaxes for you, a hand reaching towards you, upturned. Contrary to the brutish way he dealt with those strange creatures, he gently wades into the water to take your hand, swinging his long coat around your shoulders. Up close you can see the flush across his cheeks that rivals the red of his hair. You allow this man to lead you from the water up onto the bank so you can retrieve your sullied clothes. You try to ask him where you are, but, again, his brow pinches: this time in confusion. He mutters something low to himself, instead offering his elbow to you. At least this gesture you understand.

You don’t know how long he leads you, keeping his pace measured to your own, before the tree line breaks and you come upon what looks like a farm. The dense forest gives way to grapevines stretching as far as you can see, all carefully line up like dominos, bursting with bright red fruits that make your stomach curl uncomfortably. You’re so desperately hungry for something other than fruit, but above that you are so desperately hungry. You realize what a privilege it is to be picky about what you have to put in your mouth.

The red-haired stranger allows you time to marvel over the rows of grapes, gently coaxing you towards the large manor in the whole big center of it all. It’s only when you’ve moved closer to the large estate that you realize there are other people here, they mill around comfortably and content to live a slow life of vineyard labor. Completely unaware and unknowing to a stranger almost starving to death in the forest they reside.

There are many young women rushing around when the man leads you up the manor steps, but they all stop to dutifully bow their heads at him. They speak the same strange language, quickly snapping to attention when their eyes fall on you. Suddenly you realize how utterly drowned and dirty you look among these perfectly prim maids with their pressed white aprons. You bashfully lower your gaze to avoid their eyes, missing the recognition and, ultimately, the reverence there. The man speaks in a stern voice, almost startling you with how firm his voice suddenly is, gesturing towards a maid who stands above the rest. She is lovely and pleasant, curled brown hair and a practiced smile on her lips. She nods at his words, motioning to take your arm from around his. You sheepishly allow her to lead you into the large manor, fingers folded around the clean black sleeve of her uniform like a child.

She carefully and slowly leads you through the manor and up the steps, unaware of the overstimulated rush to your brain as you try to grasp all that you are seeing and smelling and hearing. Your attention tries to focus entirely on the satisfying click of her polished heels, your aching feet climbing step by step with her’s to a certain door among all the others. Behind it is a lavish bedroom, a bed so tempting you almost move to collapse on it. She cooes soothingly to you, words you don’t recognize but can distinguish as motherly reassurance. You decide to trust her, if only because her brown eyes are warm and clear.

This maid leads you to the bath of the lavish room, instantly removing her arm from your grasp to bustle about. You don’t recognize any of the concoctions or bottles she grasps, focus wandering to your own disheveled appearance in the mirror, until she turns the tap of the large bathtub and there’s a rush of water that quickly steams the glass. It makes your heart leap happily against your ribs, even if you are still quite embarrassed, to think you will finally be getting a warm wash after so long. So ashamed of your own dirty appearance you can’t bring yourself to mind as she helps you remove your soiled clothing, your own skin cleaner than the outfit you wear.

Her hand is steady as she helps you into the bath, lowering you into the steaming water that quickly reddens your skin. But your muscles ache for relief, your sense of self aches for cleanliness. You expect her to leave, but the diligent maid sets to work immediately as you relax. She kneels upon the fluffy cushion beside the bathtub to pour a creamy, fragrant mixture into her palm, thoroughly warming it with her hands before smoothing it along your scalp. She carefully works the mixture and her fingertips through your hairline, massaging the muscles at the base of your head and working up. She presses with measured strength, nails wearing away the build up of skin and sebum from your follicles. You allow your head to loll back into her reliable hands, comforted into complacency.

Adelinde washes at your scalp with a firm touch, the suds dribbling down your strands to fall into the bath water. Her attention is drawn by the slight hairs trailing from the base of your hairline and disappearing down the nape of your unblemished neck, soft and intimate. Her fingers move diligently in a practiced and familiar way, as a carpenter would refine his millionth wooden chair, clearing away all the oil and dirt that had gotten trapped along your scalp and behind your ears. The weight of trying to survive for days in the woods comes crashing down, worked away by this caring maid and her sure hands. Her touch is lighter than ever with you, careful to not tug or nails to scrape along your skin. You are, after all, especially precious company. She brings a pitcher of clear water up to rinse away the soap, her other hand gently tipping back your forehead to avoid your eyes. When she’s satisfied you’re clean, Adelinde works a thicker mixture into your hair, trailing her hands down to the ends where she wicks them of excess water. The conditioner smooths down all the roughness of the accumulated days, soothing your stressed strands back into their natural position.

You don’t notice the other two maids that have arrived until Adelinde helps you out of the tub, standing at the ready for orders to tend to you. One of them has long dark locks held appropriately back by her uniform headpiece. The other is distinguishable by the gemstone on her collar, it shines unnaturally bright. So obvious among the standard outfit of all the maids you’ve seen. Adelinde turns her head just the slightest away from you to address one of the young ladies, who immediately springs away to somewhere past the bathroom door. The other moves around you as Adelinde leads you to sit on the stool before the bathroom mirror, this young lady twitching hesitantly and unsure under the careful watch of the head maid. This new maid seems unsure whether she’s allowed to touch you, hands folded carefully upon her apron. If only you had the means to reassure her.

The maid with the gemstone collar weaves her fingers through your hair, a powerful breeze moved by her fingers and caressing each strand. She moves delicately, careful not to tug too harshly on your scalp. The smell of fresh dandelions and open fields moved by her very will. You want to startle away, look for whatever blowdryer you’re sure she has to be using, but your body still aches and hunger claws away your stomach and reason. You tilt your head back into her touch, the fidgeting of her nervous fingers soothed at your pleased hum.

It's an hour, maybe two, before your hair is dry. The minutes weave together as you blink back sleep, eyelids heavy under the gentle, warm breeze that blows across the skin of your scalp and neck. When you glance in the mirror to look back at the young maid, she catches your eye and gives you a bashful smile, power from her fingers petering out until the breeze has left nothing but a tingle across your nerves. Only when Adelinde orders the maid away and moves to take your hand do you remember she's there.

She leads you, careful and sure, back into the bedroom where you assume you'll finally get some rest, but instead you find clothes laid across the bed. The idea of getting dressed and doing anything else already makes your aching muscles feel weary, but you don't bother to protest lest their hospitality withers away. Not that she would be able to understand you, anyway. You should feel bashful as she dresses you, would if the situation were different, but this maid's touch feels sterile. Like she's dressing a marble statue instead of your body. All your humanity swept away with the dirty water. There's a gentleness to her touch, barely grazing her knuckles across your skin as she buttons the pressed shirt, that borders on cautious. The careful way these maids, even the strange man, have handled you almost puts you on edge. You've never been cared for so tenderly even by those that love you. Surely... Surely, this isn't just because you're a guest. You wish you had the means to ask why they are acting so attentively.

When you step out into the hall together a heavenly scent floods your nose, an impatient rumble coming from your stomach. You can't hurry down the stairs fast enough, trying to restrain yourself to the polite pace Adelinde takes. You're led into a lavish dining room, perfectly fit and furnished for the stately manor, where the red-haired man waits. He's standing, at attention the moment he sees you enter, waiting politely for you to take your seat. As if you were a most important guest. You shuffle on your feet, in borrowed clothes and covered in borrowed scents bestowed by his borrowed maids, hastily sitting when the waiting butler pulls out your seat.

Now... Well, now you wish you hadn't sat down. You are served by the polite and practiced staff, while the red-haired man watches you with what you feel to be an undeserved respect. Plates are set before the both of you, filled to the brim with the most beautiful food you've ever seen. A generosity of choices, from buttered vegetables to succulent meats. You've never seen food so worthy of being called art. Though you two can't converse, he seems content to simply watch you. It makes you slow your eating despite the painful twist of hunger in your stomach, sitting up straighter to appear more worthy of such effort. This man has been so strange since he first laid eyes on you.

You hope he's just altruistically generous when it comes to people in crisis, but you can't help feeling there's something you're missing.

[whohasthecards]

Injured and Alone

Jake ejects on a mission for a different deployment and gets injured, and since he's on assignment and his emergency contact is his immediate CO, Mav/Dagger Squad doesnt find out and stuff, and so they lose contact with him for a couple weeks as he recovers and Mav starts to get worried but hangman comes back in contact when Mav said he would do something abt it and he scolds hangman a bit but lets it go and hangman feels smad because Mav or the daggers didn't notice he was gone, the daggers didnt notice he was gone, and they didnt really care and he still has injuries and eventually he still hangs out but with walls, but then Ice founds out in one of the mission reports and mentions it to Mav like how's Jake, is his injuries gone? And Mav is like stitches!????? And goes on to dad Jake.

The stuff I wrote below is like a word vomit mess, I kinda want to add more to it, but here is what I have for now.

---

Jake muttered a curse as he hid behind the trees. His comms were not working properly. He could barely hear anything, and he was pretty sure the enemy was able to get into the comms. 

He was stuck on enemy territory, he was grounded, no plane, lacking supplies, he had to get out. He had to march to the nearest base or else he was done for.

He turned on his comms for one last message, “This is Hangman, I’m going dark.” Afterwards he crushed the comms and left covered in dirt as he marched forward.

—

It took days. He fought through the wilderness. Hid from enemy patrol. Eliminated–, fought against other soldiers.

There was so much blood.

—

He woke up to the sound of machines beeping around him, the smell of antiseptic in the air, and the feeling of a dry-fucking throat.

What does a guy gotta do to get some water around here?

He opened up his eyes and saw a button by his bed and slowly inched his hand forward to grab and press it. His limbs felt so heavy, must be the good meds.

But hey, at least he wasn’t handcuffed to the bed. That’s a good sign, right? Meant he wasn’t being a complete incoherent shit head, or that he wasn’t in the enemy’s hands. 

Yay, progress. 

—

“-- The Navy thanks you for your service Lieutenant Seresin,” Jake snapped back to attention as his current CO filled him in on what happened. The older man was just droning on and on, but his limbs still felt heavy and there was a constant ache in his body. At least he could still lay in his hospital bed. “We’ll do a debrief once you're discharged. However, there is one more thing before I leave, Lieutenant.” The admiral paused as if choosing his words carefully. “It is stated in your file that your emergency contact would automatically be your current CO, which is me at the moment, is there anyone you would like me to contact, son?”

Jake paused and thought back to his last posting with the Dagger Squad. How they started having group hangouts, meals, and sleepovers during their break, continued whenever one or more of them were on leave and hanging around Miramar. He thought about how he had to drag himself up to his apartment and clean his wounds, how that would take forever, and how nice it would be to have someone– No. Most of the Daggers were on deployment last time he checked, the ones who were on leave didn’t deserve to have to deal with him. Mav is a permanent instructor in Top Gun, now, they won’t have time for him.

They were all he had and they deserved better.

“No, sir.”

—

It took more than a week to get himself settled in on his dingy base housing. He was at medical, flew stateside, medical again, and all that fun stuff.

He sighed as he laid down on his freshly made bed. Everything ached, his stitches felt like they were being pulled apart, and he was pretty sure he had a headache coming in. Wonderful.

He decided to open his phone to see what he missed.

He wondered if anyone messaged him.

Not really. It seems like it’s been more than a week since someone actually messaged him. And when they did it was to respond to something he sent to them. The Daggers group chat was going strong though.

He shouldn’t be surprised, they don’t even know the mission he’s been through. They don’t even know he’s back on the west coast.

But by god did it hurt that not even one of them bothered to send something in his more than 2 weeks of radio silence.

(He knew he was being irrational, they were all adults with busy lives. Hell, one of them could have been through something like he just went through and he and the others wouldn’t know. Right?)

—

He hissed as he disinfected his stitches and wounds, slowly wrapping them up in bandages. It’s okay, he’d be faster at doing this in a couple of days.

—

He felt his stomach rumble as he stared at the boiling pot of pasta. He forgot to cook earlier, well he was too tired too, and his stomach was paying for it. Maybe he should have just shelled out money for that pizza. Heck, he forgot to buy some kind of fucking sauce for the damn thing.

He’s usually too stingy to Doordash shit, but with how fatigued he felt every time he had to move, he was considering ordering groceries to be delivered at his front step.

—

While he was curled up in bed, everything was aching, his head feeling light. He felt his phone ping and he opened up the Dagger’s groupchat seeing the group talk about something so fucking stupid. 

He couldn’t help himself.

He roasted the shit out of them.

His phone was bombarded with notifications as his squad digitally squawked back in offense.

He smiled and put his phone down, for a minute he felt normal.

—

He wasn’t physically cleared for active duty, or to fly yet. He had to go through PT, training, counseling, evaluations, bla bla bla, the whole nine yards.

It was a pain, he missed being behind a stick. Missed being fast and bursting through the clouds and just watching the sky change colors.

Instead, he had to keep his feet on the ground as he went through fucking paperwork at Top Gun.

He gets surrounded by cocky-ass rookies, but he can’t school them.

It was horrible.

He looked up when he heard a knock at his door. “Hey, kid, heard we got a new Lieutenant coming to assist on base, didn’t think it was you, buddy,” Mav said smiling gently from where he leaned on Hangman’s door frame. “When did you get here?”

Hangman smirked back on the older man, slowly leaning back on his chair as he hid a wince from his stitches pulling. “Today's my third first day back at Top Gun, pops, just doing some paperwork.”

“Surprised you’re not out there flying, scared to lose to these rookies,” Mav teased sitting in front of his desk.

“Please Mav, I’m not like you, I’m here to be a good boy and not steal any multi-millionaire jets,” Hangman smirked. “At the moment at least.” Hangman said, flicking his toothpick to the side.

Maverick huffed out a laugh, “How was your last deployment, kid? I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” Mav said, face turning serious. “Did something-?”

Hangman felt his heart clench, this is what he wanted, right? For the others to care, to notice, but why does it feel so wrong to admit-?

“Nah, Cap, I’m good, too good to be true in fact that I’m back here, now,” Hangman said leaning forward in his desk and giving Mav a disarming wink.

Mav gave him a once over, before sighing and shaking his head as he stood up. 

“Come over for dinner on Friday, some of the others are still on deployment or with their families. Heck, Bob, Fanboy, Coyote, and Bradley are on a road trip right now, they left a couple days ago, if they knew you were here they would have waited a while for you to come with them or something,” Mav said.

Jake shrugged, he knew about the road trip. He’s been back stateside for more than a week. His body would kill him if he came, though.

“Nah, it’s fine, pops, they probably already got it planned out, anyways, plus,” Hangman gave Mav a mischievous smile. “I get you all to myself for dinner, isn’t that a treat.”

Mav rolled his eyes as he walked to stand beside Jake’s chair. “Shut up, you brat, you just want to send pictures of my cooking to the squad to make them jealous,” Mav said as he ruffled his hair and slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders to pull him in a side hug. “It’s good to have you back, son.”

Jake turned his head to bury his head on the older man’s stomach for just a minute. “It’s good to be back, pops.”

—

“MmmMMm, this is the best fucking thing I’ve tasted in forever,” Jake groaned as he shovelled another bite of the steak. Mav was surprisingly talented behind the grill, and apparently the best mac and cheese was Ice’s personal recipe.

“I’m glad you like it, kid, make sure to eat your greens too,” Mav said smiling as he handed Jake the serving bowl of salad.

“Come on, Mav, let the boy enjoy his steak, he just came back from deployment,” Ice said grinning as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

Mav rolled his eyes upwards, “and people call me the irresponsible one.”

“Well, your Navy track record proceeds you.”

“As if yours is as clean as they think it is.”

“I’m better at not getting caught, also, which one of us actually remembered to do groceries this morning, love?” Ice said smirking and giving Jake a wink, making Jake remember to actually put the steak in his mouth as he watched the two banter.

It was surreal to see his Captain and the COMPACFLT in such a domestic situation.

Mav pouted and looked at Jake, “See what I have to deal with?”

Ice chuckled and gave Mav a small peck on the cheek, “You’re what I have to deal with. Forever.” Mav eyes softened at that as he intertwined their hands on the table.

“My wingman for life.”

Jake decided that he was being too nice and fake gagged, “you both our sickeningly sweet, there ain’t supposed to be anythin’ too sweet' with the steak, but you all decided to add too much sugar that ‘m growin’ cavities.” Jake said, narrowing his eyes at them.

“Too much sugar, hmm?” Ice said, raising a brow as he rested his chin on his fist. “So I suppose you don’t want the carrot cake I baked for dessert?”

Jake frowned, “Hey, hey, hey, I ain’t sayin’ that, carrot cake is good and healthy, I want some.”

Ice grinned wider, “What’s the magic word, Jacob?”

Jake rolled his eyes, “pleeaaaasseeee?” He drew out.

“Ah, ah, ah, no sass, young man,” Mav said, raising a fork at him as he stood up to presumably grab the cake.

Jake crossed his arms, “You can’t talk, Mav.”

“I can talk in my own house, kid. Remember, nobody likes a smartass.”

“Then why did Ice marry you?”

“My dashingly good looks, of course,” Mav said flashing a hollywood type smile as he grabbed the cake from the fridge.

Jake squinted, “I don’t see it.” Ice huffed out a laugh at that one as he started cutting up the cake. Jake perked up as Ice put down a big slice for him.

“Thank you, Admiral Kazansky,” Jake said, shoveling the cake in his mouth.

“What did I say about calling me admiral in my own home, son?”

“Not to do it because it makes you feel old, Ice.”

“Good job, now by the way, how are you Jake? Have your injuries healed nicely, or are they still sore?” Ice asks, for the first time looking at Jake seriously dead in the eye.

Jake froze and he felt ice go down his spine as he paused looking up at Ice wide eyed. He thought he got away with it, but of course, this is fucking Iceman, the commander of the Pacific fleet.

“Injuries? What injuries? Jake?” Mav said looking confused as he looked back and forth between the two.

Ice frowned at Mav, “You didn’t know? He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what, out with it, you two,” Mav sternly said.

Jake forced himself to give a small chuckle, “It’s nothing, pops, just a bit of a scuffle in my last deployment, nothing serious.”

He was in the sick-bay for more than a week.

Mav narrowed his eyes at Jake, “Uh-huh, does nothing serious cause you to be back stateside when your previous deployment was supposed to end in 3 months?”

Well, Mav didn’t make it this far for being dumb.

Jake poked down on his carrot cake, “I’m fine, pops, it’s nothin’, really.”

“Jacob Seresin, look at me.” Mav ordered, making Jake tense.

“It’s none of ya business, it’s my private file, you don’t need to know shit,” Jake growled, standing up, good mood ruined.

Jake felt his heart thump against his chest. They shouldn’t know, they can’t know. Why can’t they know? Because they’ll see you as weak. No they won’t. Yes, they will. He wanted them to be there, they can’t they won’t, stop being a bother, stop being a whiny--

“Jake, look at me,” Mav ordered again, albeit in a softer manner, Jake slowly met Mav's eyes, again. "Why didn't you tell us?" 

"I-I don't know," Jake softly admitted. 

He wanted them to find out for themselves, but he could have told them himself. He wanted them to be there sooner. And now that they know even though it's late. It was never their job to know, it was Jake’s job to communicate as a fucking adult.

“Do you really believe that we wouldn’t care?”

Jake shrugged in response. None of them noticed he wasn’t responding to messages for a couple of weeks.

Mav gave out a sigh, making Jake shrink on himself. “Is anyone helping you with taking care of your injuries, bud?”

“Nah, I’m good, pops, takes me a while, but I could figure it out on my own,” Jake said, sighing.

“You shouldn’t have too, son, come on, you need to tend to them before you go to bed, right? How about Mav will help you,” Ice said standing up. “I’ll get the first aid kit, Mav go settle Jake in the guest room.”

“That’s not necessary, sir-” Jake started, eyes wide.

“We know, but we want to help you, Jake,” Mav said gently clasping a hand on his shoulder steering him towards the room.

Jake could have fought, but he didn’t want to. He just nodded as they walked towards the room.

Mav made him sit down on the edge of the bed and ordered him to strip down to show the stitches, and Jake, too tired to argue just silently complied, unbuttoning his shirt to unveil the bandages wrapped around his torso and the patches of bruises scattered all around. 

He looked up when he heard Mav take a deep inhale of breath, seeing the pity in the old man’s eyes, making him scowl and look away. “I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m worried about you, Jake,” Mav said, softly. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“How’d ya know if I told someone?”

Mav gave him a look.

“My commanding officer is my emergency contact, he was the only one who needed to know,” Jake said, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, I don’t know why I’m here, I can do this on my own–”

“At ease, Lieutenant Seresin.” Ice sternly said as he came in with a very big med kit. “Let’s clean up your wounds first, then we’ll talk, alright?”

“Unless you’re really uncomfortable with us helping you,” Mav said, looking sadly at him. “We’re not gonna force you to do anything, buddy, but it would ease our old hearts to see that you’re okay.” Mav said, forcing a smile that just looked sad.

And didn’t that make Jake’s heart clench.

“Fine,” Jake muttered, shifting forward and started removing his old bandages.

Mav gently took over, asking Jake to put his arms up so that he could get to them easier. Mav slowly removed the bandages, making sure skin wasn’t pulled, maneuvering Jake, so that his boy would be as comfortable as possible.

Ice crouched down in front of Jake and showed him the assortment of antibiotic ointments and creams, Jake nodded in consent, pointing out which ones he usually used. Ice nodded as he pulled them out and slowly moved his hand closer to Jake as he worked in tandem with Mav, both of them treating Jake with so much care.

When he let them help him, he expected it to be painful and much longer than if he had done it. That’s usually what happened anyways when he had to rely on others.

He was wrong.

They were slow, but steady, steady made their actions smooth, efficient, fast.

Ice let Jake lean forward, his forehead resting on the older man’s shoulder as the man quickly ran a hand through his hair before dabbling antibiotic cream to the wounds on his back.

Jake swore he just closed his eyes for one second.

“Buddy? Come on Jake-y, wake up for a bit, then you can go back to sleep, okay,” Mav said gently, nudging his shoulder.

Jake grumbled and felt Ice chuckle as he helped the younger man sit up, again.

“Come on, little prince, hands up, please,” Mav murmured, helping Jake into a big hoodie. “Can you change into sweatpants?”

Jake nodded as he clumsily complied, afterwards he blinked and suddenly Mav and Ice were tucking him in the guest room bed. Someone turned the lights off, and the two older men were saying their goodbyes when Jake tugged on Mav’s shirt.

“Mav? I’m sorry I didn’t tell ya, I-I don’t know why exactly I didn’t,” Jake said frowning looking up with half-lidded eyes. “W-wanted ya’ll to be there, just, hard,” Jake muttered.

He felt the bed dip beside him, a calloused hand cupping his cheek, “It’s okay, little prince, I understand, we’ll talk about it more once you rest up, okay?” 

“We’ll be there for you when you wake up, son, and we’ll always be there for you when we can,” Ice said, reaching over to stroke Jake’s hair. 

That was enough for Jake to let himself rest.

—--

("I didn't finish my carrot cake," Jake muttered against Mav's chest.

"It's okay, we still have some more, and how about Ice makes you some chocolate cake tomorrow, buddy?" Mav softly said running a hand through Jake's strands, smirking as Ice scowled at him.

“Didn’t you just bitch about how Jacob here needs his greens, and now–”

“Please, Pa?” Jake said looking up. “I mean the carrot cake is delicious and I love it, so if you’re busy, I get it–”

“No, son, I can make the cake, I’ll just have to use my husband for some logistics help, okay?” Ice said, cutting off his rant as he rubbed Jake’s back.

“I-If it’s okay with you and pops, I don’t want to be a bo-”

“You’re not a bother, plus we were already planning on making chocolate cake for a while, you just gave us an excuse to move up our plans, and have an early cheat day,” Mav said, wagging his eyebrows with a wink.

“More like permanent cheat week,” Ice mattered.)

—

(“Put me down as your emergency contact, please.” Mav said as he squeezed Jake tighter, to make sure the boy won’t have to see the tears building in his eyes. “Please, son.”)

—

(Imagine what happens once the Dagger Squad finds out what happened to Jake.)

[thatmadshifter11]

The Shadowsinger and The Mistress of Love and Lust Pt.2

As the first rays of dawn break over the horizon, I finally allow myself to rest, leaning against him, our bodies entwined. His once bloody and torn wings are now starting to heal, the skin slowly knitting itself back together. There's still a long way to go, but we've made it through the night, and that's a victory in itself. I let myself relax against the man who I had loved for centuries the one who is now my mate, we haven't even gotten to talk about it the way we are bound to each other. To be completely honest I don’t know if I should even be sleeping beside him since he has said nothing to me other then “Mate” that doesn't mean he accepts it but it also doesn't mean he doesn’t.

I close my eyes, allowing the exhaustion to take over. But even as I drift off, I know that when I wake, I'll be ready to face another day, to continue the fight, to heal and protect my mate. I also know that he will do the same for me even if he doesn’t accept the Bond because that is just the type of man he is one with a heart. You may not be able to tell under all the brooding and shadowy exterior but he is one of the kindest most genuine men I have ever met.

His soft whisper rouses me from my sleep, "Thank you, Cici," and I squeeze his hand in response, and blush lightly noticing our proximity and the way we are both covered in his blood. “uh how about a bath?” I ask easing up from the bed moaning my exhaustion taking over me. Before my pain fully takes over I could’ve swore he said something about how he’d only take one if I joined him. I feel my old scars they are sore and my eyes are slowly lose their sight. I think quickly and using the last of my strength I winnow to Cassian and Nesta’s tent. “Cass? Nes?”

I stumble in blindly bumping into a wall- wait not a wall my best friend, Cass! “Cia are you alright?” he asks shaking me lightly and looking me over. “Where's Az is he ok” he asks frantic. “H-he's fine but I need help,” I say shakily. “My powers are weak and without anything to refuel them before I'm done with Az….” My eyes are welling up with my bloody gold tears and I let them fall.

Cass scoops me into a warm, brotherly hug. I hear Nesta approach, “What do you need to refuel?” she asks me and I can’t help but assume she is crossing her arms like I have watched her do for years when she gets curious. I smile, my senses and skills really show when I'm blind it almost makes me want to stay this way, but I will miss colors and glitter being able to see my family's smiling faces.

���Blood,” my voice shaky as I say it. Nesta huffs and hear footsteps shuffling around next thing I know I loose the presence of my best friend and I'm left myself. I can’t help but let my tears fall. I hear them again and Nesta approaches me grabbing my hands. “Eris said he’ll help he said he's done it before,” she says in a hushed tone.

Which brings me back to the time I spent with Eris camped in a cave hiding from threats, as he survived on animals we killed and my powers keeping him afloat as I kept myself replenished with his strong High Fae blood. He was the first High Fae I had ever drunken from. He allowed me to keep drinking from him as long as he stayed strong and healthy we survived 4 months out in the wilderness that way.

“Where is he?! I need it now,” I say agitated wanting to get back to my mate. “He is going to the healing tent to gather supplies,” “Alright thank you so much Nes,” I said leaning up to give her a kiss on the check which ends up rather sloppily on her ear. She laughs, a sound I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Eris helps me and gives me a few bags of fresh blood so I don't have to wonder around like that again. I rush back to Az fully recharged and ready to help him as much as I can.

[adobe-outdesign]

Have you reviewed Arcanine yet? I know you've done the hisuian form, but how about the regular form?

(Hisuian forms over here and here)

For the record, I do prefer the Hisuian forms for both of these guys. I feel like those forms added a bit more flavor to the line, with the theme being much more obvious and having additional details like Hisuian Growlithe's little bangs. I still like the originals, but the regionals added a lot to this line.

Anyway, that said, OG Growlithe is cute. It's mostly just a canine creature that is very loosely based off of a shisa (lion dog), but beyond that the stripes and wild fur always gave this line a bit of a distinct visual identity despite the relatively subtle theme. The orange color is pleasant and is complimented with additional cream fur, and the black stripes pop nicely.

That said, there are some weird visual quirks going on here—namely, the front paws. Seriously, what on earth is going on there?? It's so weird when it has proper back paws and Arcanine has all four paws as well. The ears are also a bit of a weird shape, something that the Hisuian version fixes.

Arcanine is the more distinct of the two, boasting a giant size (who doesn't want to ride a giant fire-breathing dog, really now), an even wilder mane, and more stripes. I like how it looks pretty strong and almost regal, befitting of the shisa concept. The extra spiky mane is also something rarely seen in modern Pokemon, which prefer smooth, easy-to-model shapes for fur instead.

Visually, I think Arcanine also smooths out some of the weirdness of Growlithe, such as the ear shape and the front paws. The way the head fur connects together to form a giant mane looks more natural than Growlithe's singular head tuft, and extra stripes are always a good thing.

My only visual complaint here is that the stripe patterning starts to feel erratic. The stripes on the legs have a triangular downward motion, while the stripes on the haunches are straight and have a forward motion... and then the stripes in the middle have a triangular shape but a backwards motion. It reduces the flow of the design and feels rather random, compared to picking one shape and direction for the markings and sticking with it. (Hisuian Arcanine does not fix this, but the markings are less noticeable due to the shape of its mane.) Otherwise, I do like it for what it is.

Site note: Arcanine's beta version was known as "wing", because the tufts on its legs were originally shaped like wings. This is why its Japanese name is Windie, why the Pokedex mentions it being able to run really fast, and why Hisuian Arcanine has the wing shape present in its front fur. It was mildly interesting, but it didn't really feel like it connected to Arcanine being a fire-type shisa in any meaningful way. Also, it didn't seem to have stripes in this version, which were a much-needed addition that help break the body up a bit.

Arcanine was also intended to be a legendary Pokemon at this point in development. It does kind of give off that vibe, but it probably makes more sense as just a cool normal Pokemon instead.

Anyway, not the most conceptual Pokemon out there, but still memorable enough and enjoyable in their own right even if the regionals are a little bit more thought out.

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 28: bloody nose / medic / abandoned

Day 28 for @augustofwhump.

sorry for being late got distracted starting a quilt.

NEW AU (when will I stop?)

Second Chances-  a attempt to break the Crescent curse goes wrong in an unexpected way, leaving the oldest three Mikaelson siblings waking in a different time.

Time Travel.

Mostly all grown from the seed @theotherworld97 planted.

----

“Freya!”

It was a strange feeling, the sound of both her younger brothers calling her name in concern, something she had never thought to ever have, heartwarming and yet at the same time in this current moment, it was irritating.

She can feel her nose bleed, taste the iron in the back of her throat, but she can almost reach their ancestors powers, the whole reason she had started this. With Elijah to act as her anchor and Finn the additional power she should be able to collect enough power that she would be able to break Dahlia’s curse on the crescent pack and give her niece her mother back.

“I know.” she snapped, as she found what she was looking for “Almost there,”

“This isn’t worth your life.” Finn complained, but she ignored it as she finally managed to connect to their bloodline’s past magic. 

“Something’s wrong.” Elijah’s quieter voice managed to make her open her eyes in concern, her eyes widened in shock as discovered Elijah red blood from his nose and eyes stark against his paler than normal skin.

Before she could call him she felt something grasp at her heart and pull.

Her brother's gasps of shock matched hers before everything went dark.

—

She woke to fallen leaves in her face, bird calls in the air and opened her eyes to find herself on the ground in the middle of some chilly woods and not in one of the upstairs rooms of the compound.

She pushed herself up to look around but all question on how and where they were; vanished as she found herself looking as Finn, her brother in his original body physical as the leaf litter mover as he pushed himself up in front of her. Given the way he was looking at his hands he was just as surprised but he still caught her when she threw herself at him in a hug

“You're alive.” she breathed as she reached out to cup his face, solid and living under her fingers.

“In a way.” he sighed, his hand coming up to rest on hers. She worked out that meant he had returned to his vampire state but she couldn’t care about that, she could understand his hatred of living like that but he was alive that was by far the most important part to her.

 “What happened?” Finn asked after a moment taking in the wilderness around them, she let him go to look around her herself but before she could do anything more a voice called out.

“I was thinking the same.” a far too young voice replied they twisted around at the same time, Finn trying to push her behind as he did.

A boy around 10 was staring at them, dark brown hair and brown eyes leaning heavily on a tree. There was something about him that was familiar to Freya but she couldn’t place it.

“Elijah.” Finn answered for her, her eyes widened as she retook in the boy to memorise the little brother she had missed growing into the man she knew, “How?”

“No idea, “ he shrugged, stepping away from the tree towards them swaying slightly as he did, “I felt myself being torn from my body.”

“Are you ok?” she asked, pulling herself from Finn’s hand to kneel in front of him, he was so small like this she thought as she reached to check him, she couldn’t help it even as she was trying to work out how this had happened.

What could have caused this change to her brother, from vampire back to young witch-

She remembered the state of him before the spell had gone wrong, or before she had noticed, somehow their ancestral magic had reached back and targeted the anchor to pull them away.

She hissed as she realised her mistake, it was their blood, the magic of their blood, she had thought with Elijah no longer a witch, as a vampire he wouldn’t have been affected by it but it seemed even after being turned into a vampire the magic of their blood still called to itself.

She wasn’t sure how that had ended with them in a woods somewhere or why Elijah returned to such a young age, if it wanted to return him to his human state surely it would have been easier to just return him to just before Esther had changed them.

And why hadn’t Finn similarly been transformed.

Her eyes widened as she noticed a second flicker of magic within Elijah, another soul but unlike when she had first met Finn in the other body, this one wasn’t asleep and this one was almost a match with Elijah.

“Your not alone in-” she started,

“This body.” he finished for her, wincing slightly “no, my younger self was looking after the babies when I woke here.”

“Your younger- time travel? That’s not possible.” Finn cut in as Freya’s mind spun.

She had been calling to the magic in their blood, their ancestors, but that had ended with them, they were the last generation for a thousand years so instead of granting her the power, the magic had sent them back to the last witches of their line.

Themselves.

“Time Travel or Parallel Universe, it’s one of them,” Elijah replied sharply, glaring up at Finn over her shoulder as he allowed her to place her hand on his forehead “as this Elijah’s memories are identical to mine from around this time until now. Or do you have another reason I'm stuck as a child?”

“I don't, why just you and not Freya or I?” Finn snapped back.

“I was the one casting the spell with your power, the magic must have viewed us both as witches but Elijah, you had the blood of their line but you weren't so- the magic brought us to the magic we were seeking and returned you the way it saw you should be.” he theorised aloud, swallowing back her comments about how adorable Elijah was this age even glaring at Finn.

Now was not the time, but she was going to treasure the chance she got to see sight of any of her siblings that were stolen from her. 

“So this is our ancestors' answer to correcting that and giving us the power you asked for?” Elijah asked dryly with a slight frown, and Freya had to stop herself from reaching out to pull him into a hug, the impression of looking more like a pout than the look she knew he was aiming for.

She had missed out on all of this, her siblings looking sweet and innocent, unhardened by time. 

“Can we fix this?” he asked again, to call her from her thoughts

“I need time to recover and to find out how you're connected.” she explained, she had to know how and where they had ended up and to ensure she didn’t harm the younger Elijah in any attempt, it would require a delicate touch and power. The second she would have time to recover, the first would take more work.

“ELIJAH!” a shout came suddenly from the woods around them, making her and Elijah jump, she turned to Finn to find him staring in one direction likely listening to whoever it was with supernatural hearing.

“I don't think we have time.” Elijah said, one of his hands moving to clutch his tunic in an uncharacteristic show of nerves, he seemed to notice as his other hand moved to cover it.

“Whose that?” she asked, it sounded like a child, so not one of their parents, she was slightly relieved unsure how she would react to either of them.

“ELIJAH!”

“Finn,” Elijah answered, “I was- he- this body was looking after the others before I woke up here, they would have noticed me vanishing.”

“EYLAUGR!”

“I’M HERE!” Elijah suddenly shouted before his own hand came up to cover his mouth, Freya quickly worked out the cause as she caught the surprise in his eyes shifted to annoyance.

“Elijah!” Finn hissed.

“Wasn’t me,” he snapped back glaring back up at Finn, she looked between them and realised if she wasn’t between them the venom and tension would likely be worse, and here she had thought Klaus and Elijah over the last few months had been bad.

“My younger self is up here.” Elijah told them two fingers tapping at his head. “Besides, do you have another way to deal with this, I'm- this body is going to be missed.”

Finn was silent as they all realised the truth in the statement, Elijah would need to return and play the role of his younger self until they were ready.

Something in Freya’s chest ached at the idea of somewhere beyond the trees were all her younger siblings, Klaus and Rebekah, even Kol who she had just missed out on meeting, too busy relearning the world after another century sleep to know she was losing her time with him and tiny Henrik, the one she had never thought she would get a chance to meet.

He had been dead by the first time she had learnt he ever existed. 

“ELIJAH!” The shout came much closer this time along the sound of frantic steps, she twisted slightly to the sound of it to catch the moment the owner of the voice came into view and saw them.

“Get away from him!” was shouted moments later and suddenly Elijah was pulled from her arms and pushed behind the boy.

Finn, a few years older than Elijah, fourteen perhaps, hair a darker brown making the season nearer winter than summer. Elijah looked somewhat surprised at young Finn’s action looking up at him from his new place at his side with a confused look.

“I wasn’t hurting him.” she offered showing both her hands to him to show her harmlessness, Finn moving behind her to scowl didn’t help her motives.

“Stay away from him, you can’t take him.” young Finn repeated, pulling a knife to keep them back.

She could almost feel her Finn wince behind her as he no doubt realised the same thing as her. A sibling stolen away by a witch, a reminder of Finn’s worst memory.

They were all silent for a moment before Eijah spoke, voice strangely soft and quiet, she wondered if the younger Elijah had managed to take over.

“It’s okay, Finn.” Elijah muttered his hand reaching out to grab Finn’s coat making Freya suddenly realise Elijah was out in the autumn cold in just a tunic, while she was cold, dressed for New Orleans heat, Elijah’s body was just a child it would suffer the effect sooner.

“He’s getting cold.” she said, getting a suspicious glare from Finn before he stepped backwards from them keeping Elijah behind him as he did so, once there was a distance between them he put the knife away and slipped off his coat to push onto Elijah. “Finn- i can’t- you’ll-” Elijah started as he struggled to hold the coat in his arms.

“Eylaugr.” Finn warned and Elijah sighed pulling the coat over him, the size difference meant it covered most of him, sleeves covering his hands and going past his knees and Elijah failed to hide the way he sighed at the sudden warmth.

She frowned at her own failing to notice he was cold when he had been under her reach.

“We’re going.” Young Finn told them before he started to walk away with Elijah under his arm, Elijah managed to send them a nod before he left.

For a moment she can enjoying getting to see the picture she had dreamed of in her first years with Dahlia, her little brothers together. Finn’s arm over Elijah’s shoulder to lead him away from the apparent threat.

Then she catches the words between them.

“Father’s furious,” the young Finn snapped but unlike the older Finn the concern in his voice was clear as was it in the arm still over Elijah’s shoulder holding him tight at his side, almost as if he expected Elijah to still be snatched form him. “you abandoned the little ones alone.”

“What’s the punishment?” Elijah asked with resignation in his words even as their voices faded from her hearing.

“I convinced him to let me find you but-” she caught before it faded completely, leaving her to watch as the pair of her little brothers vanished into the woods.

Punishment, because Freya’s spell had called the child from his task, because her spell had left Elijah in a body that was vulnerable and still under the care of a man that had grown cruel in her loss and a woman that bartered her first child away.

“Finn, we need to follow them.” she told him with sudden urgency, he frowned at her.

“What? Freya, why?” he asked, clearly his attention split between her and the distant sound of his younger self and Elijah.

“We came here together, we can't just abandon.” she explained.

“He’ll be fine.” Finn told her to reinsure her but the flat frown and the way he kept glancing from her to where they had vanished made her doubt it.

What’s the punishment? Elijah had asked unsurprised by it and little Finn hadn’t bothered to deny it.

“I want to see them.” She said, trying from a different angle, “I want to see the family I was taken from, the little siblings we should have got to look after together.”

Finn sighed but gave him, he really hadn’t changed much from her few most precious memories, he had given in back then too.

[widebrimmedhatsblog]

1 and 48!

do you know how you want the story to end when you start, or are you just stumbling through the figurative wilderness hoping to find a road?

I pretty much always have an end scene in mind when I start writing but the middle is absolutely the wilderness. I usually struggle to feel motivated if I don't know precisely how something is ending. It stresses me out!!

48. do you re-read your own fics? Before they're posted, yes! Even outside of editing if I REALLY like something I've written I'll re-read it a ton before I post it. But for me, once it's posted, I can't re-read it without wanting to edit and change things (obviously you can edit after posting on AO3, but the AO3 html is my sworn enemy) and re-reading with editor brain on is no fun! I'm hoping once I have a big enough break from some of my fics I'll be able to re-read them, especially since I can't remember like...events.

[blade-that-was-broken]

Ahora realmente quiero leer la reacción de John a la popularidad de Brozone y que sean algo que la gente estudia y a algunas cosas locas que dicen de ellos.

Ask: Now I really want to read John's reaction to Brozone's popularity and have them be something that people study and some crazy things that they say about them.

This is definitely something I'd like to think about or even write about if I can get back into the I'm Still Here au mindset. I do have aus of aus... in my thoughts and have a mini-series vaguely planned sooooooo maybeeeee something... I'm not sure yet. But I think it would be crazy funny though.

In I'm Still Here, JD has less of the blunt/obnoxiousness that he seems to have in canon (although honestly, I feel like once things calm down, he's slept for a bit and stuff, JD would chill out too because of reasons but idk since he's the butt of the jokes in canon, I doubt they'd go that route) and more of the tired awkwardness a bit? Like, he's got some social interaction in the last few years but before then? A lot of it was just him and Branch. And although he's good with making friends and stuff, he is NOT used to being around so many trolls consistently.

JD kind of expects Pop Trolls to know and even like Brozone - after all they were probably Pop's most popular band. He quickly comes to the realization that other types of trolls don't know Brozone, he may or may not introduce them. He's very proud of his brother's accomplishments and talents in the band, even if things went wrong.

However, I don't think he'd have a super easy time realizing/thinking that other beings outside of trolls know about Brozone, much less listen to them. But he would be happy about it because of course he would. He loves that people love Brozone.

It's the classes that study them that would surprise him. Don't get him wrong, he absolutely thinks Brozone was great and they did a good job with good music, but he would not expect anyone to be studying or even spending so much time discussing and analyzing his work.

JD wrote all of their songs and since it was a boyband, it's kind of impressive. He not only was IN the boyband, but he wrote all the songs, lyrics and parts for each specific brother, who had different skill sets and ranges, something he would have to keep in mind. A lot of work goes into something like that - with parts that can work cohesively together.

So when Floyd tells him his college spent a week talking about and analyzing Brozone songs and performances - JD thinks it's kind of a joke. Not in a haha, don't be mean Floyd kind of way but a LOL that's a good joke Floyd kind of way.

It takes him even longer to believe that these college professors found HIS writing work impressive. I'm Still Here JD writes because that's one of the few things he knows how to do and although he might not innately realize it, it's kind of a way that he expresses his feelings and stuff. It's more so after the band breaks up, obviously, because he's no longer writing for entertainment songs.

When the band breaks up and he goes into the wilderness with Branch, he actually starts just writing lullabies and funny songs to help teach Branch things or get him to do things. Since he's a baby/child and Trolls are very music-oriented. And then is kind of grows into other feelings and thoughts that JD has. He's SO used to writing, that's kind of how it ends up being expressive for him.

He writes a whole album + of sad songs solely because Clay yelled he was in a sad book club. JD had both very sharp and also very fuzzy memories of the fight. He remembers a lot of words and specific phrases but movements and images are kind of fuzzy to him. This is kind of a side effect of almost dying the first time he left.

If I am ever able to really write down a good scenario of JD finding out about Brozone's popularity - and his esteem - in colleges and stuff, I absolutely will.

[panzershrike-pretz]

*basically falls into your ask box* PRETZ I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVEN'T ASKED YOU SOMETHING YET SORRY

okay 10, 12, 21, and 27 for the hbowar ask game!!

HI BLU!!! Hope you didn't hurt yourself with that fall! XD

10. An OC you can't get enough of?

First of fucking all: I love you guys' ocs!! Feel free to ramble about them to me, I love meeting new characters!

So, starting off with @malarkgirlypop because I absolutely fucking ADORE Emily. She is just the best and reminds me of a friend of the same name, so I just love vibing away with her! Her whole deal comung from the future and being so absolutely different from ths boys but at the same time fitting right in?? Love that

And then there's @coco-bean-1218. I LOVE OC!CLAIRE SO MUCH SHE'S SO ADORABLE!!!! I LOVE HER AND CAN'T WAIT TO READ THE FUCK OUT OF WELL BEHAVED WOMEN NEVER MAKE HISTORY!!! (also can we talk about that title??? Because I love it)

We also got @next-autopsy 's ocs. All of them but like,,,, I have a special something for Francesca. Obviously I live Birdie as well but like. Francesca resonates with me. (I ABSOLUTELY ADORE BIRDIE'S NICKNAME AND SHE REMINDS ME OF A SHRIKE OR A LONG-EARED NIGHTJAR).

Finally, yours! @xxluckystrike! YOUR OCS ARE SO COOL! I am so fucking hyped to learn more about them and eead your fics qhen u post it!!

12. Songs that you associate with certain mutuals?

Idk if I'll be able to give explanations to everyone but I'll try! Also, I use only vibes.

@malarkgirlypop - she makes me think of Set It All Free by Scarlett Johnsson, from the movie Sing! I just adore her vibes so like. Am I wrong? (Don't answer this)

@luckynumber4 - definetely makes me think of the song Everything Moves by Bronze Radio Return! I love this song so much and it brings me Lou vibes, idk why.

@xxluckystrike - you make me think of Break My Stride by Matthew Wilder! You just have this fun vibe and I love it a whole lot!

@whollyjoly - We Own The Night by The Wanted! This is such a upbeat song and I feel like it fits you a lot, but also It's Tough To Be a God from Road to El Dorado, but especifically the Annapantsu cover. Yes it's because of the cult.

@sweetxvanixlla - Biscuits by Kacey Musgraves! You give responsible(TM) vibes a lot. And this song is just adorable like you. Fight me.

@georgieluz - Curses by The Crane Wives. This song makes me think of you, deal with it :]

@land-sh - The Cult of Dionysus by The Orion Experience! Yeah, listen to it and you'll understand.

@next-autopsy - Battlecry by Mazare and Philip Strand. I CANNOT listen to it without thinking of you and Made of Glass! I love this song a lot.

@coco-bean-1218 - Come Along by Cosmo Shelldrake. This is one of my favorite songs and artists and I just HAD to choose it since you were the reason I first got into the BoB fandom!

@footprintsinthesxnd - Fly Away by TheFatRat. I was OBSSESSED with this song not long ago! And it's just so good too? Definetely makes me think of you!

27. What is your favorite moment during your time in the fandom?

That has to be the Cult thing. It started as a joke and took over my fucking life xD

Again, sorry to any mutuals I didn't include! I tried my best here, so enjoy the songs and all that! Love u guys <3

[clumsiestgiantess]

Part 7 of the poll story; choice A!

A) You go to the large protected park

Surely, the extra time you’ll take to get to the larger park would pay off with a wider range of animals for Ralyr to choose from.  You begin making yourself a bowl of cereal for breakfast when a tiny form slowly wanders into the room, rubbing his eyes tiredly.  “Good morning!” you greet him.  He jumps at your voice, but calms immediately afterward.  “Morning,” Ralyr replies happily.  It’s mesmerizing how expertly he makes his way onto the table where you sit.  Glancing around, he starts towards the cereal box, then stops.

“I… don’t know whether I should bother struggling with that box when you can open it for me.  Normally, I’d get it myself, but the last few times I’ve tried to do something on my own, well,” he pauses, ears flicking downward for a moment as he glances up at you.  “You look like I’ve wounded you by trying it instead of waiting for you.”  You blink, unprepared for that kind of scrutiny so early in the morning.  “It.. just feels awkward if I don’t help.”  Ralyr thinks for a moment, then nods, gaze moving away from you.  “Yes, yes I suppose you’re right.  I’m sorry, I think I’m still a bit shocked by this whole situation.”  His eyes take on a faraway stare, and you wonder how long he would’ve had to be alone for him to be confused when others offer help.  Maybe his kind doesn’t even offer to help others in the first place.

He shakes himself awake after the bag of cereal crinkles and you pour out a few pieces for him.  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he tells you earnestly, taking one and biting into it.  You nod, “Would you like a drink too?”  Ralyr blinks surprisedly, “Just some water, if you will.”  

While you both finish your meal, you explain your plan to go to the large protected park.  The little being’s eyes light up excitedly.  “Untamed lands?  I haven’t visited a place of pure wilderness in years!”  “Well, I wouldn’t call them completely untamed,” you amand, “There are trails running through it and-”  “It's close enough!” he gasps, “Are we leaving soon?”  You smile at Ralyr’s excitement.  “Finish breakfast and we’ll go.”  He finishes in the amount of time it takes you to put on shoes and grab the keys.  Hesitantly, you hold out your hand for him to climb on.  Ralyr stares at it dubiously.

“You can’t walk to the car; it’ll take a while for you.”  He grumbles, tapping his chin.  “Can’t you bring me in that?”  A miniscule finger points out the bag you put together for the hike, with a bottle of water and a protein bar or two.  You sigh, confused why he keeps avoiding you.  You don’t want to make your little guest uncomfortable by picking him up and carrying him around, but you can’t deny that it would make you more comfortable — able to ensure he was alright instead of simply tossing him in a bag.  However, you open it for him and let him drop inside.  In the car, a few minutes into the drive, he slides back out of the bag, settling into a cupholder beside you.  The drive is already awkwardly silent, and it just began.

What do you say to break the silence?

A) “So, what was it like living in the supermarket?  I bet supplies were really easy to get.”

B) “What are you going to do when we get there?  Should I walk around with you in my bag, or do I just let you out on your own, and you’ll come back when you’ve taken something?

C) “You seem pretty excited to get back outside!  Any forms in particular you’re searching for?”

D) You can’t get the thought of safety holding him out of your mind.  If you were his size, surely you’d want someone who could protect you from such a big world. “Why.. do you keep avoiding touching me?”

[punkypiscesell-writes]

Prologue

Joel Miller x gn!/f!reader

series masterlist - chapter 1

summary: You’ve left a community formed by ex-FEDRA soldiers with a group of people in the hopes to find Jackson, Wyoming. Being the only surviving member of that group, you come across Ellie and Joel, following them through the wilderness. When you’re accidentally seen by Ellie, you have no place to hide. Or ability to do so, when your body shuts down.

rating: T for now, becomes mature later

warnings: dead rabbit being prepared for eating

word count: 550

notes: Here’s a little introduction from Ellie’s pov, next week we’ll get to the real thing!

Ellie looks back behind her, seeing Joel lighting the dry bark with his lighter, gently laying the blazing wood against the sticks on the campfire. He’s in his own head again, barely paying any attention to her when she climbs the huge rock next to their cave.

“It’ll be enough shelter for us tonight,” he had grunted when Ellie asked if they’ll be safe there. She had followed him around when he deemed the spot secure for the night. He seemed quiet, but she could feel his eyes on her, when she walked ahead looking for the sticks that are now rattling in the fire. He pokes them gently with a log before he tucks it into the flame, building it up. The smell of smoke is comforting and slowing down only means that her feet can finally rest after another day of endless walking.

The sky is starting to darken as she keeps her eye on the flat land before her. The scenery looks almost different from her lookout, slowly lulling her to security. Some lonesome trees and bushes break the vast land, with a few bigger rocks here and there, but from her place she has a great view of a much larger area than from the ground.

Seeing so far feels lonely. Only Joel’s rustling and occasional grunts keep her grounded. She looks back again, seeing him sitting down and rummaging through his backpack for something. The rabbits they stole earleir from that elderly couple are now next to the fire, ready to be prepared.

Slowly she shifts to sit more comfortably on the cold, hard surface under her. Her eyes get used to the infinite snow-covered scenery. The only movement comes from a gentle breeze in the bushes that stings her cold cheeks and nose. She looks around passively, listening to the occasional crow and wind picking up. Until she sees something poking behind a bigger rock. She squints her eyes, like that would help her see better, but her brain doesn’t seem to comprehend what she’s looking at.

It takes a moment for her head to catch up, and when it does, her breath streams out of her mouth with a rushed exhale. A face, eyes staring right at her. The puff of smoke from their mouth as they breathe out is unmistakable. Ellie manages to keep quiet, until the person disappears behind the rock. Even Ellie can hear the small gasp that leaves her throat, too fast for her to hide it. Her rapid heart hammers in her chest, making her skin tingle with anxiety.

“What is it?” Joel’s voice is quiet, curious.

“Nothing,” Ellie squeaks and turns to him. Joel looks at her with his piercing eyes and something in them tells her he trusts her. He goes back to cutting the rabbit with a sharp knife. Maybe he was right, maybe she wouldn’t be able to handle the dressing. At least not yet. With a wince she turns back to look at the rock, but she doesn’t see the person anymore. Except the slight puff of smoke that has to come from them breathing.

She can’t help herself when her curiosity takes over and she comes down from the rock. Joel is focused on preparing their dinner and doesn’t notice, when Ellie walks quietly away from their small camp.

[bearman0800]

As promised.... Topic two

The Creation of Shapeshifters...

The creation of shapeshifters started at the beginning of time after the fall of man (Adam and Eve). One of the first few pure shifters,(strictly fallen angels/regular angels and part animal) was the serpent that deceived Eve. We call them wereserpents. They have the ability to heal faster than 98% of supernaturals, produce venom from their fangs and claws, and are extremely durable. After they succeeded in creating monsters of their own, they moved on to more primal animals such as wolves, bears, lions, tigers, gorillas, hyenas, jaguars, etc. Because they came from fallen angels or regular angels, they were often as smart as human beings or even smarter. Most went on to be in the wilderness, terrorize humans, or live in solitude. Others helped humanity, taught them how to survive, and ultimately lived in harmony. Some even believed in free will and hoped to make to heaven as well. When the pure shifters wanted to create more of their kind, they mated with human beings, making them stronger than the first generation. Their body was more humanoid, they were physically better in every way, etc. Note too that neither the first werebeasts or 2nd generation could shift. They were pure monsters that had no other form. Now, whenever they bit humans, the process was more complicated than most realized. You just don't become whatever bites you. Your soul opens up and whatever spirit finds its way in, that's what you become. Half the time, you become what but you... Otherwise you become something better or worse than what you anticipated. Whether it be a chimera, demon, werewolf, werelion, manticore, etc. In order for you to remain supernatural, you and the spirit MUST become one like a symbiotic relationship and you must meditate to keep it under control. If not, you'll either feel really sick and may die (or nothing happens at all), or the spirit moves on to a different compatible body. Be aware too that the human body can house multiple spirits at once. Once the spirit makes itself known to you and the two of you are now one, you'll start to experience some of its power you can tap into and this is when you KNOW you're supernatural. You'll be stronger than most humans (depending on their body weight and strength/vice versa) and be able to lift heavier things most people can't, you'll definitely be faster, your healing process will be significantly faster from wounds, cuts, and broken bones, your senses will be as great as an animal or better, and your emotions will be everywhere. Here's the important part of all of this.... YOU WILL NOT BE A HULKING BEAST LIKE THE VAN HELSING OR UNDERWORLD WEREWOLF..... The human body can only do so much to replicate what's inside. For instance, if you have something with wings, you won't be able to sprout wings or fly. Every supernatural body that's fully shifted into said creature will have the following: different eye color, taller in height, fangs, some will have claws, muscle, muscle mass, and a deeper voice. The process of shifting is painful in itself, first your back or chest will start to tense up and break to give you a bigger build, your canines will grow longer resulting in fangs and bleeding gums which will later become sore, then your vocal cords will rip and reform so that when you howl or roar, you'll be unrecognizable. Think of it like a hulk roar or a wolf pack (TV show) roar. Depending on what color your natural eyes are, they'll become darker or brighter than what they are now. Ex: brown may become gold, amber, or dark red. Dark blue will be sky blue or gold, etc. Finally, one way you can tell if someone is supernatural is if their eyes glow. Not like teen wolf where blue eyes can be seen miles away, but if their eyes are reflective like an animal in headlights. It's called Tapetum Lucidum. Also full moons aren't a thing....thankfully. One last bit of advice for specially witches. PLEASE do not try to create your own personal creature. The last time that happened, the Nemean Lion was loose and it took a half Deity/ human to put it down permanently.

Warning: supernatural energy attracts supernatural whether it's good or bad. Most likely bad. Meaning something Will most definitely come after you just for being what you are. Keep your eyes open and watch out for signs. They're always looking to strike at your weakest point.....

Above is a picture of one of the many people who are supernatural in this world. (Have to protect his identity of course).

[embersofhope-if]

Hi! Hope you’re having an amazing day! Out of all the districts what made you choose district 8?

hi!! theres multiple reasons i decided to pick District 8. Initially, i had Districts 8, 10, and 11 picked out, but i ultimately decided to go with District 8 mostly because of how Urban it is. In the books, Katniss describes District 8 as "an urban place stinking of industrial fumes, the people housed in run-down tenements. Barely a blade of grass in sight."

It's so different from what we're used to in District 12 that it really caught my eye and i knew that it would give me a sense of freedom in doing what i wanted with Mcs home since the only times District 8 is really brought up are during the victory tour and when its bombed in Mockingjay. Also I already had the arena some what planned out in my head so i knew that there would be a ruined city in it meaning that Mc may have better chances surviving since they generally know how a to traverse a city quickly and without attracting attention. They might have a disadvantage in the wilderness, but a cityscape is something Mc will be able to figure out faster than anyone.

Creon is also part of the reason why i chose District 8. I needed a way for Mc to be powerful and rich enough to actually get them into the Capitol, and having an insanely rich family that owns multiple factories felt like the best way to make Mc important. Of course, Mcs Uncle is the reason that they actually go to the Capitol. If he was from a District like 10 or 11, I don't think there would be any chance of him ever getting that high up in the ranks of the peacekeepers.

Also, there's the fact that District 8 was the very first District to break away from the Capitol in the revolution. Katniss may have been the girl on fire, but I've felt like the people of District 8 are the starting embers of the flame that took down Snow. They dared to have hope for a better world, and when the opportunity to start fighting for that change came, they took it and didn't look back.

All of this had to start somewhere, and in my own little world, i like to think it starts around the time Ash dies in their games. Losing them and being punished for Ash's actions in the games killed morale a little but yes but it also made people angrier thus allowing Aurel to come in with their own anger and become a pillar of strength in the community. Ash and Aurel both are symbols of hope and strength in District 8, and Mc may not be a part of that, but they do feel its effects, both good and bad. I'm going to stop this part right here because I'm about to get into spoilers☝️

Now, on a less, uh, dramatic(idk what word to use) note since District 8 is the textile district, that means they get to have a lot more colorful and patterned clothing. As the Capitol trends change and they want different things, the citizens of District 8 get to use the surplus of whatever is left for themselves😋 or thats how i imagine at least. Sorry, District 12, but i am not rocking with gray and coal dust black, and neither will Mc😐. Mc will be the best dressed out of everyone, and that's obviously the only reason i picked District 8🤞