#cauldron snout

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏 ˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: hi! can i please request a remus x reader in which the reader has always had a huge crush on him, but thought the feelings were unrequited? she lets the secret slip to lily & marlene and somehow it gets back to remus who finds it very endearing and teases her a bit?

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: shy!reader, playful teasing, the pet name mouse, some suggestive dialogue but nothing explicit. 

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: the reader has always had a huge crush on remus. the girls find out and marlene accidentally lets it get back to remus. 

𝑨/𝑵: thank you for your request, lovely anon! i’ve luckily got a few requests that i’m working on, so thank you all for being patient with me. i also want to say thank you for all of the love on my last post! i was very nervous about my first post and i received so much love and support! requests are still open, and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 4.1k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

        “morning, mouse.”

        there’s a teasing touch to remus’s voice as he slides into the seat beside you. you glance at him out of the side of your eye as you take your potions textbook out of your bag, placing it gently on the table. a huff leaves your lips.

         “are you lot ever gonna let that go?” you frown, crossing your arms as you turn to him. 

         there’s a soft smile playing on his lips, and a chuckle from sirius behind him as he joins the pair of you at the table.

         “never gonna forget the look on mcgonagall’s face when she turned around,” says sirius brightly. you scowl at him, wanting to wipe the stupid amused grin right off of his face. 

        “shut up,” you say.

         “it wasn’t so bad. you had a rather cute little snout…” remus touches a finger to the tip of his nose, his smile slowly changing from gentle to a rather shit-eating one. 

        “oh come on, how many people can say they turned themselves into a mouse, y/n? takes proper skill to cast a spell without realizing your wand is turned the wrong way.” 

        your face flushes pink. “i–i was distracted!” you defend. 

        “distracted, that’s right… chatting away to moony and casting spells at the same time. how’ve you gone this long without blowing yourself to pieces?”

        you stick your tongue out at him, shoving his shoulder and laughing as he tumbles halfway off of his seat. he catches himself, making a face as he regains his spot. 

        “watch yourself, black,” you threaten. “how’d you like to be a dog permanently?”

        “double check you’ve your wand turned the right way ‘round this time, yeah?”

        there’s a thumping noise as you backhand his arm, and he winces dramatically.

        “all right, you two,” says remus, voice amused. “slughorn’s here.”

        chastised, you and sirius settle into your seats. the chattering of the rest of the class settles, and professor slughorn directs you to open your books to the correct chapter. you shift in your seat, glancing over at remus as he gathers his potions ingredients. his elbow nudges yours as he adjusts his cauldron.

        “sorry, mouse,” he says offhandedly. though you insist you hate the silly nickname, the sound of him saying it makes your stomach do a little flip. your neck and ears burn, but you say nothing, instead focusing on the task at hand. sirius is distracted by james mouthing something at him across the classroom, which has caught lily’s attention as well. her gaze catches you for a second, and you hope she’s too far away to see the flustered expression decorating your features as you scramble to start on your potion.

        invested in your textbook, you don’t notice when james makes his way over to your table, peering into your cauldrons as he returns from the class stores, having run out of one of his ingredients. “wonder why old sluggy’s got us brewing beautification potions,” he comments, making a face as he peers from sirius’s potion to remus’s. 

        “probably heard about y/n’s incident in transfiguration,” said sirius slyly, nudging your shoulder. your mouth falls open as james laughs.

         “pads,” remus warns, throwing him a sharp glance.

        sirius’s clear eyes dart between you and remus, and he holds his hands up in surrender. “sorry,” he says, “didn’t mean it, honest. y’know i think you’re fit, y/n.” he flashes a smile, turning on the charm.

         you roll your eyes. “you’re a right git, you know that?”

         “oh, come on. i’d have snogged the lights out of you by now if lily didn’t have her bloody rules,” he continues, back to his potion. james sniggering laugh fades as he returns to his table with lily and peter. 

         “‘m going to pretend i didn’t hear that,” says remus.

         “likewise,” you agree, an incredulous laugh bubbling in your chest. sirius responds with a noncommittal shrug, sprinkling a handful of rose petals into his potion without a care in the world. 

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪

        “so, mouse, how’d your study session in the library go?” the sound of the nickname coming in lily’s teasing voice causes your face to burn hot. 

        you turn towards her, having just pulled your nightgown over your head. you make a face, raking a hand through your hair as you flop onto your bed. marlene’s sprawled on her stomach at the end of your bed, flicking through a muggle magazine that lily brought back from holiday. 

        “not you too!” you complain, sighing heavily.

        “i’m only teasing,” she says, leaning against the windowsill with her arms crossed over her chest. her lips are curled up in amusement, features slightly shadowed by the moonlight spilling in through the window behind her.

        “i’ll never be y/n again. i’m gonna be mouse for the rest of my life at this rate,” you grumble, frustrated. “i mean, you accidentally transfigure yourself one time, and suddenly you’ve got a stupid nickname for life…”

        marlene giggles at your dramatics, dropping the magazine onto your bed. “i think you’ll be okay. seems like james and sirius have gotten all of their fun out of it…” she trailed thoughtfully. “sirius was having the most fun with it, and even he was back to calling you y/n by the end of dinner.”

        “remus, though,” lily begins, her eyes flashing with mischief. “seems like he really likes it.”

        you swallow hard, trying not to think of the way your heart pounds at the sound of the silly nickname in his voice. tearing your eyes away from lily, you try to mask the embarrassment blooming on your face. even when the pair of you went to the library after your evening meal, he had taken to calling you ‘mouse’ without even realizing it. almost affectionately. you’d been reeling with butterflies the entire time, unable to focus on studying for your upcoming exams. 

        “kind of endearing, isn’t it?” continues marlene. “i mean, he gets this dreamy sort of look in his eyes when he’s talking to you… and it’s sort of a sweet nickname, if you think about it…”

        “oh, come on,” you interject, as if they’re being ridiculous. 

        “no, honestly, y/n, you’re a bit oblivious,” lily adds. “he definitely thinks you’re fit.”

        marlene smiles as you glance between the two of them, nodding her head in agreement. “and don’t lie and say you don’t feel the same way,” she warns.

        “guys–”

        lily narrows her eyes at you, “no lying.”

        “i see you going all starry-eyed when you’re with him!” marlene sits up at the end of your bed, clasping her hands in her lap as she looks at you expectantly. “i’d bet ten galleons you curl up in your bed at night and dream of snogging remus lupin.”

        “oh my godric,” you mutter, placing your hands to your burning face. you can’t bear to look either of them in the eye. you hate that they know you so well, and even worse that you’re doing a horrible job of hiding your crush on one of your best friends. it’s a miracle that no one’s gone blasting it all over the school yet. 

        “so it’s true?” lily prompts, leaning in to better hear your admission of guilt.

        you huff, “don’t make me admit it.” your voice comes out as a whine, and that’s how they know they’ve got you. your secret has been exposed, and they’re having a giggling fit over it. 

        “next thing you know we’ll be finding moony and the mouse, curled up snogging in the common room,” says marlene, sounding smug. 

       “shut up,” you plead, though you can’t help the stupid smile that comes onto your lips as you shake your head. 

        “breaking all sorts of rules,” says lily. “including mine!”

        lily’s one explicit rule: no marauders hooking up with her friends. a tried and true method of keeping the boys (mostly sirius) out of yours and marlene’s pants. it’s been foolproof.

        “oh, shove it with the rules, evans,” marlene retorts. “you’d forget all about them once the four of you can go on silly little double dates.”

        you feign a gag, and it sends them both into fits of laughter. “i am not going on any double dates.”

        “no,” says lily, breathless, “i don’t think remus would like that very much, either…”

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪

        “where’s your chaperone, mckinnon?” it’s sirius, lounging on one of the sofas in the gryffindor common room. his wand is in his hand, flicking back and forth as he sends a tiny spark of light bouncing around the common room. he’s bored, waiting for the return of remus and james, probably to cause some trouble.

        marlene crosses her arms over her chest. “she’s wrapped around your best friend, black,” she says, a faux-disgusted look plastered on her face. “they’re in a broom closet, snogging each other’s faces off…”

        “ugh,” sirius says, dropping his wand as he leans up on his elbows to meet marlene’s gaze. “i showed james that bloody closet. now he’s gone and defiled it…” he flops back onto the couch, looking slightly sickened. 

        “can’t keep their hands off each other, the pair of them,” sirius continues after a moment.

        marlene laughs, settling into one of the plush armchairs near the sofa sirius occupies. “you’re telling me.”

        “what about moony?” sirius asks. 

        “studying with y/n.”

        sirius nods, having expected that answer. “y’know, they’re as bad as lily and james. worse, i think,” he says. “it’s a nightmare, having to watch him fawn over her like a little lost puppy. i mean, ‘m supposed to be the canine here…” he shakes his head.

        “you should hear y/n,” marlene counters. she’s not thinking as she speaks to sirius, not realizing she’s going on about your crush that you explicitly asked her not to discuss with anyone, especially not james or sirius. “the girl’s just dreaming of being shoved into a broom closet with remus. i wish they’d get over themselves and get a room.” 

        there’s a second of quiet between them, before marlene realizes what she’s just done. her eyes widen, and she blinks as sirius turns to look at her. she opens her mouth, though no words come out for a moment. “sirius–”

        “well, i don’t know about shoving but–”

        “sirius, listen to me,” marlene threatens, her voice sharp. “you can’t say anything. please. y/n will kill me.”

        “ah, marls, that ship has sailed,” he laughs, sitting up. “moony’s in for a treat.” he practically leaps from his place on the sofa, looking awfully haughty as he plans to expose the blooming feelings between the two of his friends. 

        “sirius!” she hisses. “i’ll give you five galleons to keep it to yourself. please.”

         sirius tuts, shaking his head. “sorry, love. i’ve no need for your money. besides, i’m doing all of us a favor here.”

         marlene deflates before him, feeling extremely defeated as she watches sirius leave the common room, a new swagger in his step. dread clouds her senses as she realizes she’s going to have to tell you that she revealed your crush on remus. 

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪

         “you’re looking awfully chipper this morning,” comments sirius, eyes skirting over you as you join him in the corridor. 

        “it’s hogsmeade weekend,” you say simply, hooking your arm through his to lead him down to the entry hall. it seems the rest of your friends have left already, none of them keen on waiting for you to return from the greenhouses this morning after helping professor sprout harvest flobberworm mucous for extra credit. “thanks for waiting for me, by the way.”

        “someone had to,” he says, sounding a bit sheepish. 

        you roll your eyes, used to his faux disdain at your expense. “how’s moony?” you ask as you join the rest of the students making their way down to hogsmeade. the full moon was a couple nights ago, and you hadn’t seen your beloved lycanthrope in far too long. he tended to avoid you when it was, ahem, that time of the month, and though you thought it was unnecessary during the day, you understood. sirius and james could deal with him when he was in that state, but none of them liked to risk having you or the girls anywhere near his furry little problem. it was thoughtful, honestly. 

        “exhausted,” replies sirius. “he wanted to wait for you, but lily didn’t want to leave him alone. reckon she was scared he’d fall asleep standing up and get a concussion.”

        you laugh half-heartedly and wonder why remus didn’t decide to stay behind and get some sleep. you worried about him, oftentimes wondering if he was truly taking care of himself properly. each time he went out to the shrieking shack he returned with new scars, looking more and more ill as the weeks went on. it was a wonder he was managing his classes and keeping decent marks. 

        you chatter back and forth as you make your way to hogsmeade, sirius recounting their latest excursion in the shrieking shack. you finally make it to hogsmeade, spotting lily’s bright hair shining in the sun, and the goofy look on james’s face as he does some impersonation of one of your classmates, that you just happen to catch the tail-end of.

        “who’s that you’re mocking, prongs?” you raise your eyebrows, arms crossed as the group begins marching towards the three broomsticks. 

        “i’ll have a guess,” says sirius. he thinks it over for a second, then a lightbulb seems to go off in his head. “that hufflepuff fifth year, what’s his name? the burly one, tried out for seeker and wrecked his broom into the stands?”

        james erupts into a fit of cackling laughter, nodding his head. “yes, yes!” he claps, looking quite pleased with his interpretation of the hufflepuff boy’s less than graceful dismount. remus laughs softly, while marlene rolls her eyes. 

        “not everyone is as adept as you on a broomstick, potter,” says marlene.

        “i’m only joking,” james says, shrugging. “‘sides, it’s not like anyone’s gonna tell the poor guy. what he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.” the dark-haired boy winks as he opens the door to the three broomsticks, waving you all inside. 

        you nudge remus in the side as you stand in the crowd, waiting to push through the gaggles of students to find a table big enough to fit all of you. 

        “hello, mouse,” he says, voice tired although he’s sporting his usual smile. sirius was right. he looks awfully haggard, and a lot like he should be in bed instead of traipsing through hogsmeade. 

        “how are you feeling?” you ask, concerned. your conversation is overshadowed by the chatter all around you, which you’re thankful for. it’s unlikely anyone could overhear the two of you discussing his delicate situation. 

        “i could go for a long nap,” he says, truthfully. “missed you, though.”

        your heart leaps in your chest, and a shy half-smile finds its way to your lips. “you don’t have to exhaust yourself just to see me, rem,” you say, flushed. 

        “i don’t mind.” he shrugs. his hand bumps yours as you stand, watching sirius push through a crowd of confused looking third-years, heading for a table in the corner. he hooks one finger with yours for half a second, before the two of you are following your friends to the table. 

        you swear the touch sends your whole body vibrating, your heart beating loudly enough that you’re sure everyone in the pub can hear it. you take your seat, head swimming as you settle down and order a butterbeer when madame rosmerta comes for your orders. 

        after the three broomsticks, your group splits up. james and sirius flit off to spintwitches sporting needs, james muttering something about new quidditch gloves. marlene and lily run into mary macdonald outside of honeydukes. which leaves you and remus.

        “right, mouse, where to?” remus looks to you for direction, having brightened up a bit since having something to drink. he’s much less ill-looking, although you notice a fresh scar creeping up from beneath the neckline of his sweater. your eyes skirt over the wound, but you jerk your attention away before he notices. 

        “how about gladrags?” you wonder aloud. “i saw a nice blouse in there on the last hogsmeade weekend. ‘course, i talked myself out of buying it at the time, but i really want it…” you realize that you’re rambling, and stop before you can embarrass yourself. 

        “after you,” he offers his arm, and you try not to look flustered as you take it. 

        gladrags is empty as ever, very few wizards doing any clothing shopping at this time of year, it seems. the cashier is an ancient elderly lady, who shouts hello at you as you enter. you reply, but she’s got hearing problems, and you’re not loud enough. remus shouts a greeting back, earning a smile from the lady and a fit of giggles from you.

        “poor old woman,” remus says, amused.

        “hush,” you say quietly, although there’s no risk of her accidentally hearing you.

        “sorry,” he says, eyes still crinkled as he smiles. “now, where is this lovely blouse?” he inquires, quirking an eyebrow. you finger through the racks, looking for the pale-coloured, silken fabric. you finally find it, the last shirt on a very back rack. 

        “what do you think?” you ask, holding the fabric up against your front, peering down at it.

        “hmmm,” remus examines the fabric, taking the tail of it between his fingers. “looks like  a blouse.” 

        you roll your eyes. “this is why i don’t go shopping with boys,” you say, laughing softly. 

        “maybe you should try it on,” he suggests. “i’m sure it looks better on.”

        you nod. “good idea,” you flit off to the changing rooms. remus waits for you, your coat draped over his arm as he waits for you to change, listening to you curse as you fiddle with the buttons on the blouse. you adjust the lace outlining the neckline and the sleeves, smoothing the fabric as you eye yourself in the mirror. 

        “okay, rem, what do you think?” you thrust open the curtain to the changing room. remus’s eyes widen a tad, and you swear there’s a flush of pink across his cheeks. he forces his gaze up from the dip in the silken fabric that accentuates your chest, and meets your eyes. you shift under his gaze, looking hopeful.

        “erm,” he clears his throat, brushing a strand of hair off of his forehead. “much better on, absolutely. very pretty, mouse.”

        “i thought so, too,” you agree, turning away and sweeping the curtain shut behind you. outside, you hear him swear under his breath and the sound of shuffling. your hands tremble a bit, your nerves getting the better of you. the complement, coupled with the bloody nickname. it’s enough to have your head spinning, wishing you could just grab him by the shoulders and kiss him silly. in your mind’s eye you see the almost bashful look in his eyes as he took in the sight of you, and you can’t focus on anything else. 

        after a few moments of struggling with the stupid buttons, unable to undo them, you hear his voice on the other side of the door.

        “okay in there?” he asks, closer now. the sound of his voice sends a jolt through you.

        “i’m all right,” you respond. “can’t get these bleeding buttons undone.”

        it’s quiet for a second. “need help, mouse?”

        you freeze. he sounds like he genuinely wants to help. you tell yourself he’s just a friend offering help to his friend. deep down, though, you’re hopeful. maybe your feelings are not as one-sided as you thought… 

        you struggle with the buttons for another second, then concede. you peek out of the changing room, ensuring there are no witnesses, before dragging him inside by the sleeve of his sweater. there’s a split second of tension, his gaze finding your half-unbuttoned blouse before it lands on your clearly flustered expression. 

        he laughs gently. your brows pull together.

        “what’s funny?” you ask, frowning. 

        “‘m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “let me just…” he trails, hanging up your discarded coat before his nimble fingers come to the buttons on your chest. goosebumps rise on your skin, and you try not to shiver. you follow his movements, his face screwed up in concentration as he fiddles with the tricky buttons.

        “i’m starting to rethink this purchase, considering it’s a nightmare getting off,” you say, pressing your lips together as his eyes flick up to your face. he smiles, amused. 

        “i think you should get it,” remus says.

        “you think so?”

        “yeah. especially if you’ll be needing my help taking it off more often.” you swear he winks at you, and your knees turn into jelly. has he really just said that? you blink for a second, one of your hands coming up to stop his fingers from unhooking the buttons.

        “moony…”

        “what?” he looks up at you, a teasing glint in his pale brown eyes. 

        your cheeks are pink, and your eyes dreamy as you look at him. his skin is warm where your hand is clasped around his, and despite his exhaustion, he’s never felt more alive.

        “i– sorry,” he says, “you just— you look very beautiful. and i think it would be a waste not to buy this blouse when it wouldn’t look nearly as good on anyone else.” his voice has gone quiet. he swallows before continuing. “sirius said... well, maybe he was lying, but he said you have feelings for me... and i just wanted you to know that i feel the same.”

        the butterflies in your stomach have turned to dragons, ravaging your insides. you’re pressed close to him, close enough to feel his breath fanning over your skin. inside your chest, your heart is beating fast enough that you’re sure it’s going to burst any second. with your free hand, you reach up and slowly trace the new scar on his neck, up to his face. you cup his cheek, your thumb swiping just beneath his clear eyes.

        “can i kiss you, mouse?” he asks, the question barely audible.

        “i would like that,” you say simply.

        there’s a split second of hesitation, before he’s pulling you into him. his lips are softer than you expected, gently parting to deepen the kiss. you tighten your grasp around his hand, and your other hand snakes around to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. he presses closer to you, very lightly, as if you’re delicate. you hum against his mouth, your head swimming as you finally force yourself to part ways. the blouse is still halfway undone, forgotten between the two of you. you’re drunk on his presence, wishing you were back in the castle so you could have him all to yourself, for as long as you’d like.

        “we–um, do you want to get out of here?” you suggest, pressing your lips together. the ghost of his mouth against yours is driving you crazy. you feel incomplete without him wrapped around you. you want him touching you, forever.

        “let’s get this off, quick,” he says, nodding. he struggles for another second with the pesky buttons, and then you’re slipping the blouse over your shoulders. remus adverts his gaze, and you can’t help but smile. such a gentleman. you adore him. 

        “is the coast clear?” you wonder, once you’re dressed and ready to go.

        “think we’re all right,” he says. he leads you to the front counter, and generously pays for your new blouse, which he admits he likes very much. 

        “in fact,” he says as you exit the shop, “i think you should wear it again tonight.”

        “really?” you ask, unable to mask the beaming smile on your face. 

        “mhmm,” he agrees, interlacing your fingers as he leads you down the street, in search of the rest of your friends. “actually, i think it’d be quite nice tomorrow night, too… and the night after that, and after that…” he trails, grinning as you smack him playfully on the arm. 

        it seems the rest of the group have been searching for you for a while, lily approaching with an exasperated look on her face.

        “where have you two been?” she asks. 

        “we’ve been looking everywhere,” adds marlene.

        “sorry–” you begin, but you’re cut off by sirius, who takes a step closer to peer at the two of you.

       “why have you got that look on your face, moony?” he narrows his gaze at remus, who shrugs. “and you–” he turns to you “--your lips are all swollen. oh! merlin, you’ve been off swapping saliva haven’t you?” he makes a very long, exaggerated gagging noise to which james offers loud laughter.

        “oh, shut up, sirius,” you mutter, shoving him as you begin your walk back to the castle. “you’re just mad that no one’s offered to swap saliva with you.”

[kiame-sama]

Dragon Transformation

This is a spin-off "what if?" scenario if the potion in chapter 49 of HAE AU was a Dragon one instead

Warnings: Spoilers for Chapter 49 of HAE AU, yandere, yandere behavior, possessive behavior, alternate path, Dragon, potion hijinks, dragon to dragon communication sounds and looks violent,

~~~~~~

"What is going on over here?"

The deep growl of Divus sounded out as the displeased Selkie came over to check on what may have taken place. Ace and Deuce didn't know how to respond to the Selkie, not wanting to get in trouble despite what took place. Grim, however, did not care about getting in trouble, he was concerned for you.

"Water-dog, help! Mama fell in!"

The frantic cries of the Kit made Divus tense in fury as he quickly reached in to pull his precious Pup out of the tilted cauldron. His fingers brushed against the edge of a Uniform's fabric, gripping it and yanking back to pull the soft Human from the violet potion. What emerged from that potion was not Human.

Barely able to fit through the mouth of the cauldron was a scale covered beast that certainly did not look pleased. From a mouth of razor sharp teeth came a deep reptilian hiss of annoyance. Leathery wings flopped and wetly slapped the cobblestone of the Greenhouse as the Dragon wearing a familiar collar snarled at the pair of goats.

Though your scent had changed drastically, it was obviously still you despite your change in appearance and form. Divus was quick to release his hold on your thick Dragon tail and take several startled steps away from you. You may still be his Pup in almost every way, but he was not familiar with handling Dragons of any kind.

Similarly, you were not familiar with the form of a Dragon or how to really function as a Dragon. Every time you turned, your tail slammed into the toppled large cauldron and sent it rolling away. Your wings even managed to smack the two Goats that caused this problem and sent them back into the plants of the Greenhouse.

The sound of several footsteps drew your attention as a familiar group of Housewardens were quickly approaching. Though you recognized them and recognized they were likely here to help, something in your new reptilian brain said they were threats. A deep percussive snarling sound left your throat as you instinctually fled, snout easily scooping up Grim and carefully holding him in your elongated maw as you tried to lumber away.

You didn't make it very far.

Instead of fleeing deeper into the Greenhouse, a heavy weight suddenly pinned you to the cobblestone and kept you from moving. Long fangs met the back of your neck and held your head to the ground as you squealed in defiance. Despite your distress, a large part of your brain needed to protect the soft Kit you carried in your jaws from this new threat.

"Relax, my precious Treasure."

The low rumble of a familiar voice hummed in your mind, the series of growls and rumbling vocalizations translating in your mind. Slowly, the heavy weight above you released your neck and allowed you to calm yourself. The figure remained above you until you had relaxed before slowly dismounting from where he had been over your body.

Standing there- in all of his regal glory- was Malleus Draconia in his full Draconic form. He was a bigger Dragon than you by far and his green eyes smoldered in his sockets as he stared at you with an appraising look. His instincts were screaming to claim you however possible, seeing you- his most beloved Treasure- as a Dragon only fueled his desire tenfold. Malleus could barely contain his need to mount you again and keep you beneath him as he fought to remain calm.

Meanwhile, you gently set Grim down in your claws, the Kit somewhat shell-shocked by being grabbed so suddenly. He clearly still recognized you despite the surprise you gave him as he looked up at you with his lopsided stare. This little Kit was your Treasure and you were not going to part with him easily.

"Mama?"

A low crooning sound left your throat as you bowed your head to nuzzle against his soft fur. He was quick to purr in response and return the affection you gave him as he held your scaled face with his little paws. This little bundle of fur was your Kit, your Hoard, and you would not let anyone take him from you.

"(Y/n)," Malleus rumbled out a low hiss, "I will help you find your other form, but I will request several of your scales in repayment for my assistance. It seems- for however long that potion lasts- you are like me, a Dragon. I will not lie and tell you it will be an easy adjustment, but I will happily aid you in navigating that adjustment."

"... The Kit is mine."

"I am aware Grim is your Kit, yes. If it pleases you, I am also quite happy to share my Hoard with you as well. Lilia is quite the treasure on his own, and I know Silver will adore you regardless. You may find Sebek frustrating in his hovering, but he is certainly no common jewel."

You considered this offer, something about how he framed the other Hoard members as trinkets and jewels pleasing your possessive brain. He was right. His Hoard was full of treasure, and you wanted that treasure for yourself. The Dragon himself was quite the catch of obsidian, emerald, and amethysts prime for the claiming.

Your brain responded before you did as you lumbered over to him, careful to not harm little Grim, who had used his tiny claws to climb up between your wings. You found yourself pressing your nose along the neck of the larger Dragon, sniffing the intense and masculine scent that came from him while your own possession-driven brain toyed with his offer. It was an agreeable one, but you didn't wish to keep it at simply claiming his Hoard for yourself. You wanted the Dragon in your Hoard as well.

Malleus allowed your cautious exploration of his form, letting you mouth at his scales and nip towards his jaw. Dragons were not typically gentle when it came to sizing up other Dragons. Eventually, you seemed satisfied with your slow assessment of him and rest your neck over his. He allowed you to push his head and body down before you pulled yourself onto his back, laying over him as he had done to you.

"... Mine."

Your purr was a deep one as you instinctually rubbed your chin into the top of Malleus' head. The larger Dragon was content to tolerate your behavior and seemed keen to encourage it as he purred back to you. Even when you bit his neck in an unbridled need to claim, he allowed you to pull at his scales and hold him down. When your brain was satisfied with claiming the much larger Dragon, you slid from his back and he rose to greet you.

From the outside, this dance of Dragons was a violent one of teeth and claws. The deep snarls and percussive guttural vocalizations paired with reptilian hissing sounded like an argument. Fangs gnashing and biting at one another paired with clear dominance displays of pinning the other only worried the others to what kind of aggression you and Malleus were showing to one another.

"Should we... Should we step in and stop them?"

Azul worriedly glanced to Lilia, seeing the little Bat grinning ear-to-ear with excitement. The Cecaelia didn't know if he could honestly stop this violent dance without forfeiting his own life, so he had to look to the elder Fae for guidance. Lilia simply shook his head.

"No need! They're already getting along wonderfully!"

"You call that 'getting along'? They look like they're fighting!"

Leona hissed, stress clear in his voice and actions as yet another snarl was exchanged between the two Dragons. To him, it looked like a genuine fight despite no wounds being inflicted. The teeth in the neck was certainly hard to see as anything other than aggression.... Or perhaps a mating ritual.

"Nonsense! Dragons are rough, that is just their nature. They are greeting one another and establishing common territory. If it was a genuine fight, you would know. Trust me on that."

As the two seemed to find common ground, the other Housewardens looked to Lilia for details. It was clear the Bat Fae knew more than he was letting on as he seemed to actually understand what was being said between the two beasts. Dragon was not a common tongue others understood as it even transcended Fae communication. Still, Lilia lived his life as a Hoard member to rather powerful Dragons, and he understood the vocalizations better than others from his years of experience.

"How wonderful! They have come to an agreement about Hoard sharing and are willing to be peaceful in their shared territory."

The Bat Fae then turned to look at Divus who was still staring incredulously at the pair of beasts.

"I suggest she take residence in Diasomnia for the time being. It is equipped to handle Dragons and is sturdy enough to withstand their temper tantrums."

"If you say so..."

[thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos]

Bayverse Thoughts sfw

You answer your phone to the sound of Leo’s hushed, pained voice coming over the receiver.

“I’m coming over.”

“Ah- what?”

You’re stunned completely for a moment at the thought that he’s finally, maybe actually going to -

And that’s when you hear it.

Mikey’s off key singing cuts through from the other side of the phone, crooning a rendition of Tom Jones’ What’s New Pussycat. You can hear his brother’s shouts as Mikey continues, laughing hysterically through the words as loud crashes follow.

Leo groans quietly, and you can picture him rubbing the bridge of his snout. “Help me.”

With a soft chuckle you rise from your spot on the couch, moving to grab the menu from his favorite Chinese restaurant off its clipped magnet on your fridge.

“I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

Laughing at myself as I wrote Mikey smut on discord today and then give tumblr this lil goofy thing

Taggin: @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @the-cauldron-witch @gornackeaterofworlds @xnorthstar3x @zombiesnips-blog @4evrdreamin5 @pheradream-15 @iridescentflamingo @scholastic-dragon @redsrooftopprincess

[horizontwinflames]

Horizon AU: Twin Flames - Isaac (Zero Dawn Act) final concept/design.

*texts' transcriptions under the cut after the images*

REPOST, EDIT/USE OR FEED MY ART TO AI ISN'T ALLOWED

Read about Aloy, Beta and Elisabet in this AU [here]

omg... I thought I would never finish this... BUT YAY! Here it is finally! Isaac's final design and concepts!

This AU has an ongoing fanfic! You can read on Ao3: [LINK]

Text transcription:

First image:

Isaac - Roughly 3.2m/10.4' -Unknown age (probably just a few months).

Isaac is an original machine character in this alternative universe.

Isaac is the loyal machine companion of the Sobeck family, serving as both a traveling and battle mount. The sisters unintentionally created him while trying to figure out a way to increase the machine override time. The process they applied in the -back then- simple Watcher rebooted their AI and programming back to its essential functions and disconnected them from their original master, HEPHAESTUS. Once he received his name from Beta, the three family members became his new masters, which he unthinkingly obey to.

Due to his blank AI, Isaac is developing his own sentience and personality by absorbing his masters’ traits and behaviors and learning their morals and concepts. He also downloaded all of the sisters’ Focuses’ data to have some initial communication and works as a backup, so he only knows what they know.

He can speak with anyone with a Focus through its text-to-speech function by sending text messages to them - thus, people who don’t have a Focus only hear his Watcher noises. He can still communicate with other machines normally, so he also works as an information gatherer to help in missions and studies.

Second image:

Once a simple Watcher, now a super advanced mount and best friend of the Sobeck family.

Isaac's customizable body can adapt him to travel in any terrain, even underwater. He's able to reach high speeds at a low energy and heating cost - he's also lighter than it seems. His sleek, almost snake-ish, body shape makes maneuvering more dynamic for his rider.

His propulsors give him the ability to do long leaps and high jumps, helping the sisters get to places they wouldn't be able to reach by themselves. But a repetitive use of said skills in a short timespan can drain his energy and overheat him quickly.

Like his owners, he's not adept at using one single type of weapon. Isaac's tail ranged weapons and armor can be changed to better adapt to the situation. However, he hasn't developed efficient battle techniques yet, as he's still learning with the Sobecks. Note that his Sawtooth's sabers aren't intended to be used to fight but to climb and carry objects.

Melee Tail Weapons: Thunderjaw's tail, Stalker's tail blade, Stormbird's tail (also used to swim), Frostclaw's front paws.

Ranged Weapons: Thunderjaw's Disk Launcher, Ravager's Cannon, Scorcher's Mine Launcher, Bellowback's Snout.

Armors: Nora (stealth), Carja (speed), Oseran (tank), Banuk (damage), Old World (mixed).

Isaac is a mount adapted for two people: One is the rider, and the other is the cannoneer. He syncs with them through their Focuses, so his responses to their commands are more instantaneous. The rider directs Isaac where to go and when and how to use the tail weapon. Meanwhile, the cannoneer controls the ranged weapons and propulsors.

Only those who have a Focus can see his holographic face. The images shown are a collection of emojis the sisters found in Old World Ruins (which they update when they find more). His three "horns" also can move solemnly to make him more expressive.

Being composed of many different machine parts makes Isaac the first machine chimera to exist - still keeping the base shape of a Watcher, but huge. He was customized by the Sobecks little by little through the Cauldrons they visited on their first journey.

He can still stretch his neck like a Watcher can normally do.

His eye received enhancements to better aid the Sobecks in their daily life and journeys - such as infrared, thermic, and ultrasound visions.

He also has in his head a sound device to play audio files, such as music from the Old World, and a holoprojector.

[sweetbonniebel]

Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

Ten

Daemon x reader

Synopsis: A time skip!

Masterlist <-previous , next->

122 AC Blackfyre, Stepstones

"You must push your highness!" The midwife exclaimed looking between your legs.

"I know I have to fucking push!" You screamed in anger as you crushed your husbands hand in pain.

"I can see the head!" Annora said patting down your forehead. You groaned as you felt another contraction, you screamed in pain as you pushed with all your might.

The screeches of Vermithor were heard through the island as he circled the castle sensing your pain.

"Fuck!" You screamed squeezing your muscles to deliver the child. The cries of a babe were heard, you sighed in relief thanking that the hardest part was over.

"A healthy boy your highness!" Annora said happily, the midwife cut the cord and handed you the kicking babe.

"Another boy?" You whispered pressing your son against your breast.

"You did great, my love." Daemon said kissing your sweaty forehead. "What shall we name him?"

The newborn babe opened his large eyes to reveal one violet eye one green. "Aerion" You said seeing the wisps of silver gold hair on his little head

"A fine name your highness." Maester Roland approved as he watched the newborn prince. The chambers were opened, Rhaenyra, Laenor and their children entered followed by your children Darren, Nymor, Baelon and Vhaenor, Aegon entered last.

"A boy?" Rhaenyra asked glancing at the babe you nodded handing her the infant.

"It seems that the gods do not want me to have daughters" You laughed as your sons curiously watched the babe. Baelon four sat at your side and Vhaenor two, crawled into Daemon's lap.

The realm rejoiced at the news of another prince named Aerion Targaryen, your third child with Daemon.

As soon as your legs allowed you, you took your sons to the Dragonbone where the dragons Vermithor, Silverwing, Caraxes, Moondancer and Sunfyre resided. Aerion in bundles slept comfortably in your arms as his brothers followed you. The dragon keepers welcomed you and your children with open arms.

"The news are great your highness." Joqar the elder dragon keeper said.

"What is it Joqar?" You asked

"Silverwing has laid a clutch of eggs! Five big eggs!" He said happily.

"Where is she?" You asked and searched for Silverwing and your bonded dragon that often coiled with the silver she-dragon.

You limped towards the bronze fury with Aerion in your arms, the dragon expelled a fume of smoke as he examined the babe. Silverwing laid beside him. You knew that Vermithor fathered the eggs that Silverwing laid, it was as if on instinct. Rhaena must be very proud.

"You have laid eggs for my sons..." You whispered pressing your forehead against his scaly snout. "Thank you" The dragon purred, Aerion grabbed one of Vermithor's horns and laughed gleefully.

"Where are the eggs?" You asked the elder dragonkeeper as you left the caves with your sons, they brought the eggs in a cauldron filled with hot rocks. Red with spare orange scales, green with purple swirls, white with gold shimmer, a pink one with black streaks, one of the colour of rust covered in black spots. "Call for Rhaena" You ordered knowing that the eggs belonged to Rhaena's dragon. Your sons observed the eggs curiously.

"Step-mother!" Rhaena said gleefully jumping from her horse. You kissed her dreaded hair and ushered her in the direction where the eggs resided.

"Silverwing has laid a clutch of eggs" You said showing her Silverwing's and Vermithor's clutch. She stared with sparkles in her eyes at the various eggs. "With your permission I would like to give them to your brothers."

"Of course, I assume the eggs are also Vermithor's. Therefore they also belong to you, step-mother." Rhaena said.

"That is very kind of you, Rhaena." You answered.

"Rhae!" Baelon pulled his half-sisters skirts, taking her attention.

"What is it?" She kneeled next to the four year old.

"Can I have egg?" He babbled pointing his little hand at the cauldron. The girl smiled and picked him up letting him see the eggs.

"Go on love, which one?" You caressed Baelon's silver hair. Your son stayed silent for a moment, observing the scaly objects. He pointed at the green egg, you kissed his chubby cheek.

"A fine egg Baelon." Rhaena said.

The dragon keepers transferred the green and purple egg to another bassinet.

"Place it in the princes room." You ordered the Dragonkeeper. "Come along now, we have to tell your father the good news."

"What of the other four?" Your step-daughter asked.

"They will Vhaenor's, Aerion's and any of the future children I might have." You responded glancing at the eggs before you. "Rhaena, which one should be Vhaenor's?"

She hummed and pointed at the red egg, you nodded. The infant in your arms begun to fuss, Aerion gurgled displeased.

"I think he is angry we forgot about him." You chuckled and swayed the babe in your arms. The white and gold egg called to you, you gently placed your palm on it and glanced at your son. A small smile made its way on his red face. "This one will be for Aerion."

...

"I have heard the news! Five eggs! Five!" Daemon exclaimed happily as he entered the nursery, your sons played on the floor, their eggs in their cradles.

"Silverwing and Vermithor laid them for our children." You spoke as your husband kissed your lips and placed a kiss upon little Aerion's blonde wisps of hair.

"My mother Alyssa had the same eyes as our son." Daemon said caressing Aerion's hair and looking at his round face and eyes. He moved to his second son and picked him up.

"Hm." Daemon hummed and placed Vhaenor in his cradle along with the red and orange egg. His large palm grazed the scaly surface. "It is hot."

"It shall hatch soon then." You answered walking towards the crib that belonged to Aerion, his own white egg with golden streaks laid comfortably against the pillows. As you placed your son he immediately clutched onto the egg. You watched him with happiness spread on your features.

"What of the other eggs?" Daemon asked.

"They are in Dragonbone, the keepers are taking care of them." You answered, your husband pressed his forehead against yours.

"Do you think they'll hatch?" He questioned.

"I think they will, sooner or later."

...

"Mother!" Baelon ran into your chambers a wide grin on his chubby cheeks, he jumped on the bed startling you and waking you up from slumber.

"Baelon it is night, whatever it is can wait until sunrise." You said turning in your bed hoping your son will let you sleep. Aerion taking much of your strength these days.

"No mama! Egg!" Vhaenor appeared and exclaimed jumping onto his father who slept soundly on your left.

"What of the eggs?" Daemon awoke and asked mindlessly his son.

"Dragon!" Baelon's words awoke you from your slumber for good, your husband took Vhaenor into his arms and rushed to his nursery.

Before opening the doors you could hear the familiar screeching of newly hatched dragons. Vhaenor bounced excitedly in his fathers arms as you enter the nursery.

Three baby dragons flied through the chambers knocking off the candles, books and toys of the shelves. Vhaenor freed himself of his father's grip and the red dragon landed in his arms. Your husband stared at you in amusement. Baelon stood next to you and observed his younger brothers.

Vhaenor sat on the carpet as he stared at the ceiling as his bonded dragon circled above. A small red dragon with membranes and horns of a lighter red colour. Aerion giggled as his own white dragon with a golden belly chirped and screeched above him. Another one, landed on Baelon's head chirping happily.

"God's be good." You whispered to yourself seeing the three new dragons wreak havoc in the nursery.

"Can I name?" Baelon asked with his green dragon that possessed purple eyes. The little green creature sat on his shoulder staring into your eyes.

"It is your dragon, it is only fitting." You whispered kneeling next to your son.

"Aegarax!" He said proudly, the red lizard jumped from Baelon to you. It purred and chafed himself on you, drowning you in his scent.

"Creator of the first dragon.. A great name dearest." You said, gently touching Aegarax. He screeched but let you pet his snout.

"What of the other two?" Daemon asked glancing at the remaining hatchlings.

"Aerion what do you think?" You asked your four month old son he chortled and clapped his hands. Too young to understand.

"Perhaps we should wait until he is old enough to name it himself" Daemon said pressing his hand against the white and gold hatchling.

You wondered if the rest of the eggs hatched, if three already did it is most likely.

"We shall take them to Dragonbone." You husband said, your brows furrowed.

"No." You denied Daemons plan. "Until they are small enough, they will stay here with their bonded riders."

Your son's cheered and occupied themselves with their new companions.

...

You laid in your bed cradling Aerion to your breast, his hatchling chirped happily as he sat on your shoulder. Darren entered your chambers a sword in hand.

"Good morrow mother." He approached and pressed a kiss to you cheek and gently ruffled Aerion's hair. Darren grew quickly, at two and ten he was almost your height.

"How was your training?" You asked patting the empty space next to you.

"Daemon is ruthless." He answered "But a good teacher."

You chuckled at your son's opinion on his step-father.

"And where is Aegon, you have lessons together." You inquired. Your nephew and son were attached at the hip, they shared lessons, meals and their free time.

"He went to the Dragonbone with Baelon." Darren mused sinking his teeth in a fig.

"You didn't want to accompany them? I remember how eager you were to visit Vermithor with me." Your youngest son unlatched from your breast and chortled.

"That was back home, mother. Now not a day goes by where I don't see a dragon." The violet eyed boy answered.

"That is true, I suppose... But now I wish to go the Dragonbone and you and your siblings will accompany me." You ordered fixing your dress and swaddling Aerion, the baby dragon refused to leave his tiny humans side.

Darren took his youngest sibling from your arms, cooing at the happy baby. Nymor was in the training grounds practicing with your husband, Vhaenor was playing with wooden soldiers and dragons as Annora watched over him.

"Husband, I must steal my son away from his training." You approached Daemon, he has barely broken a sweat. Dressed in black pants and a red shirt he looked quite handsome.

"Whatever for, dear wife? I cannot simply let our son end his training early because of your whim." He answered, his tone filled with jest. You chuckled and pressed your lips together.

"I am taking our children to the Dragonbone, it seems that Aegon has already kidnapped our eldest."

"I shall join you then."

...

The two unbonded hatchlings sreeched circling their scaly siblings. The tall ceiling of the volcano allowed them to fly freely.

You saw as Aegon held Baelon in his arms, introducing him to Sunfyre.

"Kidnapping a prince is a grave crime, Aegon." You jested approaching the ten and five year old boy.

"Mother!" Baelon wiggled in Aegon's grasp extending his arms towards you.

"I am also a prince, therefore not a crime." He countered and leaned into your touch as you pressed a kiss to his braided hair.

"How is Sunfyre doing?" You asked glancing at the dragon before you.

"Quite well, however the hatchings like to pick on him and he gets irritated." You laughed and Sunfyre screeched unhappily.

You left your children in the care of your husband, walking into the depths of the volcano. The familiar path that led you to your mount was engraved in your mind.

The bronze fury laid comfortably in his lair, spare bonzes scattered though the space. You approached the old dragon, he huffed as he turned to face you. He blew smoke from his nostrils, the smell of sulphur and coal filled your senses.

"Hello, old boy." You said and scratched the scales under his bull like jaw, he leaned into your touch and purred. "I am sorry we have not flown in a while, being a mother is tiresome." You said and sat leaning on his ribs. His tails wrapped itself around you, protecting your form. You begun the hum and old nursery rhyme, the heat of his scales brought comfort to your sore body.

So many things changed since your wedding with Daemon, you bore three children Baelon, Vhaenar and Aerion. The Stepstones became your new home, castle Bloodfyre was nearly finished thanks to dragon fire. Your sons Derran and Nymor travelled between Sunspear and Bloodstone as they wished. Baela and Rhaena lived with you, sometimes visiting Driftmark on Moondancer and Silverwing. Rhaenyra lived with her children and court on Dragonstone, sometimes visiting on Syrax.

Aegon was turning six and ten soon, which meant he could return to King's Landing, if he wished. You didn't know if you could let him go after so long. He was like your son and Derran wouldn't bear it if he left.

"What are you thinking about?" Aegon entered the cave. You stared at him with fondness in your eyes.

„I was thinking about you.” You answered patting the floor next to you for Aegon to sit.

„Me?” The Prince curiously shot back „Have I done something?”

„No,no Aegon. You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just that you are turning into a man soon.”

„So?”

„It means that you will have to return to King’s Landing.” You barely said the words, your throat closing up.

„I- I don’t have to, right?”

„Your mother will except you to come ba-„

„She’s not my mother!” He raised his voice „You have raised me for the past decade, I don’t have any ties with that woman.”

„Aegon, as much as I and Derran want you here there are some things I cannot control. Your wardship is coming to an end and there is not much I can do. Especially since your grandsire is now hand.”

„So what? You’re the King’s sister.”

„And you’re his son.”

„I don’t want to go.”

„I know Aegon.” You wrapped your arms around his body. Bringing him some comfort. „If you wish I can go with you to King’s Landing. I can stay with you for some time. It has been a while since I saw my brother.”

„I would like that.”

…

„Your highness!” Maester Roland clutched his grey robes as he approached you.

„What is it?” You questioned turning around.

„A letter from princess Rhaenyra.” He handed you to scroll, the black wax of the Targaryen sigil bonded the parchment. You broke the seal and quickly read the letter.

Laenor Velaryon is dead.

You slapped your hand on your mouth as you read the news. Maester Roland stared with worry etched on his aged features.

„Your highness, are you all right?” He questioned.

„I am all right, Roland.” You answered „My niece’s husband is dead. There is to be a funereal on Driftmark.”

„I am very sorry to hear that.”

„I must find my husband, if you’ll excuse me.” You said and turned on your heel, searching for Daemon.

You entered the nursery, your children and husband playing with wooden soldier on the ground.

„Mommy!” Your sons abandoned their toys and ran into your skirts.

„Hello, my loves.” You kissed both of their heads „Go back to playing, I need to borrow your father.”

Baelon and Vhaenor nodded their little heads and resumed playing, their hatchlings squabbling with themselves.

„What has happened, my love?” Daemon questioned, standing up from the ground. He placed his palms on your hips and pressing a kiss to your lips.

„Laenor Velaryon is dead.”

He raised his thin silver brows.

„How?”

„Killed in Spicetown by his paramour.” You replied leaning into his touch „We shall fly to Driftmark at once.”

…

It is rather uncommon for a dragon to lay as much as five eggs at once. Not including the fact that all of the eggs hatched. The three princes bonded with the hatchling immediately, it is knows for dragons to be protective and aggressive for their riders. That rule did not apply to Princess y/n, every dragon she met has never dared to attack her. - From the dragon bringer by the feather and quill of Grand Maester Roland.

For anyone confused here are the ages:

Derran 14 Nymor 12

Baelon 4 Vhaenar 2 Aerion four months

Baela 14 Rhaena 14

Jace 13 Luke 11 Joffrey 6

Aegon 16 Helaena 15 Aemond 14

[viktoriaashleyyx]

Bad Kitty

Cannon adjacent (I didn't read ACOFAS, I'm piecing together what I know) Tamcien one-shot following the Solstice party.

The one is a little Tamlin critical, this follows Lucien mainly and him struggling with finding his place. 3rd person POV.

No tw, mostly angst (?) But Tam is in beast form for all of this. Still cute though.

EDIT: It has been brought to my attention that this needs a TW: alcohol. Lucien reaches for the bottle when depressed. Please always feel free to lmk when I miss a trigger and I will correct it ❤️

A taglist no one asked for: @yaralulu @samhatch @almostferaldaydreamer @historygirl93 @shi-daisy @matrixsss but it's yalls fault this exists.

Word count: 1260

After the particularly torturous Solstice party at Feyre’s new River house, Lucien settled into the guest bedroom and poured himself a shot of the bourbon left out on the dresser. As he downed the shot he struggled with his feelings of hopelessness and uncertainty. Elain didn’t even look at me, Feyre only spoke to belittle me, what am I even doing here? I’m not wanted here. With the door locked behind him, he sat on the edge of the large guest bed and buried his face in his hands. Cauldron, where do I belong? 

Considering his strained relationship with Tamlin, inability to return to Autumn, to the Gods I just want my Moms embrace right now, the only companionship he found was in his human friends, Vassa and Jurian. It wasn’t sustainable, they had mere decades at best, such a short time for an immortal like himself. He took another shot and undressed himself to climb into bed, he wanted nothing more than for this day to be over. 

But sleep didn't find him. He tossed and turned and tried to kill the bad thoughts as they slipped through but nothing worked. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he felt something along the bond. Elain? His hope made him jump up, anything from the bond grabbed his attention quickly. Every sense he had perked up, trying to decipher what was being communicated. Arousal. She was sharing an intimate moment with that illyrian brute. “Fuck this, nope. I'm not staying here.” Lucien mumbled audibly, as he shot out of bed and pulled his clothes on. He didn’t yet know where he was going, just anywhere but here. He grabbed the few things he brought with him and winnowed away, far. 

He appeared in front of the Spring Court manor. It was dilapidated and ransacked but still better than whatever-the-fuck was going on at the River house. With Tamlin in his pissy tantrum mood it was likely the Manor was empty anyway. 

Lucien pulled out his key and headed towards the front door, and chuckled as the door fell right off its hinges with the slightest push. As he entered the foyer he was met with familiar glowing green eyes and a threatening growl. Lucien was exhausted and unfazed. He took one of the papers he was holding under his arm, rolled it up and smacked it against Tamlin’s snout. “I'm not in the mood, Tam. We can fight again in the morning, right now I just want to sleep.” Lucien blearily mumbled. Tamlin was shocked by the display, stunned even, but he slowly moved out of the way and Lucien returned to his old room. 

Tamlin felt terrible about their earlier fight, he missed Lucien. As everything fell, his entire court reduced to ruin, it was losing Lucien that hurt him the most. His best friend. Centuries of banter, hell and heartbreak, they had survived countless curses, battles, and betrayals together and it was all destroyed within a year. Lucien was truly his best friend, if only Tamlin could muster the strength to say that out loud.

Tamlin creeped up the stairs behind Lucien and found him in his room, brushing the debris off his bed. With the little magic Tamlin had left, he waved his paw and restored Lucien's room to pristine condition. Lucien looked back at Tamlin and gave him a quick thankful nod before shutting the door and climbing into bed. Tamlin curled up on the floor outside, guarding Lucien's door, he couldn’t take back what happened earlier, but he could still protect him from any further harm. 

♥♥♥♥♥

The next morning, Lucien began sorting through his things, recalling old memories and trying to decide what to do next. The obvious move was to Vassa and Jurian, they were always welcoming, but the human lands didn’t truly feel like home. Spring was his home. Autumn used to be. Was this another time where he would have to adjust and let his old life die? Or, could he and Tamlin possibly make it work? Did he want to keep putting in the effort to clean up Tamlins mess, with the solid possibility that Tamlin wouldn’t help? He knew Tamlin was broken, most of it his own fault, but he knew Tamlin was good at heart. He knew Tamlin better than anyone else. Emotionally stunted? Yes, Evil? No. But on the other hand, Lucien was tired. So, tired. Lucien needed someone to care for him too. 

As Lucien opened his door he found Tamlin still asleep in beast form, snoring loudly. Lucien had grown to find Tam quite adorable this way. He smiled to himself, sat down next to the big kitty and began stroking the fur on his chest, softly. Lucien silently mourned the friendship they once had, could they get it back? 

Tamlin woke from the first restful sleep he had in months, to Lucien's soft touch. He nuzzled his big beastly head into Lucien's lap and a tear or two fell from Lucien's eyes. Lucien smiled through the tears looking down at the only family he’d ever truly had. “We’re a fucking mess, aren’t we?” he chuckled to Tamlin. Tamlin was just happy to have Lucien home. Everything else could be figured out later, but they were together now. Tamlin rolled onto his back and Lucien scratched his belly. 

♥♥♥♥♥

Lucien began accessing the damage while Tamlin zoomed around he manor, bouncing and happy like a giant dog. He would bring Lucien little trinkets he remembered made Lucien happy. A doll, given to Lucien by a Spring child a century ago on the equinox festival, a tooth harvested from the corpse of the first Naga Lucien killed after Tamlin took him in, and a framed painting of the Tulip fields Lucien had dreamed of visiting on the continent. Lucien held each one as presented to him while Tamlin looked up at him hoping to catch every smile that graced Lucien's still somber face. Tamlin’s tail wagged.   

“You know, at some point, you are going to have to shift back into a fae and help me clean up this mess if I am going to stay.” Lucien scolded lightly, Stay. He's considering staying, the thought alone, just the possibility made Tamlin’s heart happy. There’s a chance he will get his best friend back!    

Lucien slowly strolled over to the hidden cupboard where Tamlin kept the good wine. Tamlin watched him intensely. Lucien pulled out a bottle of Tamlins favorite wine and an unbroken glass and poured him some. Tamlin narrowed his eyes slightly, he hadn’t had wine since before the war, and here Lucien was, taunting him with it. Lucien fell back into the couch setting the bottle on the floor next to him, glass in the other hand, he knew what he was doing. 

Just a sniff, Tamlin thought, entranced by just the thought of the sweet red wine. He crept closer to Lucien, and slowly lifted his nose to Lucien's glass, but Lucien grabbed him by the snout and pushed him away. “I don’t share wine with beasts.” Lucien taunted.  

Tamlin pouted, he wasn’t yet ready to turn back into a fae, but Lucien sure was making a good case for it. Tamlin strolled to the other side of the couch and placed his paws on the soft velvet. A big kitty stretch, with his claws out in protest. It tore through the fabric and Lucien lost it.

“I love you but for the LOVE OF THE MOTHER STOP SCRATCHING UP THE FURNITURE.” 

[pjo-tvs-version]

Okay so, I wrote a fanfic for the first time! It's Annabeth's pov of the Mt. St. Helens kiss!

You kiss me and it stops time

The air was hot and my hands were greasy from the sweat and grime of Mt. St. Helens. I sat, invisible obviously, trying to decipher what exactly those dog faced stubby footed and half flippered beings were doing. Telekhines, I was sure was the name of these creatures, were hammering something that looked like a blade. As I paid a little more attention, there was a huge container with a glistening liquid. I wondered what it was just when I heard someone shouting “Annabeth” and the sound of running footsteps.

Seaweed Brain of course it has to be. From the look on his face and the desperation in his voice, I figured out that something most probably had gone terribly wrong. Nothing surprising though, I got used to it after the quest for Zeus’ lightning bolt. It was one of the first few things a demigod learns. On a mission everytime everything goes wrong. A sense of irritation arose in me. Why was Percy being an idiot by just giving away our presence?

In an attempt to shut him up, I clamped his mouth with one hand and tackled him with the other hand behind the huge cauldron. All this time I forgot that I was actually invisible so I deduced that Percy most probably would have been a little shocked when an invisible being just wrestled him. He reached up, trying to find my Yankees cap most probably to find me. That was an extremely dumb thing for him to do- giving away both of us. As he removed my cap, I shimmered into existence no doubt with a scowl adorning on my face. How can this boy be this stupid?

“We're going to have company,” Percy said. He breathlessly summarised his side of the story. The Telekhines were blabbering through their snouts. We peeked over the cauldron. In the centre of the platform stood four sea demons, but these were fully grown, at least eight feet tall. Their black skin glistened in the firelight as they worked, sparks flying as they took turns hammering on a long piece of glowing hot metal.

“The blade is almost complete,” one said. “It needs another cooling in blood to fuse the metals.” “Aye,” a second said. “It shall be even sharper than before.”

“What is it?” Percy whispered. I shook my head. “They keep talking about fusing metals. I wonder—” I was thinking out loud, a distant myth tugging in my memory. “They were talking about the greatest Titan weapon,” Percy said. “And they…they said they made my father’s trident.”

Then it clicked. Of course I remembered exactly what I read about them. “The Telekhines betrayed the gods,” I said. “They were practising dark magic. I don’t know what, exactly, but Zeus banished them to Tartarus.” “With Kronos,” Percy added. A chill suddenly entered into the air amidst the heat of the forge at the name of The Lord of Time. I nodded my head, “We have to get out-.”

No sooner had I even uttered the obvious than the door to the classroom exploded and young Telekhines came pouring out. They stumbled over each other, trying to figure out which way to charge. We were in serious danger now because there were too many for me and Percy to take down. A familiar desperation was creeping in me when Percy shouted “Put your cap back on, Get out.” Just then I realised what he was intending to do - giving me a chance to escape by sacrificing himself. Curse his fatal flaw of loyalty.

“I’ve got a plan. I’ll distract them. You can use the metal spider—maybe it’ll lead you back to Hephaestus. You have to tell him what’s going on.” he tried to reassure me.

A plan? With the fear in his sea green eyes and lines of his forehead I was sure that it was a plain lie. I was not going to have any of this. How could he expect me to just leave him like that? Helplessly, I tried to knock some sense into his head of kelp.

“But you’ll be killed!” “I’ll be fine. Besides, we’ve got no choice.” Percy replied, pushing me. I glared at him, the same glare I used to win any argument against him. Each time I won and he backed down. But as I stared at his face, I was met with a determined pair of eyes daring me. As I miserably understand the odds of the mess we were in, curse my Athena heritage for that. I realise that Percy’s “plan” is the only option possible. Someone has to get to Hephaestus to tell him about the illegal residents of his forge. I registered his face. I stared into his sea green eyes, reflecting the ocean and his jet black tousled hair.

My feelings overwhelm me and I hear Janus’ foreboding words “Choose, Annabeth.” I guess because of literally everything around me and especially the beautiful face in front of me,I did something so impulsive that I couldn't even believe I did it. Before I even knew what I was doing, I grabbed Percy’s shirt and leaned forward. His breath hitched and our lips met. The heat, grime, sweat and even those wretched Telekhines disappeared for a moment. Our eyelids fluttered against each other and my eyes were shut. I pressed against his lips and oh gods was I melting.

I tried to put everything I didn't say to him, everything I ever wanted to say to him in thatone kiss. Please don’t die now because of me, please don’t die because of the Great Prophecy.His lips were salty and I ran my hands through his messy hair.

I pulled away, knowing that I should not be endangering our lives because of my unreciprocated feelings. He didn't do anything and I had a feeling that what I did was something he perhaps wouldn't have appreciated. Why, oh why, does a little part of me imagine that he too leaned in just at the second I pulled away? I was blushing for sure and my cheeks were heating up. I pulled up my invisibility cap to shield myself from the embarrassment.

“Be careful Seaweed Brain” I managed to choke out the words and I ran. But not without looking back to see his face wide open, gaping as in amazement. It lit a little glimmer of hope in me. Maybe, just maybe, he liked me too.

The metal spider was bolting into the tunnels. I sped behind it as I could afford to lose it from my sight. My heart was a bag of jumbled emotions and my brain was overwhelmed by my many thoughts. I continue to sprint, tears running down my cheeks knowing that I sealed Percy’s fate. It was my fault that I took him in this quest knowing the prophecy’s last line. It was my fault that I left him with the Telekhines knowing that they would kill him. However I hug a little tiny string of hope that he will survive now and beyond the age of sixteen too.

Just then I hear a scream. A horrible, reverberant, bloodcurdling scream. Percy’s pain and desperation was very much present and that one terrifying scream caused that little string to tear. Percy would die because of me. He would leave me as everyone has, leave me all on my own. I forced myself to run behind the spider even when my knees threatened to crash to the ground. I couldn't let Percy’s sacrifice go to waste. I continue running into the baleful labyrinth, engulfing me with its darkness.

Hope you enjoyed! It is my first fic so please be gentle. I couldn't have done it without @helpallthenamesaretakenblog assurances and @percabethlvr editing! Positive criticism is very much appreciated. The title is from the song, Say Don't Go by none other than Taylor Swift. Thank you so much!!! ❤❤❤

Also on AO3: You kiss me and it stops time

[pagan-stitches]

Midwinter/Koleda/Yule and Pork

"In Eldrhimnir Andrhrimnir cooks. Sæhrimnir's seething flesh,— The best of food . . .”

—Poetic Edda, translated by Henry Adams Bellows

We eat a lot of pork during the midwinter/Koleda/Yule period.

In many cultures pork was eaten on New Year’s Day because the pig “digs forward” with its snout, which symbolized progress.

In Indo-European religions, the pig is generally dedicated to the sun and associated with its birth, an example is the Roman Saturn, who during the Saturnalia was supposed to arrive in a chariot pulled by a pig with golden bristles. The golden pig is the sacred animal of Dažbog Svarožic (a Slavic sun god). Freya also owns the golden-bristled boar Hildisvín.

Carnitas: Braised, Fried and Roasted Pork

“When you knuckle down to the depths of Winter, there’s usually a pig in the story. Pigs were especially sacred to the Celts, who believed that they were given as a gift from the Otherworld.  The Welsh poet and seer Merlin left a poem behind in which he addresses his oracular sayings to a pig, while in the medieval Welsh story of the smith god, Gofannon’ Feast, we hear of a pig that is eaten but never consumed and who comes to life again so long as the bones are not eaten.  This a a common theme throughout the world and is sometimes ritually recreated.  In eighteenth-century Lapland, Danish misssionaries were told that the bones of sacrificed animals must be carefully gathered and arranged so that the god to whom they were offered could restore life to the animals, making them fatter than before.  Such rituals were performed so that the deity might provide more animals of the same kind in due course.”  —John Matthews, The Winter Solstice

In Norse mythology, Sæhrímnir is a boar that is killed and eaten by the Æsir and einherjar every night. The cook of the gods, Andhrímnir, prepares Sæhrímnir in the cauldron Eldhrímnir. After Sæhrímnir is eaten, the beast is brought back to life again to provide sustenance for the following day.

In Czech folklore it is said that if you fast all day on Christmas Eve you will be gifted with a vision of the golden pig. For in the pre-Christian past pagans were attracted by the vision of a golden pig for good luck. Gold signaled the beginning of the departure of winter, while the pig promised abundance and prosperity.

Terry Pratchett got it:

Hogfather (2006), directed by Vadim Jean and written by Vadim Jean and Terry Pratchett

It seems reasonable to end the midwinter/Koleda/Yule holiday with a pork dish.

We started off with pork tamales for Christmas Day and continued with Moravian sparrows and hubník for New Year’s Day and now for tonight and Twelfth Night I’m making carnitas.

(Our holiday cooking features most prominently Czech and Czech-American and Tex-Mex foods to honor my Nebraskan-Czech ancestry and his Anglo-Texan.)

I used Roberto Santibañez’s recipe from his cookbook Truly Mexican—one of my all time favorite cookbooks.

I also made a simple restaurant style salsa to go with it.

Read more about pork and pigs:

[kiwiplaetzchen]

[Polyjuice Swap 2024!]

(Thank you @lil-grem-draws for being the mad genius behind this very special event!)

── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─☆:⭑🍂🍁🦇🍁🍂⭑:☆─ ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ──

── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─☆:⭑🍂🍁🦇🍁🍂⭑:☆─ ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ──

Nosy scurried beneath the countless feet scattered through the grand ballroom, slipping between shoes and robes like the stealthy menace he was. What had Will been thinking, trying to exclude Nosy from this event? Babbling on about how it "wouldn’t be safe" for the little Niffler - pfft. As if that was going to stop Nosy. Please. With so many sweets and shiny treasures gathered in one spot, how could he possibly miss this opportunity? This was a dream come true! Sebastian would surely be proud when he saw all the bounty Nosy planned to bring back home!

On the other side of the room, Nosy noticed a small commotion. A group of a group of magic stick wavers clustered together, muttering with evident irritation. Nosy tilted his head in curiosity. With all that distraction, surely nobody would notice if a small Niffler would squeeze his sneaky paws into one or two pockets... or nine.

With a determined flick of his tail, Nosy waddled over to the group as he slipped unnoticed among the distracted students. But before he could start his pilfering spree, something even more intriguing caught the Niffler’s eye. A door. Closed, and apparently of great interest, seeing how everyone seemed eager to enter. His curiosity burning to find out what was behind that entrance, Nosy seized the moment and squeezed himself through the tiny slit under the door. Easy.

With a proud huff, Nosy wriggled out on the other side, fluffing his teal fur triumphantly. Who needed a diet now, huh? Not Nosy. Nosy was smooth and sleek, thank you very much.

He quickly ducked under a nearby stool and took in his surroundings. The room was small and rather empty. There wasn’t much to note - another door on the other side, a dull, boring mirror (but Nosy already knew he was quite the looker), an old, dusty coat hanger, an overturned bucket, an empty high shelf, and one of those big black brewing pots bubbling quietly on the floor Sebastian explicitly told him to stay away from. Boring. Nosy let out an outraged honk. There was nothing in this damn room! Why did everybody want to enter such a boring room?? The little Niffler felt utterly cheated, his little nose twitching in annoyance. What was all the fuss about?

Pouting, the Niffler gave the room a scathing look and turned back to the cauldron, where a dimly shiny object caught his eye. With a hopeful squeak, Nosy waddled closer, only to find a plain old cup with a smattering of leftover broth. How disappointing. Nosy sighed. Seemed like someone had fled their meal in a hurry. Nosy shook his head. The pretty Prefect would never tolerate such waste of food. Tz tz. With a sideways glance, Nosy considered giving the abandoned broth a taste test. After all, it would indeed be a waste...

Curiosity getting the best of him, he stuck his snout into the cup and took a tentative slurp. It tasted strange. Like a mix of the blond dork’s stupid belt and broccoli - a veggie Nosy secretly enjoyed. Not that he would ever admit that to ANYONE.

Satisfied, the little menace sat beside the cup with a small, satisfied burp, licking his beak. Hmm, chunky.

But suddenly, a strange feeling crept through Nosy’s body. His beautiful fur bristled, and he started to shiver. His little belly making noises it had never made before, and his teal fluff was standing on end as a wave of discomfort rolled through him. The little menace squeaked in agony, writhing on the floor. Ow… Nosy honked miserably, crawling towards the door with teary eyes, his little body feeling heavier by the second. Weak squeals escaped his beak as another wave of pain washed over him. Nosy wanted to go home. Back home with Sebastian. Nosy had enough. The little menace just wanted to curl up in the hair of his Niffler Papa and be done with this horrid day. Ow…

Lost in agony, the Niffler didn’t even notice the tufts of fur trailing behind him like breadcrumbs until he was almost completely lacking his precious teal coat on the bottom half of his little body. Only, it didn't seem like his body was still that small. Nosy was growing centimetre by centimetre, his frame stretching and transforming with each passing second.

By the time the pain stopped, Nosy felt much larger than before, and the ground seemed so strangely far, far away. Why? What happened?

He glanced down in horror. Were these his paws? They were long and furless - no claws, no beautiful fur. WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS CLAWS? WHERE WAS HIS PRETTY NIFFLER FLUFF? HIS BEAUTIFUL TEAL COAT? Nosy let out a terrified honk, but the sound that escaped him didn’t sound like his honk at all. He sounded like a goose on the loose! This was not Nosy’s voice! WAS NOSY A DAMN FOWL NOW!? The Niffler's eyes fell to his chest. Jiggly, flubby, fleshy udders that looked horrifically out of place. And... nips? NIPS? ON NOSY?? AND WHERE WAS HIS BELLY POUCH?? The Niffler screechingly honked in pure horror, the sound echoing through the room as he rolled frantically on the floor, desperate to shake off this wrong skin, this awful new form.

With growing dread, he noticed the long, red hair draped over his shoulder. WRONG COLOUR! This was not the body of the Teal King! What had happened to him? Another panicked honk echoed through the empty room as he scrambled to his feet - or whatever these strange limbs were - desperate to escape. Swaying and staggering, his honks still sounding like the wild screech of a blasted birb. In a full-blown frenzy, the panicked Niffler sprinted around the room, wailing and crashing into everything in sight. He knocked over the mirror, toppled the coat hanger, and even sent the cauldron flying as he collided with every wall.

Suddenly, the other door creaked open. A Hufflepuff Prefect poked his head in, eyebrows raised in confusion. “By Merlin’s beard, what happened in here?!”

Nosy didn’t stop to think. He threw himself at the Prefect, knocking him over before storming out of the room. Somehow, he was stronger in this strange form.

Finally, the transformed Niffler burst out into the hallway in a wild cry. Onlookers turned in confusion, muttering to each other, puzzled by the sight of the strange girl with wild red hair, utterly devoid of any clothing, and darted through on all fours. "Was that @theodoradevlin?" some students mumbled.

Another strangled honk escaped Nosy’s lips as he desperately searched the crowd. Where were Sebastian and William? Nothing smelt familiar. His honk, warped by this strange new voice, filled the hall as he dashed away on all fours, hopelessly confused and very, very lost.

This night had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

[nuesetine]

Found this AU (dbda mlp au) and had the immediate thought of what if Monty was a dragon. Like he's this "small", cute manned dragon (or wyvern I've been tossing it around) that Esther bought as an egg and never actually tried to teach him anything so his brain is very stunted. He's practically an oversized cat. Most of the time she uses him for the flame postal service and retrieving items, mostly minimal tasks she can’t spend her precious time on; that and using his feathers as an unlimited supply of quills :3. Plus having a fire breathing dragon is good when heating a cauldron.

Esther most of the time has a spell that keeps some chains looped his snout and chained to something moving to partially muzzle him and keep in a confined area. When Charles and Edwin retrieved Becky Aspen they had the strange feeling like they were being watched and Charles swore he could hear the scraping of metal when he was on the case. Making the house’s atmosphere even more unnerving. After they saved Becky, Esther was like, fuck it, and turned him into a pony to get revenge, gotta lure those kids.

Not the most plausible (?) cause like it changes some of the aspects by a lot, but like some goofy probably crack HC. Anyways have some dragon Monty doodles.

[dastardly-imbecile]

Danse Macabre

In another life, he’s the best guitar player in the world, but in this one, the instrument is hidden under an inch-thick layer of dust. When he picks it up, hands pressing the out-of-tune strings down, he gets the weirdest feeling that it’s alive, that he’s holding it by the neck with his cold hands and he could break it just as something else broke him. 

---

Sam is a vampire. You are a vampire hunter. Shenanigans ensue. OR egregiously long exploration of sam's 'predator prey' kink

---

Wordcount: ~11.6k

TW for suicidal ideation!

What gets Sam most is the fact that it makes no sense. Seb was practically made for this—all dark and broody, long-sleeved hoodies and not a single second spent outside of his basement. Yoba, even Abby, purple hair, dark makeup. He’s sure she’d love it, actually. 

But no, it’s him, and he has an appointment with the Wizard, so he rolls out of bed. Maybe it’s his imagination, because he’d never mentioned this would be a side effect, but ever since that night, it’s been harder to wake up in the mornings. Or maybe that’s just the lingering desire to hide from the world that comes with this wonderful situation. 

Out from under his covers, into the unfathomable cavern of his room, which means any area larger than the space his blankets make when wrapped around him. He goes through the motions of getting ready, running a comb through his hair, pulling on some wrinkled clothes draped upon his desk chair. 

The living room is empty. Mom’s probably out in the town square with the other moms, and Vincent’s at school. Dad… Dad, he’s not sure. They’ve barely exchanged a word since he came back this past spring. Probably because Dad’s different now, and Sam’s different too, and neither of them want to talk about the intricacies of their new conditions. 

One last thing before he swings the door open and proceeds into the open air. Habit, at this point, muscle memory—he raises his left hand, checks the band of metal on his ring finger. A thin loop of gold, small red gem inset into the top. Still secure, still there, still safe. He told everyone that he got it from the traveling trader, and when Sebastian remarked, you’ve never really been a ring guy, he’d snapped, and you’ve never been a question guy, and nobody has brought it up since. 

Maybe because he doesn’t see his friends too often anymore, either. Maybe one Friday night out of the month’s four, no more jam sessions, no more strolls around town. Just the thought of picking up his guitar, of heading back into ZuZu City, makes him want to vomit. Want to dig his fingers into his neck and press until the blood comes black and viscous. 

The thoughts aren’t really suited for the day, bright and sunny, the end of winter giving way to spring. Thick wads of snow slowly dissolving into the earth, sun bright enough that he gives his ring a nervous twist, pushing it securely down upon his finger. Just to be sure. The stone path peters into the dirt road past Marnie’s ranch, and one of the cows noses its way out from between the fence slats, nuzzling at him. Before, he would’ve pet it, let his hand run over the velvet of its snout, wetness of its nose. Now, he makes a circuitous sort of route to avoid it. He’s hungry, doesn’t want to get too close to the warmth of its skin and the steady beat of what lies beneath. 

Not the most ravenous he’s ever been, of course. He’ll never let himself get that hungry again. 

From there, it’s a smooth shot to the Wizard’s tower. He doesn’t have to knock on the door before it swings open, revealing a dark, wood-padded foyer, and, behind that, a man standing at a large cauldron that gleams like basalt. His back is to Sam, but the instant the door clicks shut behind him, he steps into action, crossing over to a long line of cabinets set against the wall. Everything in her blends together seamlessly—not even the tight construction that Robin can do, but instead a smooth sort of facade that makes it seem like this tower was grown from the earth itself. 

Which, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Finally, the Wizard turns around. His name is Rasmo-something, but Sam knows him just as the Wizard because he can’t really imagine him with a normal name, just as he can’t imagine actual carpenters constructing this tower from the ground up. If, by some miracle, this was made by human hands, then he’s sure there are at least a few bones embedded in the walls. 

Not that he can really judge. 

From within the cabinet, hidden behind a smoothly beveled hardwood door, he pulls out a bag of blood. About the size of Sam’s head, minus hair, all thick and red and sharp. He can smell it from where he still stands, just beyond the entryway. He has to fight the urge to run over—wait for it to be brought to him, deposited in his hands. 

It’s still warm. 

Only then, then does he allow himself to descend upon it, open his mouth, bite. Whatever material it’s made out of feels so much like skin that it’s uncanny. Not that he’s ever bitten skin like this, but he thinks that he knows what it would be like. One of those inherent bits of knowledge that come hardcoded with his affliction, just like humans know to fear the dark. His hands clench around the sac, pushing more and more into his mouth, down his throat, until the bag is crumpled around his clenched fists, nothing but a thin sheen of red left within, dregs of something dark and unappealing pooling at the bottom. 

When he looks back up, the Wizard is offering him a napkin. He swipes it roughly across his mouth, and it comes back crimson. 

“Thank you,” he says, once he’s done, tucking the bloodied scrap of paper into his pocket, extending his left hand for the man to examine. By now, it’s all routine, because he’s been doing this every Friday since that performance in ZuZu City, last Spring, and three months of buffer is enough to pound a schedule into even his head. 

The Wizard waves a thin, angular hand over his. The air above the ring wavers, rippling like all reality is nothing but a thin curtain that hides a vast space within, and that dark realm is where the Wizard draws power from, disturbing the sheet of normalcy for a brief second. 

See, he never would’ve thought of shit like that before, the type of thing that only Sebastian says, and even then, only when he’s high. He wonders if his condition comes with the gloom, or if it’s the other way around, chicken-egg-bite-blood. 

“Sunwalking magic still holds strong,” the Wizard hums, and this is where he would usually withdraw his hand, bade for Sam to leave. This time, though, before he can even think to turn around, he speaks again. “Boy.”

Just as he never calls the Wizard Rasmodius, he never calls him Sam. It’s a nice balance. 

“Yeah?”

“I’ve heard…” he hesitates, before, “be careful, these next few months.”

“What?”

“There are… whispers,” he makes a sort of slight, jerky motion with his hand in the air, as if he is pulling on invisible threads, and Sam swears that some near-translucent filament disturbs the air, reality-cloth tightened and released, “of a disturbance coming to the valley. Welwick has spoken to the spirits.”

Sam swallows quickly. It tastes like licking an outlet, his mom’s pink salt lamp, roadkill, long-dead in the sun. “Anything, uh, specific?”

“They would not deign to be anything but obscure,” he murmurs, mustache twitching up in what might be a smile or might be a grimace. “I can say no more. It may not even concern you, boy, but keep your eyes wide.”

“I will,” he replies. The Wizard turns back to stirring his cauldron, muttering an incomprehensible string of text that Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to comprehend, and he takes that as the goodbye it is, turning and breaking into the open air. It’s supposedly cold outside—because it’s winter, duh—but he feels none of that on his cheeks, no chill that sticks itself to his skin. Probably because he’s technically dead, all those extraneous nerves as doornail-deceased as the rest of him. He rubs at his arms anyways, feigning chill. Both in case someone is watching, and because he likes that bit of normalcy, the ability to pretend he isn’t a monster. 

—

He doesn’t know that you’ve come to town until you burst into the library on Monday morning, first Monday of spring, hair flecked with dots of pollen and eyes as sharp as cut glass. He, personally, doesn’t even see your entrance—he’s tucked into the back of the building, nose buried in a book titled The Modern Mythology. Never used to like to read, but he does now,  another one of those oddities that Seb tilts his head at and Abigail opens her mouth to ask, why, before snapping it shut again. Technically, it’s more research and less consumption, but if he does find some small enjoyment in the small black letters that trail across the yellowed pages, then that’s his own business. 

Beside him, propped up on the table, is a broom. Quit his job at JojaMart to come help Gunther with the library, and the man doesn’t particularly care if he spends most of his shift reading, as long as the shelves stay mostly dust-free. His first clue as to your arrival is Jas and Vincent quieting. The second is the thud of the door shutting, Gunther’s low voice, muffled by a few shelves of parchment and wood. Still, it’s nothing abnormal—probably Elliott, he has the wherewithal to muse—and then, then you’re clearing around the corner of the distant shelf, gaze locked onto his. 

“Oh, hey?” you say. The corners of his lips pull into a smile. It’s manual, it’s all manual, like his muscles have forgotten how to show emotion, death cleansed all that earthly sort of concern from his being. That’s also part of the reason he doesn’t really hang out with his friends anymore. Abigail tells some sort of inside joke that has even Seb cracking a smile, and he just stands there, straight-faced, because his brain has forgotten that he’s supposed to laugh. 

He went with Vincent to the beach last summer, watched him build castles and throw sandballs at Jas. It was bad, partially because of the constant worry that his ring was going to slip into the sand and he’d immediately crisp into a lump of char. Worse, though, was the fact that he had to smile manually, the fact that Vince knew all his grins were fake, because he told Jodi to cook Sam’s favorite pizza that night, and he had to pretend to like that too. 

All of which is a long-winded way to say he sees you and he grins and he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe you know that too, because you slow down, wariness rising across your features. 

“I’m new,” you supply, “a, uh, farmer. Just moved in.”

“I’m Sam,” he replies blankly. You don’t look like a farmer—you’re dressed in dark, loose clothes, and there is a sword strapped to your hip, and besides the pollen in your air, there is not a sign of the organic anywhere about you. His nose twitches. Hey, one good thing about being dead—his pollen allergy is gone. 

“Nice to meet you,” you add, after a silence which might be painful, but he doesn’t really possess the capacity to judge anymore. He expects you to leave, keep introducing yourself to people other than the weird guy in the back of the library, but instead, you venture closer, eyes shifting from his face to the stack of books. Most are along the same line as the one currently splayed out in front of him, laid flat like a vivisection—Yoba, where did that metaphor come from—Ten Tales of the Supernatural and Monster Compendium and, at the very top, Unholy: Ancient Rites of Blood. 

“Interesting books,” you say, head tilting slightly, and it feels, briefly, the same way it does in the Wizard’s tower—when he twists his hand and reality tugs, when it feels like he has caught the attention of something strange—“you into this sort of stuff? Mythology?”

“Yeah,” he replies. Again, your eyes flit around, this time from the books back to him, then, down, to his left hand. 

“Nice ring.”

“Mhm.” Whatever necrotized instinct remains in his hindbrain wants you to leave, to get away. There’s no reason to comment on his ring except for the fact that it doesn’t really match his worn denim jacket, all old-timey-fancy and all that. 

He remembers the Wizard’s words. Be careful. New things. 

You’re new. Hey, captain obvious. Maybe his brain still works. 

“Can I-”

“I have to go,” he says, standing abruptly, sweeping the books into his arms and depositing them onto the nearest shelf. It’s not proper organization, but whatever, he’ll fix it later. Not like anyone reads these anyways. Elliott likes bodice-rippers with men who look suspiciously like him on the cover, Abigail consumes exclusively fantasy, Harvey digs his way through the most boring aviation catalogues he can imagine. And, if Jas or Vincent were reading Unholy: Ancient Rites of Blood, he’d have a few more things to be concerned about than them not being able to find the book in its correct place. 

“What?” You ask, taking a step back. He doesn’t miss how your hand moves down your hip, towards your sword. Hard to tell, but it looks to be silver. 

“Sorry. Uh, family things.” He flashes another quick, performative smile, and then darts out around the shelves. If he were human, his palms would be clammy, heartbeat quick, but since he’s not, the only measure of panic he has is the sound of his thoughts rushing through his brain. Which is somehow worse than anxiety’s physical manifestation—it gives it all a dreamlike quality, like it’s not real, nothing is real. Penny says something that must be a goodbye to him as he spirits his way out of the building, but it passes unregistered through his ears. 

He’s not dumb—he’s airheaded, which is different, and he’s not even that anymore, not since that night in ZuZu City. In any case, it’s obvious. Silver sword, dark clothes, weird fixation on his books and ring—you’re the stereotype of bad news to come. Stay away, he decides, stay away. 

Pity he got summarily kicked out of the library right as his book was getting interesting, but he’s probably not missing much. There’s not much about his kind in the books at all, actually. Plenty about merpeople, about witches and wizards and small, crop-growing pixies. About the skeletons and slimes and possessed suits of armor that dwell far beneath the surface, about small, apple-shaped creatures that are said to inhabit Stardew Valley. 

Him, though. He must brace a moment to say it. The name burns on his tongue—which is strange, because he’s fine calling himself a dead thing, bloodsucker, monster, but something about the word itself makes his teeth ache and finality settle over his shoulders like an executioner’s axe. 

Vampire. 

Yeah, nobody talks about them. What he’s been able to find are mostly children’s stories, but there’s nothing scientific, no full-page illustrations of merpeople dissections, no books dedicated to their society and culture. At most, a single sentence in another monster’s codex—Vampires are said to be distantly related to Shadow Brutes—or a recipe in an old cookbook to sprinkle over the doorstep to dissuade such creatures of the night. 

Most of the information is wrong, too. Invited or uninvited, he can enter homes. Running water is easy to cross as a line of chalk. Garlic goes down the same as any other food, which is to say, it sits as heavy as lead in his inactive digestive system and he must vomit it into the toilet because there’s no other way to get it out of him. 

Really, the only similarities he shares with those old stories is that he wants for blood and that he’s dead and that he fears the sun with a burning—ha—passion, but that’s enough to make his life hell, isn’t it?

Oh, and he’s immortal. He asked the Wizard about the implications of that, the first time he visited him, and all he got was a look full of the most potent pity he’s ever seen, and if that doesn’t scare him out of the prospect of eternal life, then nothing will. 

—

Despite all his best attempts to avoid you, he learns more, most of it unwillingly, at one of the rare Fridays that he joins Seb and Abby in the saloon. They give him that look of half-surprise-half-confusion that always comes, now, when he hoists himself off his high immortal throne and deigns to converse with the mortal. 

Not that they know about the immortality thing, of course, or the blood thing, or the dark alleyway in ZuZu City thing. Nobody does, except for the Wizard. Because why would he want people to know that all he subsists on is blood, and that his skin is horribly cold, and that he can count their pulse from ten feet away?

Besides, he doesn’t know how to explain it, even if he wanted to. The words clot in his throat and scab thick enough to suffocate (if he still drew breath).

“You’ve met her, right?” Is the first thing Abby asks when he arrives, weaving past the many other patrons. It’s too bright in here, too alive, and though he’d just eaten that very morning—another sack of dubiously-acquired blood, still the faintest aftertaste plastered to the back of his teeth—this much pulse and heartbeat and human presence makes his throat ache. 

“Who?”

“The farmer.”

“Oh,” he says, “oh, yeah. Saw her… uh, Monday.”

“She’s so cool,” Abby gushes, “have you seen her sword? She let me hold it.”

Silver is another one of those things that most of the stories get right. He tested it with Mom’s fancy old silverware, and it burnt the imprint of a fork into his palm after only a second of holding. He imagines that blade cutting through his stomach and must suppress a gag. 

“Hey, Sam, c’mere,” Seb calls from the other side of the pool table. He moves absently. Abby offers him a bowl of chips, but he brushes it away. Doesn’t particularly feel like throwing up tonight. 

Seb makes his first shot, turns to reply to Abby, “it’s real?”

“Mhm. Pure silver and everything, apparently.”

Sam tries to tune them out, but it doesn’t really work. Closes his eyes. Everything smells so human, salt and metal and he wants it so badly, wants it more than he’s wanted anything else in his undeath. 

Temporary, he tells himself, temporary. 

“-And she’s been killing monsters. Already on the, like fiftieth floor or something. You think she’ll teach me?”

He lines up, tries to concentrate on the game instead. Shoots. The cue ball flies straight, knocks his target straight into the hole. 

“Lucky shot,” Seb says, smiling. He ignores him, shoots again, and this one goes in as well, and the next, until Seb’s smile fades and all that’s left is the 8-ball. 

One final shot. It’s deliriously simple—he’s able to see how it will land, as clearly as if it were drawn out before him. 

It pockets. Sam stands straight, blinking slightly. All the noise of the room has faded away again, gone into some nebulous background, and so, somehow, has the tantalization. 

All that’s left is his two friends, both staring at him, and an empty pool table. 

“...Damn. You been practicing?”

“No,” he says, looking down at his hands, “no.”

“Rematch?”

“No,” he repeats, near-stumbling over to the couch, less sitting and more falling upon it. He can practically feel the look that Abby and Seb shoot each other. It’s just as invisibly tangible as the Wizard’s magic. They want to know what’s wrong, what’s been wrong with him for nearly a year at this point. They want him to offer up all his problems on a silver platter, proffering offal to the vultures, and let them pick at it until all that’s left is a bit of liver, intestinal lining, pool of black blood. 

…That’s uncharitable. Whatever. He’s uncharitable. Not his fault that they miss Sam-who-laughed and Sam-who-hung-out and Sam-who-was-atrocious-at-pool, and that he can’t be any of those Sams anymore, he’s Sam-who-should-be-six-feet-underground. Coffin lined with silver. Stake through the heart. 

He doesn’t know if the stories got that right. Hasn’t quite teetered to the point of checking. Maybe someday, though, maybe someday. 

“I’m gonna go,” he blurts abruptly, standing up. According to the clock on the wall, it’s hardly eight. 

“Oh- oh, okay.” Abby gives him a concerned sort of look, another invitation to sit down and spill the fact that he’s thought about draining every single person in this room dry. “Hey, we should jam out again sometime. It’s been…” she glances at Seb again, “...like, a while. Let us know, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” he replies. Good thing vampirism doesn’t stop him from lying. 

—

The night is no better than the saloon, but no worse either. He’s naturally, biologically inclined to the darkness now, so it feels almost like an embrace, but it also reminds him of that final night in ZuZu City, so it all balances out into a nice neutrality. 

It was their first gig at some outdoor concert, opening for a bigger band that he’s forgotten the name of by now(or, not forgotten the name of, he has a perfect memory, but can’t bear to remember). Went, afterwards, to some bar. Drank too much. Stumbled out the back, into the thin sliver of liminality between two buildings, leaning against the wall, trying his best not to puke. 

Had no warning besides the whisper of a footstep before there was a bony hand clenched around his mouth and blissful agony tearing through his neck. He tried to struggle, to no avail, so settled—eventually—on biting. Down upon the hand that held his mouth shut, deep enough that he broke its skin, tasted its blood. It was thick and black and bitter as sawdust. The Wizard told him, later, that that’s the only reason he survived—would’ve died if he’d not had that viscous substance rotting him from the inside and revitalizing him all over again. 

That’s the sort of memory that always comes back when he’s in the darkness, so when he hears footsteps again, he whips around, hands already brought up in some approximation of self-defense. Grabs the handle of something that is, for a brief moment, cold and sharp, and rapidly descends into a burn. 

He whips away just as quickly, leaping a step back, into the domain of a yellow streetlamp. His attacker follows just as swiftly. The pale glow overhead reflects off the blade of your sword, that which is currently stained black with his own ichor. 

“Woah,” he exclaims, which is not at all the last words he’d had planned, but then again, hasn’t he technically had his chance for last words already (in this case, it would be mumbling to Seb, I’m going out, I think I might hurl) but maybe the absurdity works, because you pause in your steps. He tries to grab the opportunity. Not by what might be the smart thing—that being attacking the person currently trying to kill him—but, instead, saying, “are you trying to kill me?”

The corner of your lip actually twitches up into a smile. “You’re a vampire, are you not?”

“I think so?”

It’s a stupid answer. He’s stupid. He needs to think of some good last words, fast. “I don’t… why does that mean you’re killing me?”

You actually have the audacity to look puzzled while you’re holding a sword coated in his blood. “You’re a monster. How much blood have you drunk, huh?”

“Nobody’s,” he swears. You narrow your eyes. 

“That’s impossible. Your kind needs it.”

“I get it from the Wizard,” he says, and it occurs to him a second later that you may not know who the Wizard is, but you only scoff, raising that blade again. It shines dangerously, the edge so sharp that he cannot even make it out. 

“And where do you think he gets it from?”

He blinks once, tries to croak out a response, but it doesn’t come. He’s asked, of course, but all he’s gotten is a quiet, that’s unimportant, but really, where does it come from? Or, not where, but who? He visualizes, briefly, some other Sam, drained of blood, and this one didn’t get the opportunity to steal a nip of eau-de-vampire, this one died in that alleyway, and he’s drinking from him every Friday. 

Why is he still here, if he barely goes out, barely does anything besides pore over old books and mope? 

Maybe you’re right. 

Slowly, he tilts his head up, baring his neck to the world. He wonders if there’s still a scar from his first death on the tanned skin, wonders if this will hurt as much as the first death. 

You move, raising the sword, but right as you stand at the zenith of attack, you pause. Lower it, at first by increments, and then, in a single swoop. You do not lunge for his throat. There is no rapturous burn that floods through his veins. 

“What?” He asks. 

“You seem…” you hesitate, swallowing down what might be the teeter of a compliment, before eventually deciding on, “innocent. As much as one of your kind can be. I’ll look more into this… Wizard.”

He almost blurts out a no, just do it, but by the time it’s risen to his mouth like bubbles from the deepest ocean, you’ve whirled around, as gone to the night as if you were a vampire yourself. 

—

It takes him three weeks to build up the courage to ask the Wizard what, exactly, he’s drinking. Well, first, he stands there, staring at the sac of blood. 

“Drink,” he says dismissively. When a moment passes, and he still does not move, he takes a step closer. 

“Will you not?”

Sam looks up at him, meeting those brightly violet eyes. When another moment of hesitation passes, he asks, “do you know what will happen if you do not?”

Yes, he does, mostly because he’s gone through it before, that first week after the bite that he huddled up in his room, unsure why the sun burned so brightly, why he heard the sound of heartbeats so clearly in his skull. He’d only known to come to the tower because of a letter delivered to his window by a snow-white dove, and at that point, he could practically see the pulsing outlines of blood, veins intertwining and criss-crossing, through the walls. 

“What’s in here?” He asks, “where did you get this?” 

“Not your concern,” the Wizard says. Expected answer. He hardens his mouth, leans back a bit from the bag. 

“I won’t drink unless you tell me.”

“If you do not drink,” he says, clearly and slowly like Penny when she’s trying to teach Vincent math, “then I will kill you. This valley is under my protection, and the only reason I have not culled you is that you are young and docile. If you prove to be as problematic as most of your kind-”

“I get it!” Sam exclaims, voice veering embarrassingly into yelp territory, “I know I’m dangerous, a monster, I just want to know what I’m drinking.” He pauses for a long moment, recovering from the outburst, before adding, quieter, “if people were killed to feed me.”

The Wizard observes him for a long, heart-wrenching moment—he’s prepared for him to wave his hand and make reality wrap him up and crush him on the spot—before saying, eventually, “I brew it.” 

“Brew it? How?” Out of every answer, he hasn’t been expecting this. At the very best, ‘it’s medical waste’, and at the very worst, ‘I bleed ten orphans dry every new moon’. 

He snorts. “Human blood is laughably easy to reproduce.”

“Why wouldn’t you just say that?” He draws the bag to his mouth, finally allowing himself to quench that gnawing thirst, and it is as sweet as the first spring rain, as bitter as silver in his throat. 

“The process is easy, but the ingredients… ah, eye of lizard and wart of toad, blood of serpent and wing of bat. Plus more than a touch of insect. I believed you would be repulsed.”

He is repulsed for a brief second, as the blood is still pouring down his throat, but then it hits him that this is still a lot better than bloodshed and murder and all that less-than-fancy stuff. When he’s finally drunk his fill, he voices as much, and the Wizard gives a gracious sort of nod.

“...So we’re monsters?” He asks, after taking his napkin and wiping all remnants of artificial blood from his face. He’s been thinking about this little fact more than usual, after you. These three weeks of him building up courage can be summarily deemed avoidance—staying inside even more than usual, turning down any and all of Seb and Abby’s requests to go out, trying to pull him from his self-imposed imprisonment. The Wizard’s little spiel has done nothing to change his mind, for the record. 

“Quite the traditional sort.”

“I haven’t been able to find much. About me.” 

“Many books of your kind were burned, back in… oh, back in my youth. Many hundreds of years ago.” 

“Oh.” He looks down, then up again. Used to have many sorts of nervous tics, biting his lip or running a hand through his hair, but obviously, those have been swept away by the river Lethe as well. 

“I have encountered many. Most are old, powerful, and hungry. You are the first… the first young of your kind. Interesting.”

“And people hunt them,” he says, “or- I mean, uh, me. Us. Hunt us.”

He gives him an arch once-over, and Sam can’t help but wonder if he knows about you at all. All cooped up in the tower as he is, maybe your arrival has slipped right under his bushy mustache…

“A few,” he replies, and it seems that he does not, in fact, know about the valley’s newest visitor, “most belong to a rather archaic branch of Marlon’s guild. Not much use for them these days, though.” He turns, which indicates he’s done with this little visit, but tosses one final phrase over his shoulder before he returns to poring over the book on its iridium pedestal, “most of your type are dead already.”

That’s not technically true, but only because all of his kind are dead already. He remembers the feeling of that thin hand over his mouth, so cold, as stiff as the grave, and looks down at his own, wishes there was a world in which there are none left, none left at all. You’d be happy then, wouldn’t you?

—

That night, when Vince has already been asleep for an hour, and Mom is cleaning up the dishes and Sam is trying to find a way to sneakily throw out the dinner he wrapped in a napkin, she asks him, “Could you go find your father, please?” 

“Where is he?”

Her shoulders tense briefly, and release in increments with a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m not sure, Samson. That’s why I’m asking you to find him.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” He rises from the living room couch like a puppet from its box, dead bones creaking, dead skin stretching. There’s an almost uncanny level of control to his body—he knows exactly how each part of him will move in isolation. He bets he could wiggle his ears if he wanted to. In another life, he’s the best guitar player in the world, but in this one, the instrument is hidden under an inch-thick layer of dust. When he picks it up, hands pressing the out-of-tune strings down, he gets the weirdest feeling that it’s alive, that he’s holding it by the neck with his cold hands and he could break it just as something else broke him. 

Yeah. So he’s crazy. Is that news?

It’s not actually all that much of a search to find Dad. He’s standing across the main road, on the banks of the river, hands in his pockets. The windows of the neighborhood houses cast a new hue to his shirt, yellows the back of his neck like jaundice. 

“Hey,” Sam calls, while still a distance away, giving him enough time to process the word and turn. That’s the first thing that Mom told him and Vince, the days before Dad came back—don’t make any sudden noises, don’t startle him. 

He didn’t really get it back then—it feels like he was so young, even though that was only a bit more than a year ago—but he gets it now, kinda. Darkness and an alleyway and something coming up behind him. It’s frightening in a way it wasn’t before. 

“Give me a minute,” Dad says, turning back to the river. Sam proceeds down the bank, trying his best not to trip, until they’re level. It’s with a bit of a jolt that he realizes he’s almost as tall as him now. 

“Do you come here a lot?” He asks, more to break the silence than anything. He doesn’t remember how to talk to him—he left for the army when he was fifteen. Came back for a week or two of leave at a time, those first two years, but then it was four years of silence and Mom sobbing in the bathroom at night. Plus, it’s not like vampirism has done much for his social skills. 

“Sometimes. When I can’t sleep.” Dad half-turns just to look at him, and he wonders if he knows something’s wrong. Nobody else has been able to tell—not even Harvey at last year’s exam after the Wizard put something called a geas of life over him. Gave him a heartbeat and warm skin and everything, Pity it didn’t make his digestive system work again, though. 

“Does that… happen a lot?”

“Some.” A moment of pause before he adds, “You should get back. Tell Jodi I’m coming.”

“What happened to you?” He asks, instead of taking the suggestion and leaving. It’s a mistake to ask, he knows immediately. That’s the second thing that Jodi told him and Vince—don’t ask Dad about the war—but he wants to know, truly. Their house is quiet. Part of that is him, is the monster living in his skin, and part of that is Dad too, the monster living in his. 

That’s uncharitable. Bitter. PTSD can’t exactly be called a ‘monster’. 

At least the first part of that is right. He so sorely wishes, as much as the desiccated nerves in his hindbrain can wish, that he was still the old Sam, that of friendship and easy laughter and sunshine as thick as honey. His hair has faded, gone from butter-yellow to a sallow sort of imitation, the shade of wilting daffodils, a liver engorged by lumps of metastasizing fat. 

“You’re a man, now,” Dad says, and he nods. He takes a moment to process that fact—that Sam is, indeed, twenty-one, that he’s reached the holy age of being able to buy alcohol on his own instead of getting Abby to sneak it from Pierre’s ‘secret stash’. Maybe that confirmation is what spurs his next words, “a lot happened, on the front.”

He pauses, swallows. Fingers twitch like he’d like to be holding something right now, maybe a cigarette. Mom would never let that slide. Always complain when Sam comes home from Seb’s, smelling like smoke, makes him wash all his clothes immediately. Not that that happens a lot anymore. She must be happy about that. 

“Did things I still regret. Saw a lot of… of good men die.”

It’s a surprisingly blunt answer. Though, maybe Dad thinks that he’s old enough to handle it now, handle the nebulous thought of death, the notion that consciousness snuffs out and escapes to somewhere long-past the bounds of the horizon. 

Except for Sam’s. His is a struggling animal in a trap, is a bear without the wherewithal to chew its own paw off. Or, or maybe some sort of soul did escape, but something else moved in, blended itself so well that it cannot distinguish even its own skin from the meat of its new home. 

“I…” Sam’s voice comes out in a hollow, quiet croak, but it draws his attention nevertheless, both eyes focusing in with an almost frightening intensity, “I did… something happened to me, too. Something bad.”

It’s the most he’s ever confessed to someone, barring the Wizard, and he doesn’t really count. Something about the night, about the river, about the conversation with his father who he feels he has not actually talked to for six years and counting, drags it out of him. 

Feels good in the same way ripping off a bandaid feels good, pulling out a tooth. Better, when Dad doesn’t press, doesn’t fly into a frantic interrogation the way he knows Mom would, his friends would. 

“You’re too young to suffer that,” is all he says.

“You too.”

When Sam chances a glance over at him again, he’s actually smiling—faint, only the slight upturn of a lip—but it’s there. 

“Isn’t that the truth?” He nods once, before turning abruptly, facing the upwards stretch of the bank and the neat row of houses beyond that, “I’m heading back.” 

“Give me a minute,” Sam says. He departs without another word, just the sound of footsteps on first gravel, then cobble, then faded out entirely. 

Perhaps it’s the talk that has his instincts on edge, because he knows you’re there before you speak. By the faintest ghost of your breath against the wind, by the errant rustle of the bush you were no doubt hiding in. 

“Nice conversation,” you say, wry. He doesn’t turn around—lets you come up to stand next to him. Still in your dark, loose, old-timey sort of garb, the type that screams monster hunter. And, if that screams it, then your sword must be wailing it to the heavens, all ornate silver that cuts a long line through the air at your hip. 

“Eavesdropping?”

“You can learn interesting things from the bushes,” you reply, “you’d be surprised. I saw Marnie and Lewis going at it once.”

“Going at-? Like…” 

“Mhm.”

His nose pulls upwards into a grimace. “Eugh.”

A moment of silence passes after that lovely little bit of info. His eyes are pulled, as if by magnetism, to your sword, no matter how much he tries to force them away. Might as well ask the burning question, the elephant in the room. 

“Are you here to kill me?”

You snort. “In front of the houses? Witnesses. I’d corner you somewhere else.”

“Great,” he says lamely, resisting the urge to bring a hand up, feel at his neck, cup his own chin like a lover, like a hunter; bare his neck like a meal, like a submission. “It’s not real blood, you know.”

“Hm?”

“What I drink. The Wizard brews it on his own.”

“I heard,” you say, “it’s the only reason you’re still here.” 

You offer up no auxiliary information on how, exactly, you quote-on-quote ‘heard’, and he doesn’t ask because he’s sure you would not tell him in any case. 

“So you’re truly innocent. A virgin.” When his eyebrows raise, you snap, “and not like that. It’s a professional term. One who has not yet drawn blood.”

“Right,” he murmurs. Around you, he feels strangely suspended, tongue wooden, always uncertain of what to say next, and not only because of the looming threat of death. There’s a certain hypnotizing quality to you, the way that you stand, so straight and certain. The way you inspire a spark of emotion that he cannot identify—but that which is still remarkable, because he has not felt emotion at all for such a long time. 

“I should kill you anyways,” you say, in an idle, listless way that clues him into the fact that you aren’t truly going to do it. Unless you’re especially cruel, luring him into a sense of false security, or especially erratic, emotions on a switchback that even you cannot anticipate, but he doesn’t think either of those are the case. The latter, because you’re all too full of stone-hard surety, and the former because he cannot imagine you as cruel, no matter how hard he tries, not in the same way he can ascribe that label to himself. 

“Even though I’m… uh, virginal.”

The moonlight gleams off your eyes as you cut him a glare. “You’re young. Vampires get hungrier as they age. Colder. Darker. Forget how to even pretend to be human. Right now, it’s like…” you hesitate, “it’s like your psyche is doing muscle spasms. Before the rigor mortis and rot sets in.”

When he doesn’t respond, trying to conceptualize that unpleasant mental image, you continue. 

“Give it ten years, you won’t be thinking that Wizard’s fake blood tastes so good anymore. Give it twenty, you’ll be looking at your little brother and-”

“Stop,” he snaps, whirling around to face you fully. He tries to raise a finger, but his hands are too stiff, locked into fists. Your sword is halfway out of its sheath before he can blink, but you stop yourself with a deliberate, controlled motion. 

“Hit too close to home?”

“Don’t,” he replies, instead of admitting you’re right. Those first two weeks after ZuZu city, in which he huddled under his covers and tried to conceptualize why he could not touch the sunlight, before the Wizard sent him an invitation upon the back of a dove, all he can remember is hunger. He has never felt so ravenous in the year since, starved to the point that there was no Mom anymore, no Dad, Vincent, but instead shapes of scent and blood and a single thin tether of control. 

“Surely, then,” you say, slowly sliding that sword back into its sheath, “as something with a decaying sense of reason, you agree.”

“If I ever get to that point,” he snarls, “you’ll be the first to know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

He did not realize it could be taken as one. “No,” he replies, “no, it’s an offer.”

With that, he snaps around, stalks up the bank back to the road. For a moment, his back tenses, and he truly wonders if he will feel the gnaw of a blade at the core of his spine, but nothing comes, and by the time he thinks to look back at the river—standing on the porch, hand upon the doorknob—the bank is empty of people and monsters alike. 

—

Spring bleeds into summer with all the grace of a dying animal, giving way in slow, peeling strips. Ripens and sickens and darkens in all the predictable ways. Mere warmth becomes fervent heat; pale, new-green trees deepen into shades of bursting emerald; and the lively wind settles into languid, stagnant hibernation, preparing for its resurrection come fall. He sees you occasionally—when Mom sends him to the store, when he walks to the Wizard’s, the occasional days that Vince bullies him to the beach—but he only truly meets you again on the second Friday of the season. 

It’s more than a bit of a shock when he trudges into the Saloon and sees you there, at his usual spot at the head of the pool table. Abby’s tilting her head, telling some joke that makes you put a hand up to your mouth to laugh, and he debates on turning and fleeing, but then Seb spots him, beckons him over with the curve of a pale hand. 

When you turn, eyes alighting upon him, his chest thrums with an unfamiliar thing that he would’ve once called a heartbeat. Inspired by fear, or surprise, or some secret, worse third thing. 

“Long time no see,” Abby quips, scooting over on the couch and patting the spot beside her, “hey, who d’you think’ll win?”

He settles gingerly on the indicated spot. 

“Sebastian.” 

You shoot him another shielded gaze. You’re absent of your sword tonight, he notices, absent of anything except for a new set of dark clothes. It occurs to him that he has never seen you carry anything that pertains to farming whatsoever, despite your whole thing as ‘the new farmer’. He’d wager that, if he were to mosey on over to your patch of land, he’d find nothing but barren fields and maybe a scarecrow voodoo doll with his face and straw-yellow hair. 

“Don’t jinx me,” Seb murmurs, shutting one eye to line up his next shot. When the ball courses off-target, ricocheting off one of the walls and coming to a useless, limping sort of stop in the center of the green, he shoots him a glare. Sam gives him a half-smile back, and it’s only when it’s fading that he realizes he did not have to force it. 

Things have been lighter, somehow, since that night with Dad (and you, though he doubts that part factors into his household dynamics). Mom’s no longer on that tight wire. Dad went with Vincent on a walk around town a week ago, came back with a smile on his face, put a hand to his cheeks as if to make sure that the joy was real. Watching that felt a bit like Sam was looking in a mirror. 

You win the game. Abby looks at you, and then at him, and he knows what she’s going to say before she says it. 

“You’re the expert now, aren’t you, Sam? I think a match is in order.”

“No,” he denies immediately, tries to turn it back on her, “how about you?”

She swipes the distraction away without a second thought. “You know I hate this game. C’mon, what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” You echo, which is the real surprise—he would have thought you’d be the most eager to get him far away from this table—but no, you are watching him, hip jutted out in a challenge. 

“Just one game,” Abby pleads, and he realizes suddenly that this is her attempt to get you two closer. There is that hint of a silent plea in her eyes, that she wants you to get along—that she doesn’t want him to feel replaced. It’s such an absurd read that he doubts it for a moment, but it all clarifies into something that makes sense. He’d thought—or hoped, maybe—that her and Seb would give up on him eventually, would take his absence as a sign of removal. 

But no, no, of course they wouldn’t. They’re better than that. He is too. 

“Fine,” he acquiesces, a false smile to go with it, “one round.” He pushes himself up from the couch, allows Seb to take his place, steps up to his spot on the table. In the meeting of your gazes, there is another silent message, more easily read than Abby’s. His is something like, why are you here, and yours along the lines of I’m going to destroy you at this game. 

At least that’s his guess. 

“Toss a coin,” you call at Abby, “I call tails.”

It glints as it flips. “Tails,” she confirms, and you smile. 

You break in a quick, sharp motion, ball shooting across the table to scatter the triangle. He watches you as you line up to shoot—the lines of your body, how smoothly you move. He can easily imagine you fighting, cleaving your way through every monster in the Mines. 

The ball pockets easily, straight-shot. Your smile widens a bit as you sidestep around the table. 

The next one, though, misses solidly. He makes sure to keep his face carefully neutral when he lines up his shot. Just as he jabs the stick forwards, he briefly wonders if he should sandbag, use this perfect control of his body and angular mind to miss instead, get this whole game over with, but then his eyes meet yours, and any notion of that melts away. 

You know he can win, and you know that if he loses, it’s his own choice, and he does not think you’d like that at all. 

So, he lets his shot aim true and strong, and every one after that, until the 8-ball is slipping smoothly into the pocket and you’re watching him with what seems to be a mixture of anger and maybe—maybe—a touch of impressment. Or maybe he’s imagining that part. 

You sweep around the edge of the table, close enough that he gets this uncertain, animal sort of fear that you’re going to skewer him like a fly in front of everyone, despite the lack of sword—dagger hidden in the boot, or something. But your hands reach for no hidden weapon—instead, coming up to cocoon your mouth, hiding the word you whisper to him. 

“Cheater.”

With that, you whisk back around, nodding once at Seb and Abby, a polite, “and I think that’s my sign to leave for the night.” 

He’s still standing there, more than a bit puzzled, paralyzed, something… something else. Abby tilts her head, something quizzical in her eyes. 

“...What was that?”

“Nothing,” he says dazedly, “I think… I think I should go too.”

Her and Seb share a glance that he really doesn’t like. Silver lining that there is no blood left in his body besides that black, bitter substance which can not really be called blood. It’d be rushing to his cheeks. It’d be rushing down. 

As he makes a swift exodus out of the Saloon, he must wrestle with the fact that, threats of death aside—or, perhaps, even included—he is the most attracted to someone as he’s ever been. 

—

Summer passes, enters fall, in much the same way—that being he no longer spends Friday nights cooped up in his room but instead makes the trudge towards the Saloon, group of three that has now inexplicably become four. It’s not like he can’t remember why he stayed away—sometimes, all the noise in the room is still too overwhelming, scent of blood in the air, and there are times when he must pull his mouth up into smiles he does not feel—but it’s enough goodness that it keeps him coming. 

Sometime near the end of summer, when the last of its lifeblood is being sucked into autumn’s hungry mouth, he happens to leave his house while you are passing, and the short walk to the Saloon is spent in awkward, lock-step silence. 

The next week, though, the same happens, and this time is not entirely a coincidence—he stood at the windows and watched until he saw you cresting around the bend, leaves tangled in your hair—and the week after that, too. It’s not until midway through fall, one day in which Vincent hides his shoes and he’s late after digging them out from under Mom’s bed, that he steps out of his and finds you leaning against his fence. Waiting. Comes slowly to the realization that perhaps you have noticed that walking together hasn’t been entirely accidental on his part. It’s strangely nice, even if you share little conversation, nothing except his occasional half-baked opener about the weather (which you promptly brush away). Vampires are bad at conversation, it seems, sucks to suck, pun not intended. 

They start to meet back up for Solarion Chronicles, all huddled in Seb’s basement. New campaign, both because of you, and because it’s been so long that he cannot remember his old character anymore, which is a fact that gets awkwardly brushed under the rug. No question of resuming the band has come up yet, no questioning of what really happened to him, which he’s glad for and frustrated about in equal measure. He wants to tell someone. He wants to keep it locked in his chest forever. 

Despite this tense partnership, it is not until the first dewey days of winter that he truly talks to you again. Not the best of circumstances, not when you’re sprawled in the snow at the entrance to the mines, clutching a hand to your torso. 

It’s the smell of blood that draws him to you, late at night, when he’s standing by the river. First a curling sort of tendril, then a full-bodied scent that grabs him by the chin and does not let go. Vivid even from his own house, moreso as he follows it up the mountain in a half-way sort of stupor that he does not realize he’s in until he sees the body, dark against the white. 

He knows, from the first moment he sees you. So close, scent so strong that it’s like cotton in his nose - knows that the Wizard’s brew holds no candle to the real thing. That he could bend, kneel, place his hands on your shoulders and turn you over-

And your eyes snap open. His stomach burns, but he’s so drunk on the smell that he does not even realize it until you dig your blade in deeper, deep enough that the pain of the sword crackling through the fat of his hip cuts through even this carmine delirium. 

You don’t seem to have the capability to speak, but your eyes narrow, and when he shifts back from the burn of the silver, you hoist it in front of you like a shield. 

He bites down on his own lip. Hard. What is he doing? 

Monster, bloodthirsty. His teeth slot through his bottom lip as easily as a knife through butter. The wound closes almost immediately. It’s only the gash across his waist that lingers. 

“Are- you’re hurt,” he manages, still trying to keep his head clear, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You tense in a way that is decidedly disbelieving. Such a strange contrast, to go from nights in Seb’s basement, afternoons strolling through town together, to this—dark midnight, lit only by the full moon ahead, twisted into something that cracks whatever veneer he’s managed to erect in these two seasons. 

He almost runs, like he always considers—fleeing is always on the back of his mind, maybe cowardice comes with this malady as well—but he cannot be a creature in this moment, he’s a man, just a man. No bite on his neck, no blood dizzying his mind, not when you’re bleeding out in the snow before him. 

“I’m going to pick you up,” he says, moving carefully, slowly. When you do not stab him, he loops one arm under your chest, the other under your legs, scoops you up with one fell motion. The jostle makes a bit more blood weep from the gash on your chest. He turns his head up. Don’t look. Don’t think. 

Something cold and corrosive comes to rest against his neck, close enough that he cannot even look down again without fear that it will dig into him. He makes no move to get out of it. You’re probably right for that. The fog of mind that prompted him to look at you as not you, but instead some inanimate sack of blood, is still perilously present at the back of his mind.  

Still, as he carefully navigates down the mountain, he must think that it’s such a strange sensation, to be predator and prey both at once. 

He likes it in a way that’s not entirely appropriate for this situation. 

You do not remove the blade until he’s stepping into town center, banging on Harvey’s door. When it falls from his neck, it is with a quick, exhausted motion, like it was a struggle to hold it up for so long. 

Harvey takes you with all the requisite panic and clucking. He sticks around for a moment, watching as you’re set up in a long white bed, gives his story about ‘happening’ upon you in a snowbank. 

That night, after he’s ushered out of the clinic, he lays in his bed and runs a hand first over the cut in his hip and then the thinner, hairlike one that runs over his throat. Two lines, perfectly parallel, the tines of Yoba’s fork that line the conduit between Heaven and Hell. 

—

A note arrives in the mailbox not the next morning but the one after that. It’s simple, on unornamented paper, and reads only Come to my farm. 

He crumples it slightly in his fist. The winter day outside is just as brisk as usual, a cold wind that buffets at his face, tries to tear the hat from his head. He makes the trek anyways, past Marnie’s shuttered farm—all the animals are nice and cozy inside—and up, towards the large slot of land that you’ve designated as farm. 

Which, just like his prediction from so long ago, is utterly empty. Which is perhaps understandable, given that it’s winter, but there’s not even a single coop erected, not one wilted plant embedded in the ground. He makes his way to your door, knocks with a singular, decisive motion. A beat passes before it swings open, and there you stand, looking little worse-for-wear, just a large bandage wrapped around your chest. 

“Are you alright?” Is the first thing he asks. You tilt your head like you’re surprised he asked. 

“Peachy.”

“No, really.”

You step back from the door, beckoning him in. 

“I’ve been through worse. Thanks for…” you make a dismissive sort of hand gesture that's supposed to encapsulate picking me up and not draining me dry, and he nods. 

“I mean, uh. Yeah. Of course.” This close to you for a first, real time, in a space that’s entirely yours, he’s not sure what to do, how to conduct himself. He feels like he is ten again, his first crush—Penny, who’s another one of those friendships that dropped in this past year and he has not yet found the time to pick up—and so out of place that it feels like trying to fit a square peg in a hole that is not there in the first place, has never been. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, “you were right.”

“About?”

“My… blood. I almost couldn’t help it.”

You give him a thin-lipped smile. “But you did. I didn’t expect you to.”

“I had a little help,” he says sheepishly, hand traveling to the cut across his stomach which has not yet healed. Your own hand travels to the hilt of your sword—not in a threatening manner, but instead, a motion that is more along the lines of commiseration. 

A moment of awkward silence before, eventually, you jump into motion, crossing through the small, warm room to a kitchen, reaching for a kettle. “Tea? Got some fresh leaves from Caroline.”

“Sure,” he replies, and the day sinks as easily as a sugarcube in hot water, as teeth into skin and all that comes with such vampiric metaphors. 

It shifts, after that, some seismic quake in what can tentatively be called a friendship. It’s not every day that he meets you at your farm, but most, you’re somewhere together, Cindersap forest or the Spa or the beach. Even when he’s working, idly dusting the library, you lounge in a plush couch and grimace over the pictures in Unholy: Ancient Rites of Blood. 

He sees a second you under that first, fearsome layer—one that is not so angry at his nature but instead, uniquely, nakedly curious. One afternoon, the final day of winter, in which the snow retreats to its high lodgings in the mountain, he sits in your living room and allows you to investigate every part of him. 

“Teeth,” you say, and he opens mouth, allows the canines to flash, serrated on one side and needle-sharp on the other. You run a careful finger down one of them. Such a small gesture, such a degree of trust that it almost blows him back. When you circle the tip of your index finger over the pinpoint of his left tooth, and his eyes alight on your sword on the ground—still in arm’s reach—he must wonder who’s really doing the trusting. 

 He allows you to pry his ring off his finger and spin it about in your hands; you press two fingers to the pulse point of his neck, an ear to his chest, try to listen to the beat of his heart. If it still pumped, he’s sure it would be at a jackrabbit pace, with your presence so close. The subtle scent that all humans have, that of blood and life, is mixed with something that’s unique to you—the cool air of the Mines and the burn of silver in his nostrils. 

“You’re cold,” is your final verdict, as you draw back achingly far. He nods. 

“That, uh, comes with the whole dead thing.”

“I’ve always…” you start, before switching the phrase on its head, “I’ve never been able to study one of you before. They’re usually trying to kill me.”

“I guess I’m different,” he quips, leaning a touch closer despite himself, seeking your heat like a snake seeks the sun. Your hands are so pleasant against his skin, like smooth river stones, warmed by temperate waters. 

“Oh, you don’t even know,” you reply, looking at him like he is indeed a wonder of the world. 

Spring trudges back into the valley. It’s been two years since that night. He is with you on one of the backalley paths of the mountain, near a waterfall that hums soft songs into the air, when he realizes the anniversary. 

“It was tonight,” he says abruptly, interrupting your tracing of the constellations and explaining in great detail how each one correlates to an arm of the Adventurer’s guild. 

“The bite?” You ask, because of course you know him well enough, by now, to not have to ask, what? 

“It was in the dark,” he says, “ZuZu City. Took me by surprise.” 

You half-turn to regard him, head flopping over on the bed of pine needles. “Unwilling. So you didn’t choose this?”

“You know I didn’t,” he retorts, snappy despite himself. There’s a bit of insulted shock in the mix too, shock that you would dare to think he had. You must pick up on that, because your next words are a half-justification. 

“Most do. There’re benefits to the lifestyle. Strength, speed, reflexes. Immortality.”

“Maybe,” he says, recalling an older conversation, “I’m different because I didn’t.”

You let out an acknowledging sort of hum. 

“The one who killed my… killed them,” you add, after a second, “chose. I know she did.”

“Is that why..?”

“Mhm.” You run an idle hand down your body, and it lands upon your sword, which he’s come to recognize is less a threat and more an item of comfort. “I didn’t think any vampires could be… you know. Like you.” You turn more fully, shoulders shifting this time, and he moves to match. “I hope you never change. I hope time doesn’t twist you.”

“Me too,” he whispers, and your faces are so close now, close enough that he could lean forwards. Roll forwards, more like, but same same. He almost does, but then stutters back, caught in hesitation so strong that it crystallizes like amber. There is no name for what you have been, this past season-and-half, joined at the hip, split at the head. No bouquet, only the markers of mere friendship, but more, or at least he wants more. The desire comes from the same place his hunger does: that insatiable well at the base of his spine, not entirely filled even with a gallon of blood, with a season of your attention. 

It’s not entirely changed from his old self, if he thinks about it. That Sam who wanted large stages and blaring crowds and liked food a lot too, actually. 

You smile. He can’t see why. 

“I never thought…” you start again, and he expects you to flip the phrase on its head again, never to always, except, instead of that, you simply lean forwards, lips crushing into his. He’s caught so off-guard for a moment that he forgets to reciprocate, but by the time you’re beginning to draw away, he chases after your warmth, body bending to follow your pull. 

His teeth catch on your lip for a brief second, sharp enough that it almost pulls a cut open. You freeze for a long moment, and he almost spills an apology into your mouth, but then, you deliberately push up, the soft inner lining of your lip up against the tip of his fang. 

Another stillness. This is, he knows, the equivalent of a dog rolling onto its stomach, less about the submission and more about the trust. His hand reaches around your waist, correspondingly, so close to your sword that he could pull it out of the sheath itself if he didn’t mind a burnt-up hand. You notice as well, from the way you shift, allow his fingers to slide over the leather sheath. 

It is a compromise, it is a cycle, it is predator and prey, monster and human, and he cannot tell which is which. 

Soon, even that is forgotten, in the mess of hands and heat. You’re pressed so close to him that he can almost think that your warmth is his own. Only when your hands run down to cup the front of his pants does it pause. You pull away with a question in your eyes, and he must duck his chin to his chest, explain the whole, “uh, lack of blood situation.”

You actually laugh at that. 

“I can…” he struggles to get the words out, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire so strong that it hurts to express, “my mouth.”

For a moment, he thinks this may be a threshold of trust that you’re not yet willing to cross—but then, then, you nod fractionally. Pull back, hands falling to undo the button of your pants, pulling them down and throwing them to the side. 

Sam lowers himself with a slow, measured movement. Lingers for a moment directly above, and when you make a questioning, impatient sort of sound, he must admit, “I haven’t, uh… actually done this before.”

“So you are a virgin,” you exclaim, “in both ways.”

Before he can snap anything back, you place a gentle hand on the back of his head and say, quietly, “I think you’ll pick it up.”

He takes the final plunge down, and does. Starts slowly and unsurely, at first, in the folds, but he soon finds that when he focuses on the bud at the top of the slit, your legs tighten, hand clenching atop his head. At first, he is careful to keep his teeth far away, but the first time his fang brushes incidentally against you, you actually let out a quiet moan. 

So more. Carefully, as not to draw blood, but each delicate scrape gives you a new wave of pleasure. It is something unique for him as well, to linger so rapturously close to drawing blood, but not to do it—to pull himself back from the edge, to know that he is something more than base instincts and hunger, to know that you like him, all him, and not only who he used to be, not only the monster in his skin. 

When you come, it is with a shuddering of your body and the clenching of your hips around his head, a surge of fresh wetness that he might call better than blood. Would call, because blood does not come with your collapse against him, hands coming around to meet around his back, drawing him into an embrace of trembling shoulders. 

—

“Is this us, then?” You ask, as spring comes to a close, shoulder-to-shoulder at the Flower Dance. Never his favorite holiday, and not yours either, he’d wager, but it’s a good enough place to talk about this, as the season falls to tatters in the form of delicate pink petals around them. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, puzzled. There have been far more nightly rendezvous and far more nights of tongue and teeth and far more suggestive looks from Abby when you sit a touch too close to be friendly at the Saloon. 

“Us,” you repeat, “are we..?”

He blinks. Is there any possible world in which you are not ‘..?’? 

“Yes?”

“I was going to leave,” you say, “kill you, move onto the next one. You caught me.” You give him a light shove, which he bows along with. 

“...Are you still planning on leaving?”

“No,” you reply, “but what about after? We’re so… immortal, mortal, all that.”

“Are you scared I’ll change?” He asks. There is no offense in the question, just idle curiosity. He can’t really be offended when he, himself, is scared of the very same thing. 

“Maybe,” you admit. Out in the field, Jas starts yelling at Vincent because he muddied her dress, and Dad rushes out to handle it. It’s good to see his shoulders looser nowadays, the easy way in which he maneuvers around the situation. 

“I meant what I said,” he replies, “that first night. If I ever get hungry like that, then you have full permission to handle it.”

You smile, give him a look that’s so full of love, or at least something that approaches love, that he thinks he might be able to subsist on glances like that alone. Even better when you lean forwards, press a kiss to his temple. 

“I’ll stay for a bit.”

He smiles. It’s not forced. “Think you’ll have enough time to join a band?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I can’t play a thing.”

“I’ll teach you,” he assures, watching Lewis raise his arms to signal a gathering for the dance. Rises easily, offers a hand to help you up as well, “Abby and Seb are on board already. For me?”

“For you,” you confirm, as easily as the monster fades into the darkness, as the sun rises over the sea-lined horizon.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

cdoomsdaytrio going to the hot springs to have a relaxing bath and both phil and dream lay on techno chest while closing their eyes and enjoying the warm of the water and techno it's resisting the urge to swim like a fish in circles and starting a water fight

you're onto something here

----------

/dsmp /rp warning for description of torture, burns. seems like an odd trigger warning for the prompt but stick with me. flashbacks in italics.

"You want power so fucking bad, man? You want power?" Quackity's voice waivered as though he was on the edge of laughter. "You know the greatest power of all? It's the power of choice, Dream. The power of choice. I'm ready and willing to offer that to you."

Dream clutched his hand. It was still bleeding-- he's been applying pressure for a long, long time, and it was still bleeding. A large slice opened at the base of his ring finger, splaying open layers of flesh. It might've been to the bone. He noticed Sam watching attentively.

A small cauldron of boiling water lay directly between him and Quackity.

"So choose. Lose another finger," Quackity continued, "Or dunk the whole hand in this cauldron. Just a preference thing, really, but it's more than I usually offer you."

Dream felt his head spin. The memory of losing his pinkie finger was still fresh, he could still see the dried blood in the crevices of obsidian that Sam missed--

Dream woke. The steam around him caused a moment of panic, but as soon as he recognized the pink fur his head was laying atop, he knew where he was.

"Kinda rude that you still get nightmares at the hot spring," Techno droned.

While he was mining a few months ago, Technoblade stumbled upon an underground hot spring. Dream didn't even know that underground hot springs could exist, let alone that they were safe to bathe in. He heard stories about boiling, acidic lakes on the surface, and he worried that this would be similar. He waited until both Techno and Philza entered the water before he followed suit, but now they were arranged in a comfortable, warm, sweaty pile. Techno was half-floating with his shoulders rested on a rock wall, Phil was settled on his chest, and Dream was tucked somewhere underneath Phil's wing.

Dream didn't remember falling asleep. He stretched his limbs, finding that he was less sore than he normally was. The warm water must have helped. The burn scars that decorated his left hand had faded; the other, more dramatic and miscolored scars were more visible and drowned them out, in a way. He'd forgotten about that day. They all started to blend together after a while.

Philza was curled next to him, skin-to-skin, legs tangled. He must've drawn closer during the nightmare. He felt Phil's thin fingers threading through his hair.

Techno nudged the tip of his snout into the crook of Dream's neck. "You good?"

"I'm good."

[pixies-and-poets]

Hello everyone!

Super Mario RPG has been in my life for over 15 years, but it wasn't until the remake came out that I gave it significant space in my brain. Both the absolute joy and love that the remake invokes, as well as the renewed fandom around it, have gotten me obsessed with some of these characters like never before.

Even so, I've been a bit hesitant to write or put some of my ideas out there... it's a very old fandom, one in which I feel so many interesting story ideas and philosophical angles to these characters must have already been explored, since the days of forum roleplays and the heyday of sprite comics which I remember from my earliest years online. It makes it somewhat intimidating for me to write down my own ideas for fear of retreading old ground that I didn't even know had been trod. Or perhaps just not being nearly as interesting as fanon that has existed before.

....But I'm also really obsessed and I need to get some stuff out of my brain. So I'm just gonna try some things! For fun!

And therefore I present to you, my first ever SMRPG writing. Let me know if you like it, and there will be more!

PS: the way I'm resolving the name discrepancy between some of the characters mentioned here, is that I take their remake names to be the names Smithy gave them, and their "original" names to be the names they eventually take for themselves. That just feels right to me. But that is not yet relevant to this story.

So, without further ado...

The Forging

This one wasn’t much to look at. Yet.

Smithy had given this project days of nonstop planning and engineering- then hours upon hours of heating, hammering, grinding, polishing, the bright sparks flying ceaselessly in his workshop, the sound of his hammer ringing out like a song on repeat. Everything was calculated to ensure just the right amount of sturdiness and strength while maintaining a lightweight flexibility. The perfect incarnation of a spear.

But what it all amounted to, as far as an untrained eye could see, was an unassuming wire-frame of spindly limbs, attached to a cauldron-like lower belly for some weight. The inert body lay stretched out on the slab like a stick figure, more like the beginning sketch of a piece of art than its end product.

That was alright. It was only the beginning, after all. He still needed details: the flourishes of red that would bring his design to completion, the cape that would serve as the dramatic curtain to cloak his form. More than anything, of course, he needed life. He needed movement.

Of course, he didn’t have a head yet, and that didn’t help matters.

The head alone had taken Smithy a day in itself. But when finished, it was truly a masterpiece. The long and deadly point gleamed in the light of the forge, the very essence of both elegance and danger; below it, the “cheekbones” were two sharp and threatening downward curves, masterfully forged in their grace and symmetry. In between them, the eyes: open and blank. No thoughts stirred them just yet; but soon, there would be more than enough to animate them. This one was to be a thinker, after all.

He heated up the bottom tip once again, just enough so that it glowed, but didn’t melt - and using his tongs, pressed the final touch up inside what looked like the creature’s open snout. The red fibers of the mustache fused and glued themselves to the inner metal. There- the upward-pointing curves that reflected the downward ones above them, the spot of color- now the whole piece was perfection of both craftsmanship and design.

...And it made him look mature. Dignified. Adult. With Bowyer and Claymorton running around, they could certainly use a bit more of that around the place.

Smithy held the head at arm’s length, to admire it for a moment- and then approached the body on the slab. He slotted the head expertly into the joint where the spine arched back into what became a plume, clicking and snapping it into its place; it was meant to be removable, after all.

As he stood back again, the smith noticed that the yellow eyes had closed. Smithy smiled- there had been some reaction; good. He had not failed in his designs. Now his creation slept its primordial sleep, and would awaken when he commanded.

In the meantime, he would work on those final touches. He turned to his workbench to retrieve the accessories that had been created and set aside in advance. He slid and buckled the belt around the creature’s lower body- an unnecessary accoutrement, but a pleasing one. Two red “socks”- really, more like braces, around his ankles, attaching just so, to provide extra cushioning from leaps. And then- well, why not? He picked up the large red plume, which had been-

A scraping and rattling caught Smithy by surprise. He turned quickly, and saw that the Spear was moving his right hand. The skeletal steel fingers, as yet ungloved, scratched at the slab on which they rested. A drumming, a grasping- as if eager.

Suddenly the creature’s entire arm jolted, as if electrified- and his eyes flew open. As Smithy reached his side, the spear-being blinked, looking around groggily- and then he pulled himself up, resting on his elbows, his thin but supple spine curving into a more upright position. He blinked again, and turned his head- the movements of his eyes had already grown restless, darting around the room. They lit on Smithy, still holding the plume, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Well! You’re here early,” said the blacksmith in amusement. “You aren’t finished yet.” Hungry for life, this one.

The creation pushed himself upwards to a full sitting position. He looked down at his fingers, his shoes, his body… and then back at the other figure in the room.

“Who am I?” were his first words.

Smithy took a moment to respond. In his head, he was reacting to the question, comparing it to the others he had received. “What am I?” Boomer had asked. “Where am I?” was Claymorton’s question. “Who are you?!” was the inquiry from Bowyer, with a nya or two thrown in. And now…

“Your name is Speardovich. You are the sharp and shining spear of my army, who strikes with cleverness and cunning. You are a weapon.”

Feeling a bit silly with the plume in his hands, Smithy took hold of the wire that bent out from behind his creation’s head, and affixed the crest to its place. The activity seemed to startle the newborn being, and when it was done, he shook his head back and forth, feeling out his the new balance. He reached backwards with one of his clawlike hands and ran his fingers through the plume, as one might admire their own luxurious hair. He seemed to like it indeed.

“...What is a weapon?” he asked when he was satisfied with this, looking Smithy in the eyes again, curiously.

“Hmm! Good question.” But this would be easy enough, the blacksmith thought- it was long ago now, but he could still recall the essence of what he had told Boomer.

“A weapon is what we make here- what I make here. My name, by the way, is Smithy- your creator.” He turned back to his table, and came back a moment later with a red glove. He lifted the right wrist of his creation - still limp, weak, confused - and gently slid the hand inside. “Some would say a weapon is an implement designed to cause damage,” he said, as he fitted each finger delicately into its place; surprisingly deft with his own massive hand. “To hurt, to maim, to kill. To destroy.”

He stepped away, and came back with the glove’s left-handed counterpart. “Others would say,” he continued, as he again slid each wiry finger into where it belonged, “That a weapon enables self-defense. To defeat so-called evil, to allow people to live safe and free.”

Finished with the gloving, Smithy held his creation’s smaller hand in his own for just a moment- the one, long-fingered and designed for dexterity, atop the other built for strength. “But either way- a weapon is power. The very idea of power, distilled and manifested into an object. And that, my Speardovich, is what you are. Now- move your hands. Tell me, do those gloves fit well?”

The creation raised his hands, gazing at them, and wiggled and stretched his fingers. He did not answer for a moment.

“So?” prompted the smith. “Is something the matter?”

“I… don’t think it’s the gloves,” said the weapon at last, shaking his head. “It's- it's my hands themselves. They feel… incomplete. They…” he made a grabbing, clutching motion with both of them- he suddenly seemed pitiable, like a child needy for a parent, a role in which Smithy was clearly deficient. “I- I’m sorry, My Lord Smithy. I don’t have the words. I don’t understand-”

“Ah,” said Smithy. “I know what you need. Hold tight.”

He turned yet again to retrieve something, and in a moment returned holding a long rod with a shining steel point at one end. Wrapped near the tip was a bold ribbon of red fabric.

“This is yours,” said the smith. “Of course you yearn for it. It’s part of you.” He stretched out his large hands, presenting the object to his creation.

Said creation’s eyes had grown huge. “My spear,” he said, in awe. He did not need to ask what it was. Not this.

He took it, with desperate swiftness- and closed his eyes. He clutched it across his chest, in both his hands, and something spread across his wiry body, releasing tension he did not even know he had. He did not know the word just yet, but later he would look back and realize it was joy.

Suddenly, in an instinctive movement, he took the spear in his right hand and deftly twirled it, over his head, and to the side of the slab on which he had been born and still sat, pointing it downwards. His eyes opened and he sprang up, his young knees bending like a spring, and he stood upright, pointing and thrusting the spear before him in a series of expert stabs. 

Smithy grinned, giddy and foolish with pride at his work. “Yes!!” he cried. “There you are!! You know who you are, after all!!”

“Indeed,” said Speardovich, looking down from his great height at his creator. His voice had lost the slow, innocent wonder of his early questions- it was now rich and resonant with confidence. “I know who I am.”

“Come down here,” ordered Smithy, and the gangly outline of a figure obeyed, jumping nimbly to the floor. The weaponsmith carried over from the work-table the last accessory, the one that had taken up the vast majority of the space. He took the red-flowing cape and draped it over the back of his newest pride and joy. Speardovich bowed his head, resting the bottom of his spear on the ground, as Smithy proceeded with the cape, buckling the horn-shaped epaulets into the sockets he had forged for them.

“Now, my Spear,” said Smithy, “let us waste no time. I have so much more to tell you- of me, and you, and what you shall do for me. And of course, you will meet your colleagues.”

Speardovich raised himself to his full height- he was taller even than his maker- and hesitated. He tried to suppress his surprise and disappointment- colleagues. Just how many of them were there?? Would they compete for the glory their mutual creator had thus far lavished upon him? Or would they show him the respect and deference he so clearly deserved?

Well, there was only one way to find out- and he would maintain that respect with force, if need be.

He was, after all, a weapon.

“Lead the way, my Lord,” he said with a nod. Then he followed the heavy plod of his creator, his cape and his plume flowing behind him, his spear in his hand, his head held high.

[kiskivmiske]

•••••|Pyrrhia exploration logs|••••••

Entry 004

Day 3

We didn't find anyone upon inspection of the border, but fishbug was missing from its bucket.

Nazira and Rustam were on watch throughout the night, but the intruder never came back.

Well, because it never left. I found him upon waking up.

It's an intact male, 4-6 months, probably one of those released by government. I told em cats (and many other earth species) are highly invasive and will wreck havoc on environment. But what do I know I'm jUsT a DuMb fEmALe.

Ded Egor has a death wish. He caught the thing. The fishbug. Then cooked and ate it. If the cat did it, he guessed it's fine. He was right. That's not a venom gland, it's an ink sack. Now his beard is dyed blue. Well, I guess it's exactly how cavemen figured out what you can eat, but there were seventeen of us and we already lost one. An extremely stupid dog, but anyway! We're going to run out before our rations!

Zira and Tasya brought more fruits and we planted their seeds, too. Men are expanding the garden. Larisa, as a botanist, tries to classify new plants.

They ejected a capsule with walkie talkies! They also gave us medicines. I guess the fact that we are still kicking impressed them so much. Buttholes know more than they tell.

The same day, Daniel called, saying he's being attacked by a giant mosquito. We rushed to find him unconscious, with a hole in his stomach. His skin is pale, he probably lost a lot of blood. Saburo and Kristo are fighting for his life.

Pam called the head office for emergency lift. They responded that they "don't have resources" and "don't want to take unnecessary risk". The [AUTOMATICALLY_TAGGED_AS_INAPPROPRIATE] you mean? What did you see to pee your panties so much?!

The thing that attacked him didn't fly away because it ate too much blood and was too heavy to do so.

Looks a tiny bit like a fly or mosquito, but like bugfish it's a vertebrate, a big one, the size of a wolf. Also jawless, but snout is protruding into a proboscis with teeth on the end of it. We tried to put it down carefully to study, but Egor beat it up with a club and its stomach burst, spilling on my legs.

Gee thanks ( ╯°益°)╯彡┻━┻

The thing is, the contents of the stomach were purple, not red. Sucking bugfish ink would be inefficient, since they are way too small. It would need a hundred, if not thousands of those. And the color isn't that intense. Did it suck blood out of a giant octopus previously? Dan is lucky it did, or it would suck out much more of his blood before its hunger is quenched. And I doubt he'd survive that.

Correction on previous notes: floatpod's bubbles aren't filled with air. They are filled with METHANE! Kids threw it in campfire to see it pop and it EXPLODED near a boiling cauldron. Only one person was injured in the process GUESS WHO! DING DING MOTHER[AUTOMATICALLY_TAGGED_AS_INAPPROPRIATE] DING! Yes, I have second degree burns all over my legs.

My hiking pants were drying from previous ordeal and I had very thin yoga pants on. Turns out, they aren't a great heat isolator! My body is hot pink below the bikini area all the way to ankle joints (rubber boots saved my feet). Also a piece of cauldron shot and scratched my leg. Kids got very minor burns from drops as I was mostly in the way of explosion. My insane luck, man.

Men carried me to the stream to cool off. Saburo is watching me so I don't drown if I pass out. He gave me ketorol, but I'm still in a lot of pain. Cat sits nearby, looking at something. Ghost hunting kitty business. Dan is stable, but still extremely weak, girls agreed to take turns watching sick people at night to make sure they're alright.

Obviously, I'm not in the mood to illustrate anything at the moment, but Stas provided his artistic iteration of the event

Keith, the kid who set off a bomb, says his imaginary friend told him to do so to see what happens, and asked him to apologize on his behalf. Classic.

Also I might have a slight brain or eye damage. I see things, or rather don't see certain things that I know were there! I'll try to sleep and see if my health improves.

End entry

[clearsighting]

SWORDTAIL

Swordtail is burly and handsome, with iridescent dark blue scales and a small pattern of white triangles along his spine and snout. He has beautiful dark blue eyes, deep blue wings, long blue antennae, and a long orange-and-blue tail. He is dotted all over with orange splotches, as though someone melted a sunset in a cauldron and flung it over his wings.

description source from the wings of fire wiki

[curryfury13]

KHOC Week 2024 Day 7 - Future

We've reached the final day of @khoc-week and it's been such a wonderful whirlwind. Six years it's been going! I can hardly believe it. This prompt helps me look towards the future in my own life as well as Hinata's.

Speaking of Hinata, let's get it!

You may have noticed Hinata wearing a golden locket. It's more than just a simple necklace, it holds her future. Well, more technically it's a recording of a vision of her future.

During "Third Beginning", the Organization began hunting Hinata. Any time she left the mansion the Organization or a bounty hunter were there. It got to the point that her father confined her to the mansion in Twilight Town. The building had a barrier around it keeping outsiders from being able to break in uninvited.

This worked for a while. Until Hinata couldn't handle being locked away. She became restless and frustrated. And eventually she convinced Riku to head back to a world they'd been to in the past, a world that had a certain oracular pig that could show visions of the future.

If the vision showed her with a happy future, then surely things would be ok of she left the mansion.

So Riku and Sam went to Prydain, the origin of the Black Cauldron. After an arduous journey that involved the Horned King coming back as a Heartless, having to regain Taran's trust, and getting Hen Wen back from the Heartless King, they were rewarded with their visions.

Sam asked to see her father, who had disappeared over two years ago. While Riku asked to see Hinata.

B.E.N recorded the resulting visions and Sam created the lockets to house both of the visions.

Hinata wears her locket on a necklace and often holds it, tracing the indentations, when she's anxious. For her it's a reminder that everything will be ok. No matter how dark things become, there's a light waiting there at the end.

Below the cut is an except from Chapter 39 of "Third Beginning", describing the vision in its entirety.

_-----------_----------_-----------_

Riku wordlessly nodded and looked over at Hen Wen, catching her blue eyes gazing back at him. Something about her made him feel uneasy, as if she was looking right into his soul. He slowly knelt down beside her and took in a deep breath as he took off one of his gloves.

Barely touching the surface of the water, he gently moved his finger in a circular motion, repeating the words, "Hen Wen, from you I do beseech, knowledge that lies beyond my reach…"

Hen Wen followed his movements with her eyes, before lowering her snout into the water. The surface shimmered as Ben lit up his eyes, beginning his recording. A familiar sight appeared on the water's surface: a blue sparkling ocean that went out as far as they could see. Clouds speckled the sky as seagulls flew by, landing on the tall coconut trees that surrounded them. Hinata walked into view, her hands clasped behind her as she looked around. Her hair tapered past her shoulders, swaying softly with the breeze. A blue floral fabric was tied at her hips, billowing in the wind, and a black swimsuit top was fastened around her chest. She looked over her shoulder at Riku, her tattoo glowing brilliantly as she spoke, yet they couldn't hear her voice.

In the vision, Riku walked forward and pushed a few strands of Hinata's hair behind her ear, making her giggle before she looked back out at the ocean view. Behind them, Sora and Kairi came running up, both of them in their swimsuits, laughing as they approached. Kairi tackle hugged Hinata, almost making them topple over as Sora stopped beside Riku, grinning over at him. Suddenly, the vision swirled, making the image disappear before bringing up something new.

Riku stood in front of a group of familiar faces, Hinata being one of them. Star and crescent moon shaped windows were along the walls behind them, showing a deep space outdoors. In the center of the room was a long table, where a man with a long grayed beard sat, speaking to him. His eyes appeared stern and serious, but given the smiles on everyone else's face, Riku felt calm and welcomed. Beside the man stood Mickey with Donald and Goofy at his side. Behind them, Hinata had her hands clasped in front of her chest with a sweet expression on her face. She looked over to the right of Riku, making Riku look over to see Sora standing beside him with his hands linked behind his head as he spoke with a goofy grin molded onto his face. Sora noticed Riku's stare and looked over at him. The moment their eyes met, the vision once again swirled, about to change into a new image.

"I don't understand," the real Riku spoke up, shortly glancing up at Sam as she had walked over to see the vision. "These seem really far in the future."

Sam met his gaze, her eyes equally as confused as his. "Just keep watching, we'll figure it out."

Riku frowned, but looked back at the vision, showing him walking through a forest. Lush green trees surrounded him and soft grass speckled with flowers covered the ground. He noticed Hinata in the distance, sitting on top of a plush red—checkered quilt beside a woven picnic basket. In front of her was a little girl, no more than the age of six. Her hair was the same color as Riku's, reaching all the way to her waist. She sat patiently while Hinata braided her hair, weaving in some of the flowers from around the forest.

"Wait, is that…?" Sam softly began to speak, kneeling down to see the vision better.

Before she could finish her sentence, both the little girl and Hinata looked over. Their eyes didn't meet with Riku's but a little below to the right of him. Hinata's smile turned into a grin as she held out her arms. A little boy, barely over the age of two, with dark red hair, toddled into view from Riku's side. He stumbled a bit, but ran into Hinata's arms, receiving a warm hug. Hinata laughed, kissing the little boy on his forehead before looking up at Riku. A sweet glow was in her matured face and smile.

The real Riku gasped when their eyes met, his breath catching in his throat as his heart jumped. He knew exactly who those children were. A warm flush covered his face as tears threatened to fill his eyes. Swallowing hard, he looked away, unable to keep his gaze with Hinata's without being overwhelmed with emotion.

"T—that—" his voice came out hoarsely, making him clear his throat, "That's enough."

Taran reached forward and rippled the water, making the vision disappear. Riku leaned back, feeling the couch behind him to support his weight. He looked over at the crackling fire, wrapping his mind over everything he had just seen. His heart fluttered every time he replayed the events, a blush permanently on his cheeks. Ever so slowly, a smirk appeared on his face, eventually transforming into a full smile.

He tore his gaze from the flames to see Sam. She noticed him looking over and smiled at him, shaking her head and letting out a breathy laugh.

"Might not have been what we were looking for," she laughed, her voice still stained with tears. "But you have to admit, that was pretty amazing anyways."