#i fear this is common sense but apparently not

[enkvyu]

hi guys !!

coming back on here rq because of the recent plagiarism situation but reminder that its never ok to repost someone else’s work whether they’re inactive or not, or for some ridiculous excuse like you’re organising your likes on tumblr on a completely different site for “offline reading” (😭😭) i’m eternally grateful to everyone who reported the acc and got it taken down and i’m sure every writer feels the same way 🙂‍↕️

if you have suspicions that a work you’re reading has been reposted please reach out to the original author !!

and finally, thank you the ppl who personally reached out to me n filled me in on what’s happening 🤍

[carp3-di3mm]

Your biennial reminder that just because someone lives in a red state doesn’t mean that bad things should happen to them. I don’t want to hear about how they “should’ve gotten washed away in the hurricane,” or how marginalized people should “just leave”, or literally any other thing wishing harm on entire regions of people.

The opposite of liberation is dehumanization.

[marbiriam]

no, because why did my brain totally gloss over the fact that dragons can smell fear?? I mean, I was re-reading fablehaven, and then Navarog just CASUALLY mentions that he could smell Kendra’s nervousness

that means that Celebrant knew every time Kendra was talking to him, she was having a freaking panic attack

[crescenthistory]

Hello, may i request a prompt "are we friends?" between f!reader and the slytherin skittles? Where the reader used to attend Ilvermorny but had trauma from it (like bullying and fallout with friends). So she doesn’t want to intrude on the friendship that the skittles already have. Oh and they’re all in their sixth year. Thank you 🙏

hi lovely, thank you for this cute concept<33 i didn't explicitly emphasise what your past at ilvermorny was to leave it dubious and open to every reader

Prompt: F.3 "Are we friends?"

Words: 2.2k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, use of y/n, ilvermorny!reader (no specified nationality), implied troubled background at ilvermorny, mental illness/insecurity shown through reader's pov, odd friendship dynamics, found family, intended as platonic!slytherin skittles x reader but can be read as romantic if you want<3

You weren't entirely sure what happened.

One day you were being thrown into what felt like a wild zoo filled with any and every kind of person you could possibly imagine, clad in dark robes and chattering around in hundreds of different accents, and you were decidedly determined to isolate yourself away from the masses and live a solitary life at Hogwarts.

The next, you were sitting in the library and the same group of Slytherins that sat with you yesterday – and strangely the day before that, and the day before that – plopped down around you and made themselves at home. As if this was simply the norm, as if it was a given that their seat was the one beside you.

You weren't offended or uncomfortable, necessarily, but you were certainly... confused. You didn't mind them being there, yet their presences were strange to you and you could not make sense of this disconnect in your mind.

When you arrived at Hogwarts a month ago, you had felt nothing short of publicly humiliated when you were brought up to the Sorting Hat after the ocean of 11 year-olds had been passed through it for the past hour. It was apparently not a common occurrence that students transferred in from other schools, especially not Ilvermorny, and there was no protocol for how to handle it. Instead of taking your Ilvermorny house into consideration and putting you in the Hogwarts house that most closely resembled it, Dumbledore himself had decided that this jittery 7th year student go through the same process as everyone else.

McGonnagall had pitied you enough to grab your shoulder before you went up to whisper to you, "The hat is your friend, not foe, Mx. L/N. Do not fear it."

With entirely too many eyes on you, you climbed the steps and gingerly sat down on the seat. Unlike with the kids, the Sorting Hat fit you rather snuggly, leaving you unfortunately without the much sought after shelter of the brim.

You solved the solution by looking down in your lap, trying not to visibly startle when a voice spoke in your mind.

Transfer student, huh? Haven't had one of you in a while. Most certainly interesting...

You reminded yourself friend not foe and closed your eyes, trying to will the hat to be merciful and grant you reprieve. To put you in a house where you can get what you need – solitude, privacy, quiet. It was just a year. You could go through a year if you were just left alone.

To your shock – though perhaps it shouldn't have been – the hat responded to your thoughts.

What you need, you say? Well, I do believe I can help in that regard. Keep your mind open, dear one.

The next word the hat spoke was out loud, not in your mind – it yelled out "SLYTHERIN". At the time, you didn't know whether to be relieved, confused or terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a certain group of 7th year Slytherins sitting at the end of the long table had shared curious looks and wide grins upon the announcement.

Those Slytherins were the very same strewn around you today, on various furniture all surrounding the same large oak table that was almost invisible beneath all your parchments and books.

You were sitting on one end of a settee, legs crossed and wrists resting on the table, somewhat jittery. On the other side sat Regulus Black in a similar position, his face as impassive as ever and turned down into a book that you were quite confident was not in the curriculum. Opposite you on a similar sofa, Barty Crouch Jr. laid upside down, with his legs thrown over the back of the sofa and his neck craning in a way that simply could not be comfortable where it rested on the seat. Pandora Rosier was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Barty's head, braiding a dozen tiny braids into his hair, mixing black and acid green strands together absentmindedly. Her twin brother Evan Rosier was pretending to ignore whatever Barty was talking about as he did his homework, but you could see how his ears were perked up. Lastly, Dorcas Meadowes sat on an armchair beside the settees, twirling her wand and looking every bit like she was thinking of something she shouldn't.

You would be the first to admit that they were interesting people. In another life, perhaps you would even spend time together on purpose – but now, above all else one might want to know about them, you wanted to know why they were here.

It had started by them making space for you on the Slytherin table that first day, and afterwards they always left an open space there. Not asking, not demanding; it was as if they were just assuming you would sit there. And you didn't know where else to sit, so you did. Then the same thing happened in your classes – you sat down at an empty table, and before you knew it, one of them was taking the empty seat beside you.

There was never any proper introductory conversation, never any invitation into a friendship, yet they found you everywhere. It was not as if they didn't talk to you when they were there, though; from the very beginning, they were cracking jokes with and around you and roping you into their odd conversations. Learning more about you as you went instead of interrogating you on the spot.

It was sudden and unexpected and you didn't know what to do about it.

"Then I told him precisely where he could shove it and– are you even listening to me?" Barty cut himself off to look accusatory at Evan, whose eyebrow was now quirked up while his eyes remained trained on his parchment.

"Hm?" Evan asked absentmindedly, though you were almost entirely sure it was just to rile the other boy up.

Evan was usually successful in such endeavors, and this was no exception, judging by the shrieking gasp that escaped Barty. "You absolutely bloody wanker, how dare you– this is a good story!"

"Maybe," Evan drawled. "But it lost its charm around the third time I heard it."

Barty whipped his head sideways to stare daggers into Evan. "Salazar's soggy balls, this is a new story, I swear." He then rolled his head backwards to look at you upside down, pinning you to the seat with the same accusatory tone. "You were listening to me, right, Drâga?"

You made a reluctant face. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were talking to me."

Barty let out a theatrical huff and threw his hands up in the air for effect, nearly hitting Pandora on the way, causing Evan to give his wrist a slap, still without looking. "Of course I was talking to you – I'm talking to you all. By Merlin, you're all awful friends."

Though Barty continued on with his grumbling, you felt frozen in place by his last word. Before you could think more of it, the words tumbled out of your mouth. "We're what now?"

Dorcas tilted her head to the side, looking between you and Barty. "Oh, he didn't mean it Y/N, he's just a loudmouthed arse. You're still getting used to it."

"I resent that." Barty pointed at Dorcas as he spoke before he grabbed one of Evan's parchments, curled it up into a ball and threw it at her. "I'll have you know, I'm a fucking delight."

You were unaffected by their banter, eyes still narrowed at the lot of them, trying to decipher and understand what the hell was going on.

"You're thinking hard." Regulus remarked from your right, finally looking up from his book. At his rare contribution to conversation, Evan and Pandora seemed to perk up as well, and you suddenly felt entirely too much like you were being stared down. It was worse than the Sorting Hat.

"I–" you began, but cut yourself off and pressed your lips together with furrowed brows. "You think we're friends?"

Whatever they expected your answer to be, that did not seem to be it, based on their empty gazes. Dorcas reared her head backwards just a little, while Barty did a full body spin to land him in a mostly-upright position on the sofa – this time Evan yanked Pandora out of reach of Barty's swinging legs.

"What do you mean, do I think we’re friends?" Barty questioned then, almost offended. "Don’t pull my leg, why else would we be here? Either way, what I was trying to say–"

Barty's rant was once again cut off, this time simply by Dorcas holding up one hand in his direction while her eyes remained dutifully trained on you. "Love, did you not think we're friends?" she asked. Her voice was so painfully gentle, so caring, that you wanted to shy away from it, to pack up your bag and run and hide.

You realised that that was not a possibility. Instead, you tried to shrug as casually as you could and not let your emotions show. "Well, why would we be? We don't know each other, do we?"

You dared a glance sideways to see Regulus looking at you with a seemingly unimpressed expression, but you saw the twitch in the corner of his mouth. Evan opposite you, though, was not hiding his wide grin whatsoever. "Don't we know each other, love?" he asked then, seemingly partially smug.

"Yeah, if you don't know me, that is because you lot of wankers never listen. But I most certainly know you, L/N." Barty gestured with his finger in your general direction, as if he was preaching, which Evan yet again slapped away – though in favour of pulling Barty closer into his side.

"You don't know me," you tried, voice shaky yet growing somewhat frustrated with the situation.

"Of course we do," Dorcas intercepted. "I know you loathe breakfast but adore dinner. I know you prefer tea over coffee, I know that you like the sweets from back home better than those from Honeydukes."

"And I know that you're ridiculously patient, both with randos you're paired up with in class and with us, your friends," Barty added with a deadpan. "I know your real laughter is a very cute snort. I know you dislike being pranked but enjoy watching them play out, which is why we never play them on you but always around you."

"You're kind and you're bloody bright," Evan said with a nod, as if this was a natural conclusion. “Your best subjects are all of my worst ones, which is a joy. Watching your passion for them is the most enjoyable, though.”

"And you're peculiar just like us." Pandora finally spoke up with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. "That's why we go so well together – we're the same."

At some point in their conversation with you, your mouth fell open as you listened to them recount everything they had picked up about you over the past few weeks. The moment didn't feel real, it felt fabricated by some awfully optimistic and naive six year old still living in your mind, one that was readily crushed long before your transfer. You didn't realise they had noticed you so much.

You're brought out of your stupor by Regulus' quill being poked into your side, demanding your attention. You turned your head to find the twitch of his lip had turned into a small, knowing smile. "Even if we don't know everything about where you've been, we know who you are. You don't need to tell us anything for us to understand that."

"Yeah, what he said!" Barty exclaimed with glee, kicking his feet up onto the sofa as he leaned his entire weight on Evan.

“Even before we knew anything about you, we were friends.” Pandora was looking out through a window, seemingly in thought and awfully happy at being so. “In a way, we’ve always been friends, I suppose. When it just works like this.” 

You weren’t always sure you understood what Pandora meant, but this time, you felt it in your heart.

"Sorry love, but you're kind of stuck with us now. Should have sat with someone else on your first day." Dorcas shot you a wink at that, and something in your chest seemed to snap into place.

Even when you were asking an awkward question, the atmosphere never changed – there was no pity here, no judgment, just... kinship.

Friendship.

At last, you let a smile begin to bloom from within you, one which you immediately saw reflected back at you in your five new friends.

"No, actually, I don't think I should have."

[heirofnight]

finally

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 4.6k - this one's a doozy, buckle up.

based on this request: Hi hi can I get an angsty Azriel x fem!reader fic. Basically they’re mates but they don’t have the best relationship for whatever reason. Rhysand sends them on a mission somewhere and somehow Azriels mind gets taken over and he attacks reader. She doesn’t want to leave Azriel even though he begs her to before he lost control because despite everything she did love him. Reader ends up getting hurt but was thankfully able to reach out to Rhysand in time. Rhysand then clears Azriels mind from whatever was done to him. Azriel ofc beats himself up over it, but then they kiss and makeup.

content warnings: talk of death, reader gets attacked, choking

a/n: this was a TRIP to write. for all of you requesting angst, i'm serving it on a silver platter. i hope you love it! first time writing a fic based on a request, so i hope i did it justice. let me know what you think! as always, lightly edited. pls ignore any mistakes <3

"are you serious?", you spat out, scoffing in disbelief. you crossed your arms across your chest immediately, your body language depicting just how frustrated you were.

azriel stood next to you, keeping way too much distance for a male that was apparently, allegedly your mate.

some mate, you sneered within your swirling mind. you'd both still refused to accept the bond, and if anything, it had just made the already avoidant relationship between the both of you even worse.

you were convinced that this was some sort of divine mistake, there was simply no way that azriel was your mate. we have absolutely nothing in common, another brief thought that had you glancing at him from the corner of your peripheral - just to find him standing in the exact same stance that you currently held. arms crossed, body language defensive, expression stoic.

you cleared your throat and quickly dropped your arms to your sides, straightening your spine before meeting rhys' violet gaze once more. his eyes sparkled with amusement, knowing exactly what you were thinking. whether you were that transparent, or he had actually caught you with your mental shields down - you didn't know. the wards within your mind were the least of your concerns right now.

"i am absolutely serious, i'm afraid", rhys smirked, enjoying the entertainment of watching both you and azriel spiral towards an inevitable juvenile skirmish. especially at his own hand.

azriel huffed a frustrated breath, his shadows becoming more frenzied as they ebbed and flowed around his body. you glanced at him once more, noticed the way his wings had drooped in defeat. you found yourself beginning to admire his side profile, his sculpted, pretty features calling to you in a moment of weakness. you quickly averted your gaze.

you'd never claimed he wasn't attractive, that much about him was painfully obvious. and since he was - unfortunately - your mate, there were moments where it felt as though every fiber, cell, and atom of your body were screaming for his. you'd wondered if he ever felt the same.

"rhys, this is ridiculous. there is no reason for her to join me. i never have help on missions - i never need it," his words grew more strained as he spoke, his last words ending in a near-snarl.

you rolled your eyes at his arrogance, throwing your hands up in exasperation before letting them slap against your thighs. "oh, i'm so sorry, azriel. how could i possibly offer any significant knowledge or assistance with this job, when you're already the most wisest, skilled, and capable male ever gifted by the gods? how can any of us forget - we pale in comparison to the all-feared shadowsinger," your tone was mocking as you turned towards him, cheeks reddening in exasperation.

azriel met your gaze, eyes narrowed as he deadpanned, "most wise".

you narrowed your own gaze to match his, "what?", you scoffed out.

"you said most wisest. that makes no sense. i believe you meant most wise," he stated dryly, tone emotionless.

your cheeks reddened further, expression twisting into one of pure anger. it didn't help that you heard rhys struggling to hold back a bark of laughter.

"okay, honestly, fuck yo-", you began, ready to spit pure venom straight into his veins with your words.

"enough," rhys commanded, voice booming. you froze, huffing out a breath before looking over at the high lord - he was now standing, his hands braced against the surface of his desk. his eyes held no amusement, no laughter. he was fed up.

"you are to both deploy on this mission. you are to both work together to track down this rebel group of daemati, and you are to both report back here with your findings. you keep each other safe. you work together. and you stop this childish bickering," rhys stated, his tone taking on a quality of pure nobility.

he looked between both you and azriel with striking violet eyes. "you leave tomorrow. am i clear?", the high lord questioned, and you knew he required an answer.

"yes," you and your mate replied at the same time, in the same brooding tone. rhys quirked an eyebrow at that, smirking slyly.

"great. have fun, you two," he gave a swooping gesture with his arm in dismissal.

the next morning, you and azriel departed right after breakfast. it was a shared - albeit silent - meal, and you found yourself glancing up at him behind the rim of your glass every single time you took a sip. you didn't know it, but azriel was sparing you the same glances as he ate his porridge.

the rebel group of daemati were last known to be located near the northern edge of the day court's borders - nearing the court of nightmares. the plan was to teleport close to the border itself, and you and azriel both knew that you'd more than likely have to track them from that location to wherever they were now.

you'd left from the house of wind's balcony after eating - azriel reluctantly placing a large hand on your shoulder before teleporting you both in a blanket of darkness and swirling shadows.

once the shadows dissipated, you'd found yourselves in a chilled, heavily wooded patch of forest. you blinked a few times, gaining your bearings. before your eyes had even fully focused on where you were, azriel was stalking off to your left, already on the prowl.

you rolled your eyes, jogging after him in order to catch up. "is your plan to 'accidentally' lose me in the woods?", you sneered, your legs burning as you tried to keep up with his long strides. you crouched down hastily to avoid a low-hanging branch that almost collided with your cheek. you'd been too busy glaring at the side of azriel's head to notice it.

he huffed, his boots crunching against fallen leaves. "keep up, and you won't get lost," he offered, his shadows darting out ahead of him to scout the surrounding area for traces of your target.

you grumbled, eyeing his smoky tendrils as they swirled in different directions. "prick," you said under your breath, pushing another branch out of your path.

you could have sworn you saw the corner of his lips quirk upward at your comment, an action that you would have almost found endearing if it weren't for the current situation you found yourself in. as much as you didn't want to admit it to yourself, you were nervous. you'd never been on a mission, especially not one that felt as high stakes as this one. daemati were dangerous. able to enter, control - and if trained enough, completely shatter - minds without so much as blinking. sure, as a scholar, you'd had brief knowledge on how to handle their kind, but coming across one daemati was rare - much less an entire pissed off group of them.

this could end terribly. and you did not want to be the one to sabotage this outing.

one single coil of shadow darted back towards azriel, whispering against the shell of his ear. "this way," he pointed to your right with a scarred hand, and you adjusted your path accordingly. you found your gaze following his hand as he lowered it to his side once more, and azriel glanced down, noticing where your eyes had landed.

he felt his pulse quicken, not sure what to make of your sudden interest in his hands. it was already an insecurity of his, and he knew that you'd not be shy to prey on that fact.

he cleared his throat, running that same hand through his hair in order to break your gaze. you inhaled a sharp breath, realizing you'd been caught. you opted to stare straight ahead instead, the normal silence between the both of you now feeling awkward.

should you say something? you didn't want him to think you'd been looking at the skin of his hands in disgust. it was the furthest thing from the truth. and while you weren't the hugest fan of his, you would never think poorly of him in regards to his trauma.

"i -," you started, clearing your own throat now. he glanced over at you from the corner of his eye, not urging you to finish.

"i've always thought they were beautiful - your hands," you said sincerely, voice nothing more than a whisper that you were certain a gust of wind could carry away on a breeze - never to be heard.

he took a deep breath, blowing it out through his nose harshly.

"thank you," he said softly, nodding once.

a lifeline, that's what it felt like.

my mate, he thought to himself, trudging forward.

you'd both continued on in comfortable silence for the next few hours. the bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach was beginning to unravel, and you had to admit: you felt safe with azriel. not that you'd assumed he'd leave you for dead at any point during this mission - at the very least, rhys had commanded he return you to velaris safely. even if azriel somehow personally wanted you dead, he wouldn't defy his high lord's orders.

regardless, you were beginning to feel safe alongside him on your own accord.

a few times, you'd attempted to speak. pointing out various birds that you'd seen perched in the high branches of trees, or remarking on types of flowers that you'd walk past - many of which weren't native to velaris. azriel would notice the way your voice perked up as you spoke of them, noticed a certain kind of wistful joy that crept into your eyes, widening your pupils.

his own gaze began to soften as he observed you, finding your wholesome awe endearing. he listened carefully as you passionately explained each finding. cute, he'd thought briefly, warming up to your company. your hair whipped around you on a stray breeze, a strand catching right across your nose. his hand twitched, the urge to effortlessly brush it from your face filling him to the brim. but before he was able to build up the courage to do so, you'd beat him to it, and his hand stilled.

you were just about to point out yet another bird flying across the dusk-dusted sky when a familiar tendril of shadow approached azriel's ear.

"silence," he whispered in a hushed tone, halting his steps. he tensed up alongside you, his wings pulling in tightly at his back.

you closed your mouth, swallowing what you'd meant to say. you froze in place slightly behind him, waiting with shallow breaths for his next order.

"up ahead," he whispered, nodding his chin towards what looked to be a plume of smoke rising into the chilled air. your eyes followed the path of his gaze, and you squinted to make out the scene before you.

azriel crouched next to your still-standing form as he attempted to get a better look from a different angle.

it appeared to be a campsite of some sort - whoever was stationed there had clearly decided to stop traveling for the evening. the sun was quickly lowering behind the mountain range in the distance, and the air was even more frigid than when you'd both begun your trek. you felt a shiver wrack through your body, and azriel glanced up at you, frowning slightly.

he watched as you studied the growing fire before the both of you, his gaze lingering for just a second too long. you looked down at him, your eyes meeting for the first time all day. your breath hitched at the eye contact, and you faltered for a moment.

"so do we-", you spoke quietly.

"let's just-", he spoke at the same time.

you smiled warmly, dropping your head and huffing out a laugh.

he smirked, grabbing your wrist gently to pull you down to his level. "my shadows picked up on a few daemati tracks. i'm assuming its a small group - they must have decided to stop here for the evening. i'm guessing it's four, maybe five of them," he explained in a hushed tone, his eyes finding the campsite once more.

you thought for a moment, observing him.

"so, what's the best way to go about this?", you asked, voice soft.

he was about to reply, but his body froze, mouth poised to speak but nothing emerged.

there was a momentary pause before his expression transformed into one of pain, pure agony. he grunted, bracing his arms against the ground beneath him. his eyes were screwed shut in pain.

you startled, falling back onto your butt as you took in the scene before you with wide eyes.

no, no no no.

you supposed your brain knew what was happening before your body could react.

and that's when you felt it, a stifling, world-ending level of pain - unrelenting pain that felt so real, so true. but it wasn't your own pain. it was azriel's, through the white-hot golden bond that tethered the two of you together. until this moment, azriel had made sure to keep his emotions sequestered from you - you had done the same. out of pure spite, disdain for the cauldron's decision to fuse the two of you together for eternity.

until this moment. when azriel opened the floodgates of his own mind, letting you in. warning you.

"az," you breathed out, moving to rest a hand on his shoulder in gut-wrenching fear.

he gritted his teeth, letting out a horrible groan of distress.

"leave," he gnashed out, his voice strained. he let out another roar of pain.

you shook your head, eyes wide and pained.

"no, azriel. no. i'm not," you said sternly, voice watery.

"y/n," he forced out, nails digging into the dirt beneath him as he fought the intrusion of the daemati.

"y/n," he repeated, groaning once more, "it has me. it's going to make me hurt you," he strained, "you have to go. contact rhys, and go," he fell onto his side, wings flaring in exertion.

you scrambled towards him, placing a hand on his forehead. your heart was beating so rapidly, you were half-expecting it to leap from your throat and join azriel's form on the dampened ground.

all you could do was shake your head, over and over and over.

"no, no, no," you whispered, eyes filling with tears. you felt a fear so absolute, wholly understanding right then the pure agony that crawled into every crevice when the person on the other end of that golden rope was in danger. you couldn't leave him, you refused. every fiber of your being rebuked the thought. you peered down at his writhing form, his face pinched in pain. he was still the most beautiful male you'd ever seen.

you let out a gutteral noise of distress. you wasted so much time - so much time resenting azriel. fighting with him. throwing jabs at him. hating the gods, the cauldron, for linking the two of you. for what?

all that time wasted, and now his mind was no longer his. you would never get to express your love for the male before you - never get to experience the love that the both of you so immensely deserved.

"azriel," you choked out, pressing your shaking hands to every part of his body you could possibly touch. you glanced up, surveying your surroundings quickly. that's when you saw him, the daemati.

he'd kept his distance, but you made out the shape of his dark form within the trees. you couldn't even see his face, but you could clearly see the way his head tilted to the right, unnaturally slow. he was using his powers to fully infiltrate azriel's mind.

but your mate was putting up a fight. your strong, powerful mate.

azriel was doing everything within his power to not succumb to the daemati's will, his body feeling like it was going to split in half. the pain, the unrelenting, bone crushing pain, was enough to make him wish he could somehow force himself completely unconscious.

and still, through it all, he could not tear his thoughts away from you. a dangerous game, as he was dealing with a species of fae that was literally able to break into the walls of his mind, utilizing his deepest fears against him.

and right now, his biggest fear was losing you. hurting you.

he roared out, blue siphons blazing, vibrating against his skin.

one singular mantra stamped itself through his mind as he attempted to fight off the daemati clawing at his iron-clad wards long enough to convince you to flee, to leave him there to suffer alone - just as he always had:

my mate, fight for your mate, keep her safe, fight for your mate, keep her safe, my mate

you froze, mesmerized by the form that was tearing azriel's mind apart chamber-by-chamber.

then, it happened, and it happened quickly: azriel, now fully under its control, lunged toward you. he tackled you backwards, into the dirt and leaves beneath the both of you.

you screamed, bracing your hands against his chest. you dared to look into his hazel eyes, orbs that were no longer his own.

what you saw terrified you. pupils blown wide.

death himself.

a large, scarred hand found its way to your throat, and you thrashed wildly beneath him. he was unphased by the fight you tried to give him - he was too strong, and you were too scared.

rhys, rhys please, you chanted into your mind, hoping somehow he'd be able to hear you. it was a long shot - you knew that. you'd never once communicated with rhys mind-to-mind, but it was your only chance.

you were going to die at the hands of your mate. and it all felt so ironic, since azriel hated you anyway.

rhys, please, your pleads grew frantic, and azriel's hand gripped tighter around your neck.

the edges of your vision began to go dark, and you grabbed azriel's chin, peering into his eyes with all of the strength that you could muster. "azriel. it's me. it's y/n - it's your mate. please, az. i'm so sorry for everything," you strained against his grip, throat tightening. you wouldn't be conscious for much longer. if there was any chance that he - the real him - could hear you, you had to try to get through.

"i'm so, so sorry, az," you spluttered out, eyes growing heavy.

you sent one more plead to rhys through your mind before everything went dark.

your eyes fluttered open slowly, a groan leaving your throat before you were even fully awake. your neck ached, the skin there burned. your whole body felt tense, tight, and stiff.

you blinked, eyes heavy, trying to take in your surroundings. you recognized the ceiling above you, knew that the soft sheets pulled up to your chin were the ones adorning your bed at the house of wind.

you were home. you were alive.

the events with azriel, the forest - the daemati - came rushing back at full-speed, leaving you breathless. you tried to sit up, but your entire body screamed with the sudden movement.

fuck.

"there she is," you heard a familiar silk-coated voice. rhys. you glanced over towards the sound, and found the high lord perched in an armchair next to your bed.

"rhys," you spoke hoarsely. he stood then, approaching your side with feline grace.

he smiled down at you, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

"quite a fan of the dramatics, aren't you, y/n," he teased soothingly, taking a seat on the side of your mattress gently. "you had all of us frightened half to death," he added, surveying your face as he took note of your current state.

you groaned quietly, raising a hand to feel at your throat. it was obviously bruised - you didn't need to see it to know that.

"azriel," you whispered hoarsely, shaking your head to yourself. you were safe, so surely azriel must be too ... right? the thought of anything otherwise had your stomach lurching. you felt for the bond, felt for azriel's presence, and were met with emptiness - just like you had been until the daemati attacked.

"azriel is just fine, y/n," rhys spoke gently, a knowing tone in his voice. "i heard you, that day in the forest. i arrived just in time. it took a few days, but...," he trailed off, moving a strand of hair from your face, "but i was able to completely heal az from the damage the daemati caused," he finished, letting out an exhale.

you felt tears springing to your eyes immediately, unable to control your reaction to the news. "i'm so sorry, rhys," you choked out, a shaky breath escaping through your nose.

"now, now," he soothed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. "none of that, none of that at all," he continued, eyes softening as he met your broken gaze.

"you did nothing wrong, y/n. you stayed at the side of your mate, even in the face of lethal danger. you summoned me," he paused for a moment, watching you.

"you didn't allow him to experience that alone. and while you staying there may not have been the ... most wisest ... thing to do," rhys teased, referencing your last conversation amongst the two males, "i still commend you. i, myself, have not made the smartest decisions where feyre's safety is concerned," he wiped another tear threatening to cascade onto your sheets.

you let out a watery laugh at his teasing, shaking your head.

"he hates me, rhys," you whispered, eyes finding the ceiling once more.

rhys let out a dry chuckle at your statement, sighing to himself.

"on the contrary, y/n, i think you'll find that az feels the complete opposite," he whispered, voice lilting.

you met his gaze, eyes narrowing.

just then, there was a gentle knock on your bedroom door. one that was made with the intention to not disturb your sleeping, healing form.

the door opened, and azriel crept in, wings pulled together against his back in order to avoid jostling any of your shelved belongings. he was trying to be as silent as possible, not yet aware that you were awake.

"i brought a glass of water, rhys, just in case she wak-," his words caught in his throat once his eyes made their way to yours. your opened, very awake, eyes.

"i have some very important paperwork to attend to," rhys spoke. "numbers to run, high lord duties - things of that nature," he grinned slyly, removing himself from your beside and strutting towards the door. he turned back towards you before leaving, bowing his head once. "i'm glad that you're okay, y/n. please let me know if you need anything," he said gently, before making his exit.

azriel still stood off to the side, frozen. his eyes were fused to the bruise that spanned your throat - a bruise that was in the shape of his own hand.

"hi," you whispered hoarsely, clearing your throat.

"i'm so....- i am so fucking sorry, y/n," azriel whispered, stunned. his grip tightened around the glass of water in his hand, and you were momentarily concerned that it may splinter under the pressure.

"az," you began to speak, scooting your body up against the row of pillows propped behind you. "we both know that none of this is your fault. you fought it, i saw-," you pleaded, eyebrows cinched.

"no," he cut you off, voice stern, but quiet.

"no," he repeated, stepping towards you. "i should have never allowed rhysand to send you out on a mission this dangerous. there is no excuse. i could have killed...", he trailed off, approaching you almost hesitantly, as if he were scared to get too close. "i could have killed you," he finished, voice strained and full of regret.

you shook your head, reaching for him now, and he approached you. a moth to a flame. he set the glass of water down and allowed you to take his hand. the same one that was wrapped around your neck just days ago.

"this hand, a hand that i find so beautiful, this hand that belongs to you - my mate - would have never done this to me. and i know that," you whispered, tearing up once more.

he dropped his head, wings drooping - the very tips touching the floor.

he squeezed your hand once, sitting on your bedside dejectedly.

"i heard you," he whispered after a short pause. "i heard you begging me to stop. i just couldn't -,"

"i know," you cut him off, not wanting him to spiral into a pit of despair that would engulf him entirely.

his shadows began to lazily twirl around him, a few breaking away from his body in favor of worrying over you instead.

he loosed a deep breath, staring at the floor for awhile. you allowed him to ponder, think through all of the horrible events of the last few days. as awful as your attack was, you couldn't begin to imagine the toll it took on azriel. his mind was infiltrated, ripped apart, and his body was no longer his. you could not even fathom it.

"the daemati made me attack you because he knew we were mates. he sensed the bond. and ...-," he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief, "he knew how important your safety was to me. he got into my head, and into my thoughts. he saw how important you are," he whispered, finding your eyes.

your eyes shut, a tear escaping from the corners. he reached out a hand, a sure hand.

he wouldn't allow another moment to pass where he wanted to touch you, but held himself back.

you felt him wipe the tears away, his touch so gentle, it made your chest ache.

"i am sorry, you know," you whispered, sniffling. "i'm sorry for all the shit i've given you. i truly never resented the mating bond as much as i let on. it was just-...", you shook your head, eyes fluttering open once more to find his honeyed gaze. "it was a defense mechanism, because i knew you didn't want the bond, didn't want me, and i didn't want to look stupid - pining after a male that was ashamed of me," you rushed out, cheeks tinting pink at the confession.

his brows furrowed, and he huffed out a breath as he shook his head slowly, "y/n," he started, letting out this dry ghost of a laugh - although it lacked any humor. "no, that's not it at all. i was ... elated, to learn that you were my mate. but i thought that you wouldn't want me. after all this time, i'd come to terms with the fact that i would never ... never find my mate. our paths wouldn't cross, or i'd somehow get myself killed before i could find her," he paused for a moment, shaking his head. "but, no. i was ecstatic. especially because it was you. so full of fire and strength. beautiful - agonizingly so. your excitement for life radiates from your very core. i was, and still am, so proud to have been paired with you. i couldn't have chosen anyone better," he admitted, his eyes soft and full of adoration.

you were absolutely crying now, and your grip on his hand tightened as you let out a soft sob.

"we're such idiots," you croaked out, a hand coming up to cover your eyes.

he let out a soft laugh then, his own eyes becoming watery.

"perfect for each other. two idiot mates," he offered, a real, true smile spreading across his dimpled cheeks.

you laughed along with him, bringing his scarred knuckles up to your lips to nuzzle along them softly. the action made azriel still for a moment, and you felt an overwhelming wave of full, adoring emotions and bright, fizzling warmth hurdle directly into your chest. his emotions. he'd opened his side of the bond once more, but this time, for a very different reason. your wide eyes found his, and you returned the sentiment. you sent every ounce of love, unbridled and true, right into his chest. his breathing became ragged, his bottom lip quivering at the feeling. he was so loved, and gods, so were you.

you tugged on that golden string that was directly connected to the pit of his chest, tied right around his heart. he leaned towards you on instinct, and he knew at that moment that he would follow wherever you led him.

"my mate," he whispered, reaching down to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

you tilted your head up slightly, your full lips finding his own.

"finally," you whispered against his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to his waiting lips.

a/n: well, this one took 3 hours and cracked me in half along the way. if you made it this far, pls lmk what you thought! thanks for reading <3

[ticifics]

“𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠?”

── james potter x f!reader

summary: where you ask james what he would change about you

warnings n tags: est. relationship, no use of y/n, shy and (a little) insecure reader, some slightly suggestive teasing (stay safe), fluff, a completely in love james

a/n: It's so weird to post with just one image, I'll probably change it later

It was a lazy afternoon, the hours dragging on as you wrote on the parchment—or rather, as you tried to write. It was nearly impossible to focus on your Transfiguration assignment when your eyes kept drifting to James.

He was sitting across the table from you, eyes on his parchment, dark eyebrows slightly furrowed as he wrote, fingers lightly stained with ink. Every now and then, he would catch his lower lip between his teeth. He was doing it on purpose, you thought. He had to be, just to distract you. But then, he would lift his gaze and flash you a sweet smile, completely oblivious to your thoughts.

You quickly turned back to your parchment, ignoring the heat that rushed to your cheeks from being caught staring.

But your concentration never lasted long. Soon, your eyes wandered back to him—to the way his messy hair fell over his forehead, the absentminded way he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the way the muscles in his forearm flexed with the slightest movement.

It was too much for you.

James Potter was perfect, and you were a complete sucker for him.

Sometimes, you wondered what he had seen in you. Out of all the choices James had made, you were the one that remained a mystery. And sometimes, those thoughts became too loud in your head.

“Hey,” his voice pulled you back to the present. You blinked a few times, looking at him with raised eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” you asked, feeling a silly fear that he had suddenly become a legilimens.

James huffed, though a small smile lingered on his lips. He leaned across the table, extending an arm toward your face. Your breath hitched when his thumb smoothed out the crease between your eyebrows.

“I know you, you know?” he teased, tracing the curve of your brow, then the soft slope of your cheek, until his thumb rested under your chin, holding your gaze locked on his. “You always furrow your brows when you're thinking too much. What is it this time?”

A deep blush bloomed across your cheeks, but with his hand holding your face, it was impossible to look away. “N-nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes, leaning in further, until only a short distance remained between your faces. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t make me beg. Come on, what can I offer? A kiss for your thoughts—sounds like a fair trade to me.”

“James,” you scolded, “for Merlin’s sake, we’re in the library.”

His grin widened. “That didn’t stop us last time.”

You pulled away from his touch, feeling like your blood had turned into liquid fire at the memory. Apparently, your common sense tended to evaporate whenever James was involved.

“Hey,” he called again. You didn’t resist when his fingers intertwined with yours. His smile was still there, but now, concern shone in his hazel eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

You shook your head, feeling a bit pathetic for letting those thoughts crawl into your mind like unwelcome guests. “It’s nothing important, I just… they’re just silly things. Not worth your attention.”

James gently squeezed your fingers, tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. “Try me,” he urged, his voice soft, free of teasing.

And like every other time James asked something of you, you found yourself unable to deny him.

It wasn’t always like this, but sometimes, you felt small beside him. Like you would never be enough.

You wet your lips, your mouth suddenly dry as you struggled to find the words. “I-if you… If you could change something about me, what would it be?”

Silence hung heavy in the air after your question. You regretted asking it the moment the words left your mouth, and you were seriously considering throwing yourself out the nearest window when James finally spoke.

“Nothing.” And there was so much confidence, so much sincerity in his voice that you could only stare at him, mouth slightly open.

“Not even a single thing?” The question spilled from your lips before you could stop it.

James averted his gaze for a moment, thoughtful. Your heart stumbled painfully in your chest. Time had never moved slower than it did in that moment of waiting.

“Well,” he began, his eyes shining behind his glasses when he looked at you again, “I think I’d change one thing.”

That was the sensible answer, of course. You should have expected something like that—there were so many things that could be better about you. Of course, James would think that too. But that realization didn’t make it hurt any less. A cruciatus might have stung less.

“Oh,” was all you managed to say, struggling against the tremor in your voice. “What thing?”

James didn’t answer right away, glancing down at your joined hands instead. His thumb brushed the base of your ring finger, slow, deliberate. Your heart skipped a beat. He was only touching your hand, but there was something there—a silent promise, an idea he had seemingly accepted long before you had even considered it.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, as if he were envisioning the future. As if he were memorizing this moment, making sure not to let a single detail slip away. And when his eyes met yours again, there was something intimate in them, something that stole the air from your lungs.

As if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“If I could change one thing about you,” he said, speaking slowly, as if to ensure there was no room for doubt, “it would be your last name.”

Your heart raced for an entirely different reason now, the weight in your chest vanishing without a trace. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Really?”

James nodded. “Mhmm, Mrs. Potter,” he sang, as if savoring the words. “Doesn’t it sound good? I think it suits you. Actually, I’m sure you were born to be a Potter.”

“Thank you,” you squeezed his hand, feeling ridiculous for having let those thoughts creep in. You bit your lip. “James, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

He raised a hand, stopping you. “No, don’t apologize for that. I’ll make sure to remind you how much I love you every single day. And when the day comes that you don’t need reminding? It won’t matter—I’ll keep telling you anyway.”

With a smile, he added softly, “But when we’re married, you won’t have time for these silly thoughts. You’ll be too busy thinking about the names of our children and…” He lowered his voice, his gaze sweeping over you, unhurried, intense. Heat rose beneath your skin. “And far too busy with our efforts to grow our family.”

“James!”

[cattatoir]

Hey is someone gonna explain

i think rich ppl should stop buying mega yachts and mansions and other boring shit and instead they should funnel money into their own production companies to make quasi-pornographic gay romance shows starring themselves as the leads

[tanadrin]

Back in the naughties, especially in New Atheist circles, you used to see the line a lot that the reason religious people invented the afterlife was because they were scared of dying and they needed a comforting lie to sleep better at night. Incidentally, that's not true; aside from the problem that people in the past generally believed in their religion, and this whole line of reasoning (along with "religion was invented solely to control the masses") assumes a level of cynicism by religious leaders that historically is actually quite rare, we have a pretty good cognitive framework for why human beings tend to come up with a belief in spirits, ghosts, and gods, and why that tends to lead to a belief in an immaterial spirit world and (quite naturally from there) an afterlife.

Research into the cognitive aspect of spiritual beliefs has explored human intuitions about the self include its partability and permeability, which I think I've mentioned here before; our intuitions about ascribing agency to phenomena in our environment, even when no agency is immediately evident (a sort of overly-cautious tripwire for evading predators) and our overactive tendency toward pattern-matching lend themselves naturally to belief in invisible, intelligent agents shaping the world around us. When you combine that natural tendency to believe in such agents, plus intuitions about a self that can include a separate immaterial component, and the ways in which (for example) the feeling of a familiar presence can be triggered by some stray bit of sensory input or a misinterpreted environmental cue, it is very common for societies to develop a belief that the dead continue to exist in some form and continue to act in the world, possibly from some invisible spirit realm, because that is something that people are just straightforwardly experiencing on a day-to-day basis. In that sense, belief in something like a soul and something like an afterlife is more like a belief in rainbows or solar eclipses--sure, people might get the underlying phenomenological explanation for what they're seeing wrong, but they're not speculating, they're doing their best to interpret the actual experience of feeling the presence of dead loved ones and their apparent agency in the world.

That said, in the case of Christianity, we also know historically the framework that motivated the development of specifically Christian doctrines about the afterlife, which emerges from the context of Second Temple Judaism at the turn of the era. Here, the motivation was not one of comfort stemming from fear of death, it was one of morality and the problem of evil. Earlier thinking in the sort of broader Levantine cultural sphere had mostly envisioned the problem of evil as being one related to divine favor and punishment; God or the gods rewarded the righteous and punished the wicked in this life (cf., for instance, all the narratives in the Old Testament where God sends this or that conqueror to punish the people for their sins). Increasing philosophical sophistication, literature grappling with the ways in which the world could be patently unjust (like the Book of Job), and political circumstances like the conquest of Judea by the Romans and the evident lack of divine retribution against these oppressors, all led to dissatisfication in some quarters with that earlier theodicy. IIRC the influence of Greek philosophy and Greek thinking about the afterlife also played a role here.

Transposing the balancing of the moral scales to the afterlife, as some Second Temple-era thinkers did, helped construct what felt like a more intuitively correct theodicy: the wicked still got their comeuppance, even if you didn't get to personally witness it, and the righteous still got their reward. The exact nature of that comeuppance was up for grabs for a long time--there are like three different competing visions of what damnation looks like in the New Testament, and it's not until later that "eternal conscious torment" wins out as the favored position among most Christians. The righteous were always guaranteed salvation; but we know this wasn't a sop to people who were frequently scared of death because the idea that martyrdom guaranteed salvation was so compelling you had Christians begging the Roman authorities to put them to death, and even groups like the Circumcellions who attacked armed soldiers with clubs in the hopes that they could provoke martyrdom-by-cop. And you could paint these guys as fanatical outliers, but again, people in the past generally believed their religions, and we have mountains of writing, art, poetry, and music by Christians over the course of two thousand years where people are worried about a lot of things related to death (did I live a good life? will I go to heaven?) but who do not seem to be philosophically troubled by the question of whether the afterlife actually exists.

And of course the conflict between reflective and intuitive cognition is relevant here; one might reflectively believe in the afterlife, but intuitively recoil from deadly harm. I do not want to suggest that religious belief can trivially overwhelm human instinct to survive. But "the afterlife was invented as a comforting lie" is overly dismissive and flattens a complex phenomenon. It is, in its own way, a comforting lie--the lie that people in the past were all stupid, superstitious rubes, that we are infinitely smarter and more sophisticated than them, that progress will ultimately consign all such supernatural thinking to the dustbin of history. That such thinking is quite deeply rooted in our cognition and we may never be able to dispense with it entirely is very much at odds with a lot of the 2000s era all-religion-is-indoctrination children-are-born-atheist triumphalist cliches.

[seonghwaddict]

to taint your soul — choi san

in which apparently even the daughter of an exorcist is not safe from the corruption of an incubus.

incubus!choi san x exorcist’s daughter!fem!reader. genre. smut, angst, southern gothic vibes. warnings. barely any plot, religious themes, religious guilt, swearing, explicit sexual content mdni, corruption, loss of virginity, masturbation (f.), referenced dacryphilia, fingering, referenced oral (f.), manhandling?, multiple orgasms, rough and gentle, big dick!san, creampie, marking, nicknames (angel, pretty girl, sweet girl, sweetheart). wc. 7.3k. rating. mature.

lilo’s notes. i should do more mythological characters!ateez cuz i enjoyed writing this and the lamb and the wolf. the demonology book/text here is partially from The Encylopedia of Demons and Demonology by Rosemary Ellen Guiley, but i made up some parts for the sake of the story. THIS FIC DOES NOT REPRESENT ANY OF MY OPINIONS AND I DO NOT INTEND TO OFFEND ANYONE.

listening to. burning desire, lana del rey // gibson girl, ethel cain // lilies, ethel cain & mercy necromancy // ptolemaea, ethel cain // heaven, taemin

masterlist.

you were cursed from the moment you were born.

the idea of being cursed or haunted by anything isn’t one you think about often, considering yourself protected by your father’s profession. at least one dusty bible on every bookshelf in the colonial monstrosity that is your home and crucifixes hung all around, it seems to be common sense that an exorcist’s home would be the safest place to hide from the dark.

unaware of it all, you used to let yourself be tucked into your lace-trimmed bedsheets as he pulled you to sleep with stories. tales of fallen angels and possessed souls became the lullabies of your childhood. admittedly, you were quite terrified of it all, but as you grew older and wiser, you realised there was no way they could get to you. but really, it was wishful thinking.

you weren’t aware of who your father used to be, nor were you aware of the debt he owed to a particular demon.

the dreams started the night after your twentieth birthday, vivid and unsettling. a man haunted them, equally as terrifying as he was handsome. tall and clad in dark silks, his whispered words and hungry eyes intrigued you. his touch, though a figment of your imagination, sent shivers down your spine, foreign yet infinitely alluring. you’d wake up with a jolt, panting, flushed cheeks and tingling skin as the dream stuck to you like cobwebs. your father passed the repeated dreams off as nightmares and you failed to notice the flash of fear cross his features.

one night, however, you were changing in your room. dimly illuminated by multiple candles you set around since you didn’t like how bright the large chandelier was, you held a dress in each of your hands, standing in front of the mirror as you held the clothing to your body in an attempt to figure out what to wear. you didn’t notice at first, but a figure lurked in the shadows of the bedroom. you didn’t notice the shift in the atmosphere or the flicker of the candles.

but soon, a soft sigh sounded through the room, so soft it could’ve been mistake for a whistling breeze outside your window. goosebumps prickled at your skin as you tensed, refusing to move at the oddly human sound. staring at yourself in the mirror intently, you caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the reflection of your mirror. your breath hitched as you fixed your eyes on him, afraid that if you blinked, he’d disappear.

you watched him. watched him take slow steps towards you as he smirked at the sight of your wide, fearful yet infinitely pure and innocent eyes. you convinced yourself you were hallucinating, the disturbingly realistic sounds of his footsteps as much of a figment of imagination as his being. but as he stood right behind you, a coldness swept over your skin and you flinched as his breath fanned against your bare shoulder. whipping around in surprise, you yelped softly at the sensation. but he was gone, and you were alone. breath erratic and eyes stinging, you scrambled to move a wooden cross stand from the top of your dresser to your bedside table.

after that you grew paranoid, always looking over your shoulder, sleeping with at least two safe and reliable candles lit. each time you walked through the hallways of your own home, you kept your gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to look at the portraits lining the dark walls as you thought they were watching you. the tiniest of sounds made you flinch and break a sweat, squeezing your eyes shut and muttering prayers, only to find out the sound came from either of your parents.

the constant state of fear and anxiety left you tired, deciding if your father wasn’t going to do anything about it, you would. on quiet feet, you crept through the halls at noon (you were too scared to go to that room at night), a rosary wrapped around your hand with a dainty little cross hanging from your clenched palm.

you father really was a well-known exorcist, often to go on trips within and beyond the country to treat what doctors couldn’t; demonic possessions. as a symbol of his successes and a means to prevent others from coming in contact with whatever a demon may have attached itself to, he brought home trophies and locked them in a little storage room in the basement. of course, he took many precautions—crucifixes all over the inside and outside, sprinkles of holy water here and there, he’d have your local priest come over and bless the area himself. despite all this, you never once stepped in, partially because your father advised you not to, mostly because you were completely and utterly terrified.

as you descended the creaking wooden stairs, a chill ran through you, the hairs at your nape standing in alert. maybe you were scaring yourself more than the room scared you. the dust tickled your nostrils, making you force down a sneeze as you cleared your throat. the wooden floorboards extended into a narrow hallway, lined by cobblestone walls. you rarely came down, in fact, you couldn’t remember the last time you were there, the surroundings seeming so foreign. there were only two doors, one leading to a storage closet and the other to a slightly scarier storage closet.

you stared up at the ominous door, standing tall and intimidating, a golden cross embossed right in the centra, doorknob dark and rusted. with shaky hands, you fished a copper from the hidden pocket of your plaid gown. it half-hearted a few sloppy attempts until you got the key in, squeezing your eyes shut as you force yourself to finally turn it.

another chill ran through your body as you push the door open weakly, cracking an eye open to look inside. had you come at night, you wouldn’t have been able to see anything, the only source of light being an elongated shirt window lining the top of the right wall, an inch below the ceiling. three shelves. one on the right, one of the left, and one down the middle of the room. the middle and left one were lined with various objects. you walked between them, looking but not daring to touch. the objects were quite diverse, you realised. dolls, clocks, little statues.

you took your time to get to the shelf you needed. along with these objects, you father also locked away any books he had that were related to demons in any way. most of them were confiscated from cults, some of their were from his personal collection. he claimed they were to protect you, and you didn’t completely disbelieve him. taking a deep breath before letting it out in a sigh, looking at all the titles. your fingertips ran over their leather bound spines, feeling the wrinkles and grooves. you knew there would be a lot, but as you looked upon the entire shelf, you estimated a good hundred-fifty books.

he organised them by categories. summoning, excommunication, identifying. identifying. that’s what you needed. you took a closer look at the section, nervousness fading briefly to be replaced by a faint taste of hope.

the encyclopaedia of demons and demonology.

deciding there had to be something in there, you pulled it out. the book itself was simple, bound in black leather. the cover was nothing special, just the title and author. by the looks of it, you’d be here for a while, seemingly at least three hundred pages long. you looked around the dark room, a small wooden desk was tucked into the corner though not a chair in sight. with a soft sigh, you walked over on weak knees, apprehensive about what you’d find in the book.

despite your father’s profession and all the bedtime stories, you never came in contact with demons or the spirit world. setting the book on the desk, you opened it to the index, having to squint to make out the text. but the next time you lifted your eyes off the page, a brass candle holder was tucked into the corner of the table.

you blinked. there was no way that was there before, but maybe you had just missed it. the pale yellow candle stood half melted, the hardened wax forming veins that ran down the sides and pooled in the brass bowl.

you held your breath momentarily before beginning to read through the a to z list of demons and other dark entities and their descriptions. you only skimmed, lingering on any that mentioned appearing in nightmares only to dismiss them when the rest of their descriptions didn’t match with your experience. surprised by just how much there was to read, you felt just a little curious, occasionally stopping to read extracts that had piqued your interest. it wasn’t until you got all the way to section i where something actually seemed to be helpful.

‘incubus—a lewd male demon who pursues women for sex. the incubus and his female counterpart, the succubus, visit women and men in their sleep, lie and press heavily upon them, and seduce them.’

you nearly missed it, continuing your skimming until the description registered, scrambling to turn back the page and reread it.

“oh.” you breathed at the realisation. that seemed to be the most accurate thus far, your finger tracing over the name as you furrowed your eyebrows and continued reading. the next paragraphs detailed how they’re conjured and where the name came from. you read some more.

‘incubi are especially attracted to women with beautiful hair, young virgins, chaste widows, and all “devout” females. nuns are among the most vulnerable and could be molested in the confessional as well as in bed. while the majority of women are forced into sex by the incubi, some of them submit willingly and even enjoy the act. it once was a common belief that women were more likely than men to be the sexual victims of demons, because women were inferior to men and less able to resist temptation.

incubi have enormous phalluses that—’

slamming the book shut, your eyes widened and a deep blush settled over your features, just staring at the cover for a moment as you collected yourself from the sudden vulgarity of the writing. after a moment, you cleared your throat and reopened the page, strategically skipping over the next paragraphs that detailed accounts of intercourse with such a demon.

‘an incubus may form attachments to those whose minds are occupied with dark and inherently sexual desires, those that are impure. one also can be summoned for coital gratifications, or a deal in which one’s first born is ommonly offered to repay their sevices (see: dealing with the demons, page 218).’

but that couldn’t be right. you always made sure to be a good girl, always helped at home. you volunteered to read to children at a local orphanage, always helped with charities and donations, always assisted people where you knew you could, stayed soft spoken and always began your requests with please and ended them with thank you. you kept to yourself most of the time, would never dare to raise your voice at anyone, never had any romantic interest, let alone sexual ones.

admittedly, the dreams involving the man— the demon had you waking up with an uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs. but before that, you never indulged. after that, you never indulged either, instead jumping from your bed and taking an ice could bath to calm yourself from the strange feeling. the temptations were always there and were always strong, but your want to be immaculate was stronger. to be free of sin.

a deal in which one’s first born is offered.

it seemed impossible, almost. you knew your father was a righteous man and your mother a pure woman. but where your mother happily shared stories of her childhood as heart-warming anecdotes, your father only dropped tidbits of his memories despite considering you two to be extremely close. you always chalked it up to him being a little boring or generally not very open. but maybe there was more to it…

“there you go, sweetheart.”

you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of his voice, pushing the book away from you as you turned around a little too quickly, your knee knocking against the edge of the table.

there he stood, barely illuminated by the singular window as he took slow steps towards you much like the other day.

“so, you’ve finally figured it out, huh?”

each time he took a step, his muscles visible through the loose black silk, you inched away until the top of your thigh hit the wooden table, your hands bracing themselves on it to keep you from collapsing in fear. the closer he got, the more you realised just how attractive he was. broad-shouldered and radiating confidence, his feline eyes roamed over your figure. depite wearing a white gown that reached all the way down to your ankles, you felt so exposed.

tongue swiping along his bottom lip, drawing your attention to the action. he towered over you, making you feel weak and small as he trapped you against the table. your heart pounded against your ribcage and you feared it would break free and fall into his hands, unsure if the warmth on your cheeks and ump in your throat came from how utterly petrified you were or the way his breath fanned over your face like a whisper.

“your dearest father isn’t who he says he is,” he pouted mockingly, coming to a stop inches in front of you, letting his gaze settle on your quivering lips for a moment, “and me? well, you know what i am. and you also know we can have lots of fun if you allow it.”

your lips parted to speak but no words came out, instead opting to press them into a thin line and squeezing your eyes shut as you shook your head. you weren’t completely sure why you wer shaking your head, but if it would stop the incubus from tainting you, it was worth a try.

“don’t kid yourself, princess. i can smell how wet you are.” as if to emphasise his point, he inhaled deeply, leaning forward to ghost his nose over the slope of your neck without touching you.

it wasn’t until he said it that you notice you had been squeezing your thighs together, feeling warm all over and you stomach twisted in knots at the sound of his deep voice. something ached in your lower regions, but you tried your hardest to resist the thoughts.

but a little voice in the back of your head urged you to tilt your head back, to give him permission, to let his hands explore your untouched body. maybe just this once you could allow yourself to give in, to let your knees go weak and worry about begging for forgiveness later.

“all you have to do is drop the rosary.”

you gripped it tighter at the reminder of the protective object tangled between your fingers, fighting to keep your sanity intact. your breath hitched as you felt one of his fingers run along the beads, not daring to come close to the little silver cross or your skin.

“c’mon, pretty girl. drop it,” you heard the smirk in his voice, “let it go and i’ll take good care of you, i can make you feel things you’ve never thought of… i can make you feel alive, wouldn’t you love that? don’t you want to feel the desire? taste the lust?”

“n-no,” you gasped finally, finding your words, “it’s not right.“

he laughed, a low rumble from his chest, “i promise you’ll love being ruined by me,” he said, withdrawing his hand from yours, “i swear to all your precious little holy symbols, i know i can get you to want me.”

he moved closer and for a maddening moment you thought he was going to kiss you. faintly, you wanted him to. to feel the push of his lips against yours, to let his hands snake around your waist or grip your hips to pull you closer. there’s a ring on his index finger, you noticed, silvery and sharp, a symbol you didn’t recognise yet imagine him pressing it against your throat, branding your neck anew until it’s red and faithful. and maybe you crave for him to undo all the things in you that are holy.

“just drop it, pretty,” his breath teased your lips and you almost leaned forward in curiosity, wanting to see how just one kiss would feel, “i know you’re a good girl.”

those words. they’re almost enough for you to give in. how did he know those would strike a nerve, hit you where he knew it would work? not only did all your efforts ultimately lead to the same goal—purity, goodness—but you couldn’t deny the satisfaction you felt from reassurance. if you were an animal, you’d strive to be the priest’s favourite sacrificial lamb. to hold so very still and to bleed so prettily when the knife final comes down, to be reborn and be chosen all over again.

“don’t you get it?” he whispered, “i live inside you the same way you’re bound to live inside me. we’re a moebius strip, a never ending cycle of a snake eating it’s own tail. maybe it will end in destruction, but that’s your dear father’s doing. mutually assured destruction, maybe; you say yes, i’ll ruin you for everyone else, blacken the wool of your fur coat. you say no to me, i will suffer the consequences of not fulfilling a deal. you wouldn’t want someone to suffer because of you, hm?”

your grip on the rosary loosened and let your eyes finally flutter open. from this proximity, you could see every detail of his face and the image seared into your mind.

something in his eyes darkened as his lips curled, a playful smile, a predatory grin. the way he looked at you made you want to combust into flames, to fall to your knees, you skin rubbed raw on the ground as you beg him to make you feel.

“you don’t look so innocent anymore, you know? you’re docile and sweet, yes, but you’re not as pure as you think you are, there’s a little dirt in your pristine heart, a little lustful stain you can’t erase.”

“y-you’re wrong!” you protested, trying to convince yourself he was lying, “i’m good and i’ve always been good and i always will be good and i will not for the devil’s influence.”

“oh, but i’m not,” he pouted mockingly, moving his head back just an inch, looking down at you, “you’re practically shaking, so close to giving in… you’re the most pious girl here, yet you’re so close to sin, so close to me.”

you opened your mouth to continue your protests but flinched as you heard familiar heavy footsteps, looking up at the little window to see the familiar boots of your father about to enter the house after a long day of work. he was out, casting out malicious spirits and demons, and here you were, about to let one deflower you. the realisation seemingly made you come back to your senses, clenching the roary in your hand once more and looking for a way past him.

but… what would you even do afterwards? confront your father, the town’s devout exorcist, for making deals with the incubus in front of you? would he call you crazy, deny everything and treat you like just another one of his clients?

the footsteps were now above you, you could faintly hear him saying something to your mother though you couldn’t quite make out what it was. you’d never been as afraid of anything as you were of your own father, standing right above you, acting like he hadn’t damned you from the day you were conceived.

as if he could read your thoughts, could sense your panic that was completely unrelated to him, the incubus stepped back. his face was unreadable as his glazed over eyes fixated on you.

“don’t worry, sweet girl, i can wait. the longer you resist, the better it’ll feel when you finally surrender,” he gave you a small smile, different from the previous grins and smirks, as he nodded towards the window, “go.”

you could’ve run away the moment he stepped back, yet you didn’t move until he gave you the permission. you didn’t dwell on that fact as you slipped past him and reached up, shaky hands undoing the latch and opening outwards. you attempted to climb up, your arms burning as you tried lifting yourself, only to give up, panting softly from the effort.

“let me help you.” his voice offered, prompting you to look back at him. the seductive glint in his eyes was no longer there, taking a small step forward. “just… put it down, i promise i’ll help you and leave.”

you stared at him for a long moment. there was something so different in the way he looked at you now, suddenly soft and with good intentions. the voice of your father calling your name snapped you out of your stupor, nodding hurridely as you placed the rosary on the grass outside carefully before turning to look at him.

he gestured for you to turn away, your hands finding your hips as you did. the contact made you breath hitched, despite your layers of clothing between your curves and his hands, your stomach tickled with swarming butterflies as he lifted you up. the heat of his body behind yours distracted you for a moment, taken aback at how real he felt, how human he felt, even as he lifted you with ease.

you braced your forearms on the ground, pulling yourself up the rest of the way as he spoke.

“whisper my name three times, and i’ll be summoned wherever you are, ready to fulfill your needs.”

you stayed quiet for a moment, just sitting on the ground as you looked down at him, now able to see his full face clearning from his proximity to the window. “what’s your name?”

“san,” he smiled, “choi san.”

you loked away, up at your house as your father’s concerned voice called out your name again. “i should get going, but–,” you looked down to thank him, only to find an empty room and a sealed window. your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, voiced trailing off, “thank you…”

the first time you touched yourself, it was san you were thinking about.

late at night, your parents fast asleep, a storm ragin outside, but all you could do was think about him. you tried, you really did. you tried to go back in the house and pretend everything was fine, that you had just been on a walk and your flushed face was from the excercise. secretely, all you could think about was him. how you wanted him to show up again—wanted him to make your breath hitch and your heart jump. wanted him to soothe whatever it was that ached inside you; the burn in the pit of your stomach, the spot where your waist met your hips, but most of all between your legs, were it had never ached like this before.

you excused yourself from dinner earlier, went to bed, and tried so desperately to fall asleep. whether it was to forget about it all, or to meet him in your dreams again, you couldn’t tell. you really tried, but haunting thoughts of how his hands held onto you rolled into your mind with images of all the things he could do to you. the raspy lilt of his voice, sometimes soft, sometimes commanding in a way that made your limbs feel like jello at the mere thought of it. his sharp eyes and sharp jaw and such tempting lips. he could have a kind face if he wanted to, yet his toned body, visible and obvious despite trying to hide behind his clothing, screamed sex appeal.

flashes from your previous dreams raced through your mind too. fragments of images where you could feel his hands all over you, his dark hair sticking to his sweat forehead, eyes rolled back from the pleasure he gave himself while you were forced to watch. you never quite gave in in the dreams either.

you tossed and turned in your bed, thighs pressed together so tight you worried you’d have long bruises down your inner thighs the next morning. the new feeling felt much too large for your fragile mind, overwhelming you, making your loose clothes feel suffocating. it wouldn’t leave you alone, wouldn’t let you sleep. mostly because you didn’t want to give the feeling a name, you refused to speak its name, even in your mind, even if it could identify this feeling.

pent-up and strained, coiled into yourself in a foetal position, you could only roll onto your back and let your hand trail down your body, hiking up the long skirt of your nightgown before letting your fingers dip between your thighs, spread at the knees. you let out a shaky gasp as you felt the wetness pooled beneath your undergarments, clamping your other hand over your lips. after feeling around experimentally, your fingers found a quick pace, rubbing over your clit, more desperate than they had ever been. your hand muffled your gasped out moans and whimpers, tears pricking at your eyes—partly from the guilt, mostly from the pleasure. you felt your heart beat all over your body, most of all right below your moistened fingertips.

shaky breaths and muffled needy cries were covered by both your hand and the storm outside your window. if hurts a little, your clit swelling as more and more slick coats it and the knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter. but you don’t mind the pain, you think you deserve it, because after all, it’s forbidden and it’s not supposed to feel good. san is not supposed to make you feel so good. a demon was the one thing that wasn’t supposed to be on your mind, especially not in this way.

the thought of him made your hand move faster and suddenly your breath was stuttering and your core pulse as you finish quickly, biting down on your lip, hard enough to cut through the skin, to muffle your cries. when you came down from your high, you lay there for a few moments longer, heart racing as you glance at the door to make sure it was still closed. and when you realised what you had just done, shame clouded your lungs as you slipped your fingers out of your panties and raised them to your face.

your hands came away sticky. transparents webs of your pleasure linking your index and middle fingers together as you stared in horror before finally collecting yourself and jumping from your bed to scrub the sin from your hands in your bathroom.

you scrubbed until your fingers turned red and your palms raw, losing sensation from the ice cold water, the guilt sinking deeper and deeper the longer you took to cleanse your body. you hadn’t noticed the tears running down your cheeks until you stared at yourself in the mirror, sniffling and glossy-eyed. your body might be clean, but were you? if you wanted to be immaculate, how could you let yourself do such a thing?

it was his fault, really. him and his midnight eyes and electric touches and words that would drive you to madness, damnation.

you changed your panties and nightgown, burying them in your laundry basket as if you were burying the evidence of a crime. once done, you wanted nothing more than to sink into your bed and fall asleep. but as you stared at what you once thought was comforting, you could only think about your soft whimpers and shaking thighs. so you stripped your bed naked to decorate it anew with clean sheets and blankets and pillows, shoving the previous ones under your bed before finally falling into a deep sleep.

shame followed you like a pest for the next days, unable to properly smile because all you could think about was what you had done. and what you wanted to do. a heavy melancholy washed over you in these days, confining yourself to your room when ou didn’t have to come down for meals. if your parents picked up on it, they didn’t say anything. maybe they knew. what if they know?

maybe they didn’t say anything because they knew about san. perhaps they thought it was fate, that you would give in sooner or later. despite cracking a bit, you stood by your conviction that you wouldn’t, no matter what, summon him.

but… was he really so bad? had you not seen a moment of softness when he helped you? demons were, after all, fallen angels. could it really be so impossible he still had a sprinkle of previous angeilc qualities? silently, you were thankful he hadn’t showed up on his own again. if he did, you were afraid you’d throw away all sense of faith and throw yourself into his arms, let him kiss you and lick you and suck you and bite you and everything in between.

despite all this, despite not wanting to summon him, you couldn’t deny the unsettling feeling weighing you down with each step. it had been there before—before whatever happened in the basement—dragging your seemingly heavy limbs through vacant hallways. but when he touched you, when his fingertips brushed against yours as he touched the shiny black beads of your rosary even though he didn’t mean to, when his hands lifted you into the air and helped you escape, the way he talked to you, his words and tone, that unsettling feeling had been lifted off your shoulders.

you noticed, for a brief moment, when you spent that short amount of time with him, you had no desire to think of god or rules or expectations. even if it was for a split second, it happened, and perhaps that what terrified you the most. just wanted to be, something you hadn’t been allowed for so long.

so when your parents said they’d be out late for some dinner you had no interest in attending, you paced around your room, deep in thought as your typical long nightgown tickled your ankles. millions of thoughts raced through your kind but, at the core, they were all the same. san, san, san. you felt like he had attached himself to your very soul, and you’re not quite sure how it happened.

without thinking, you stopped your pacing, glancing at the crucifix on your bedside table, a reminder. you couldn’t take it anymore, reaching out to take the wooden symbol and hide it in your closet. was it really wrong if it was still there, only trapped behind the wooden double doors, nestled between your skirts and shirts and gowns and gowns? out of sight, you felt less bad about what you were going to do.

your eyes squeezed shut and you did as he told you to, lips parting to whisper his name thrice. almost instantly, a gust of wind blew through your room and you knew there was someone else there with you. your eyes remained shut until you heard footsteps stalking towards you, his familiar voice filling the eerie silence of the room.

“hello, angel,” he grinned, borderline menacing, as he backed you up against your dresser. much like before, you were trapped, the back of your thighs pressed against the wood. only this time, you weren’t afraid, “i knew you’d give in sooner rather than later.”

you didn’t reply, didn’t know how to reply, only breathing shallowly, fingers curling into the edge of your dresser as you glanced from his eyes to his lips repeatedly.

“you need to give me permission, you know,” he chuckled, tilting his head to the side, “there are rules for deals such as these.”

“please.” you breathed, somewhere between a whisper and a needy whine as your round eyes looked up at him so desperately.

as soon as the word left you, his lips were on yours. hungry, devouring you, sucking on your bottom lip like it’s a candy as you can’t help but melt and whimper against him. his hand found your cheek, the touch surprisingly soft compared to the madness of his kisses. your heart rattled against your ribcage like a bird wanting to escape its confines. his saccharine saliva seeped into your mouth as his tongue broke past your lips, running over your teeth and the roof of your mouth as you let him do whatever he wanted.

his hands are all over you and yours are all over him, grabbing at each other because there was no way to get any closer like this. your thoughts, unlike before, are completely quiet, head empty and drunk on the sloppy kisses, mouthfuls of teeth clashing against each other. he was supposed to be gentle, he wanted to be gentle, yet now you’re pressed against the dresser and he’s kissing you hard.

it was wrong, but it felt too good. that was clear from the moment your kisses turn open-mouthed, lips clinging and tongues dancing. you shivered as both his hands held you by your hips once more, lifting you to sit on the edge of the oak furniture, caressing your hips bones through the thin fabric of your dress.

your hands rug at his shirt lightly, a silent plea for him to remove it, wanting to see and feel every inch of his divine body. he complies, separating his lips from your to reach over his shoulder and grip the silky shirt from the back, pulling it over his head, tossing it aside. your hands explore his naked torso, fingernails scratching along his skin as he loses himself in the taste of your kisses.

his hands dragged the long skirt of your gown up your legs, fingers ghosting over the supple skin of your calves and thighs before letting the cloth bunch up at your hips, winding your legs around his waist before lifting you off the dresser. you cling to him the way the thought of him cling to you for so long before this as he carries you. he lays you down gently, your head spinning as he kneeled on the edge of your bed and leaned over you, moving his lips from yours to mouth at your neck.

his hot breaths dance along your skin, across your collarbone, neck, pressing wet kisses down to the fabric covering your chest. you gasped softly as he brushed his teeth against your skin, a reminded that he could really break you if he wanted, but the feel of his lips against the curve of your neck, testing out the waters of your shoulder, made the intimidating thought vanish.

he teases the skin just above your neckline with nibbles that have you throwing your head back with soft whimpers, only encouraging him as his left hand kept one of your legs hitched up against his hips and his right undid the ribbons at the back of your dress. the fabric loosens and slips around, one sleeve falling over your shoulder slightly as he sat you up a little and pulled the dress over your head, discarding it and leaving you in your white ruffled bra and panties.

you’re dizzy, delirious with thirst—for his touch, his kisses, for everything his sharp lips could give you, for him to relieve the ache between your legs. you shiver as you’re left bare, nipples peaking through your bra, undergarments barely hiding your most precious parts. you try covering yourself with shaking arms, despite the little fabric still be there, but his hands move them aside, pulling them to rest on his bare chest. his eyelids flutter for a moment at the contact, your hands so much colder than his.

he leans back to look at your, hand at your back winding around to massage a handful of one breast, watching your breath hitch. “such a pretty girl, and all for me.”

“san…” you whimper aimlessly, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“such an angel,” he teases again, thumb circling over your clothed nipple lightly, grinning at how helpless you looked, “supposedly protected by your father, by god, yet here you are, practically begging for a demon to fuck you.”

he presses himself closer and you can feel the thick and heavy weight of his cock smudge against your core, gasping softly as you eyes roll back, his tip prodding against the fabric covering your sensitive clit. his name falls from your lips once again, like a softly uttered prayer as you back arches. he takes the opportunity to undo the clasp of your bra, slipping the item off you before continuing to tease your perked nipples, leaning down to lick and suck at them as his hips grind against yours. you weren’t sure when he took off his pants, but you didn’t quite care, not when his impressive girth covered your core so well. sometimes the tip would dip into your entrance before leaving just as quickly, your toes curling as it stretched you and your panties.

he moans into your neck, grinding against you at just the right pace, his precum smearing all over you already-drenched panties. the feeling of his tip prodding at you clit so continuously makes you come quickly, and much harder than the other night when you touched yourself. you writhe beneath him, shaking and crying out his name as your back arches from the bed.

“hm, you’re so much prettier like this, angel, succumbing and throwing away any desire of virtue,” he mutters against your jaw, having sucked dark marks onto the skin right below it, his deep melodic voice.

angel. the way he calls you that makes you shiver. how could he do that? call you an angel while plucking out the feathers of the wings you’d once had?

when he enters you, it’s slow and deliberate, leaning down to whisper into your ear as he presses your hands into the white mattress—”heaven itself could not make you feel like this.”

“i’ve never… you know…” you had admitted shyly once you came down from the first orgasm he coaxed out of you.

he only chuckled, caressing your cheek. “i know. virgins always smell the sweetest.”

you pleaded for him to be gentle, and how could he say no when you were begging so prettily? now his length is barely halfway inside you and you’re already shaking, drenched and deprived pussy squeezing him tightly as he swallows down your broken moans, holding back him own. you feel abnormally good to him, unable to remember the last time he fucked such a perfect pussy.

as he reaches previously untouched parts of you, his tip brushes against a spongey little area that has you clenching, your breath hitching followed by a gasped moan as you come again. stars flood your vision, feeling like your body was on fire as your hands tightened under his. his tongue licks up every one of your sounds, smothering you as he pulled back a bit to press against the spot some more.

your moans soon turn into soft whines, twitching from overstimulation before he fially continues to enter you. it’s a tight fit, but he bottoms out eventually.

“fuck- you take me so well, you’re so perfect.” he groans, looking down at where he can see his tip bulging through your stomach.

you never imagined just how full you would feel, the stretch burning yet somehow still pleasurable as you squirm beneath him. he doesn’t wait, retracting and fucking into you slowly, letting you feel every curve and vein of his perfect cock.

he loses track, but he thinks he’s made you finish 4 times already. he’s not surprised, virginity leaves most people sensitive, and the fact he’s been teasing you in and out of your dreams for months likely didn’t help. san revels in it though, basks in the sounds you try to hold back so desperately. he isn’t lying when he says you’re pretty, hypnotised by your face contorted in pleasure and your body, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. they somehow still have an innocent glint in them, even as he manoeuvres you into different positions before finally easing you into your back once more.

you arousal is smeared all over yourself and him and the bedsheets. clear and sticky, glistening in the candlelight. at some point he slipped out of you to lean down and have a taste, groaning as you mewed above him. when his teeth grazed your abuser clit, you finish once again and a moment later he’s back inside you.

eventually, his hips stutter and a newfound pace takes over. “shit, angel, i’m gonna fill you up so good. would you like that?”

you can only nod frantically, brain turned to mush, jaw dropped to let out your lazy whimpers. you’ve lost track of everything but him; his touch, his voice, his influence. if you parents walked in or he disappeared, you’d only be able to lay there, completely helpless.

he never really stops, taking his time to worship your tight hole, knowing he’ll only be able to stop when he comes. though, by the looks of it, it’ll be sooner rather than later.

his groans and moans sound blissful in your ears, holding your name between his teeth with a low whimper. he spills his tick warm cum into you, the new sensation making you shake and squirm as you feel your insides being filled. another orgasm washed over you, though a little weaker, drunk on his scent and his saliva and him him him.

he kisses you, bruisingly, slipping out of yoh and letting you feel his seed seep out of your hole and run down your thighs, pussy coated in milky white. he slumps against you, detaching his lips from yours to gaze down at your barely open eyes.

it’s tiring, you can’t deny that, but it just feels so good. all your disgusting, fucked up thoughts were because of him. and now your most intimate parts will always be tainted by his hands. he calls you ‘good girl,’ yet you know you’ll never be good again.

choi san: voice like silk, touch like satin, incubus, demon. you’d think demons kill people, but your purity was his only homicide. he murdered your virginity. murderer.

but you do wish for him to kiss you again.

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[ceilidho]

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 6 masterlist

-

The interior door slides open when Gaz pulls down the lever on his side, fitting into the recesses in the wall until there’s nothing between you. He’s the same and yet entirely different with nothing separating the two of you; more corporeal, undeniably flesh and blood. You can feel it now—the heat of another body in close proximity.

His stare penetrates you to the root, eyes so dark that you can’t look away. It’d be easy to get lost in them, like falling into a black hole, body stretching out into infinity, even the smallest subatomic parts of you torn apart. Expressive eyes, the kind you might look at and think that there’s someone behind them worth knowing. But the sharp angularity of the intelligence there makes your skin crawl. 

Farah finds her voice before you do. “Who are you?”

Gaz breaks his stare to glance at her, his frozen smile suddenly warming. “We haven’t met; I’m Gaz.”

When he holds out his gloved hand, Farah only looks at it instead of taking it, disbelief warring with her common sense. You wish you could hear the thoughts running through her head. 

“You can see him too?” you whisper to her.

Her head snaps in your direction, dark brows already furrowed. “Of course I can. What are you talking about?”

It’s perhaps impossible to explain without making yourself sound insane. More insane, in any case. But with the proof in front of you now, you can’t deny any longer that Gaz is real; that after days spent worrying about the state of your crumbling mental health, the very cause of your concern now stands before you, witnessed by someone else. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel faint. 

Because he is real—all six feet and two inches of him. Close enough to reach out your hand and touch. His skin looks buttery soft; if you were a foot closer, you’d almost be tempted to take his hand if only to see if your fingers would pass through.

Without warning, the intercom suddenly crackles to life again and a familiar voice blares from the speaker. “Panel secure. Headed back now.”

The sound of Nikolai’s voice sends a jolt of electricity up your spine. Even Gaz glances over his shoulder at the door and the vastness of space behind it. There’s nothing there, but his thickly accented voice asks for confirmation and you know it must be him, not a trick of the comms system. You stumble back until you hit the wall behind you.

“Kolya?” you hear Graves respond sharply, his voice still carrying through the ship over the intercom. “Shit, is that you? Do you hear me?”

“Черт побери. Yes, I hear you, mother hen,” Nikolai laughs in response. His laughter is a crisp, hollow sound over the intercom, like crackling blue electricity. “On my way back now. No need to pluck all your feathers out.”

His nonchalance is, frankly, unreasonable for the amount of time elapsed since he last checked in with the crew. 

A whole body comes into view this time, an astronaut waving to you through the window of the exterior door. Even from the other side, you can tell it’s Nikolai, the sheer size of him apparent. 

“Alhamdulillah,” Farah breathes, pulling the lever down for a second time to initiate the return sequence. 

Like deja vu, you watch as the first set of doors open and Nikolai slowly makes his way into the airlock one slow step at a time, the man looking no worse for wear. Beside you, Farah whispers something that you miss. The doors slide shut noiselessly behind him, and again you watch as a man in a spacesuit undergoes repressurization, the tensing of his shoulders making his discomfort with the process apparent. 

He already has his helmet off before the second door even opens. “Like I said, easy peasy. Can someone get me a coffee now?”

It’s almost too much for you to digest in such a short period of time, your emotions slingshotting between losing Nikolai and finding a strange man floating in the middle of space and then hearing the Russian man’s voice again like nothing happened. Lost time, or gained time. 

He must pick up on the way you and Farah simply gape at him in stunned silence.

“Something the matter?” Nikolai asks, a thick caterpillar eyebrow arched. A second later, he registers the other man in the hallway and grins. “Ah, you met Gaz. Nice guy, huh?”

“You know him?” Farah asks, her incredulity apparent.

“We met outside. I sent him in to get warm.”

You’re properly dumbfounded now, staring at Nikolai with abject disbelief for giving someone permission to board the ship without the commander’s permission. 

The footsteps of your commander and his second echo as they race down the hallway from the cockpit, the metal clunking under their boots. Louder and louder until they reach you, coming to a halt just a few feet away.

“Didn’t think I was gone that long,” Nikolai murmurs, stripping out of his spacesuit at the same time. Without a word, Farah helps him tuck it back into the storage locker he originally took it from. 

The two men stalk forward the remaining distance and when you look over at Graves, you can see the worry and relief writ large across his face, his attempts at concealing his emotions only partially successful. 

“What the fuck happened?” Graves barks, his expression stern until his eyes land on Gaz standing peacefully in the middle of the corridor, and then something shifts. A brief uncertainty clouding the pale blue of his eyes. “Who’s this?” 

Gaz lifts a gloved hand in greeting. “Name’s Gaz.”

“Found him outside wandering around,” Nikolai booms, slinging an arm over Gaz’s shoulders in an obvious show of fondness. “Poor bastard couldn’t find his crew.”

“Just wandering around in the middle of nowhere?” Graves asks, cocking a brow, skepticism thick in his words. 

Gaz smiles sheepishly. “It’s my fault. I got a bit turned around.”

Graves hums, mulling over the information. “…Turned around, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Looked away for a second and then my group was gone.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant at all.”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

His deference is second to none. You could almost imagine yourself believing him, swept away by concern for his welfare. 

There’s a difference though. You’ve had the benefit of several days of acclimation. 

“Sir—commander,” you interject, swallowing when Graves turns his attention on you, the microexpression that flits across his face betraying his displeasure at being interrupted. “I’m sorry, but this makes no sense. I don’t see how…well, how he could have survived out on his own. I mean—” Your eyes flick towards Gaz. “I’m sorry, but none of this makes any sense to me.”

Graves’ lip curls up. "What doesn't make any sense?"

"Well, should we have brought him in? This just doesn't seem like protocol—"

“I don’t get your point, doctor. Should we have just left him out there to die? I thought you had that whole Hippocratic oath to uphold.”

None of this makes any sense to you. Apart from Farah, they’re being entirely too cavalier for happening upon a man in the middle of nowhere. There should be talk of heading back to Earth or quarantining him in the brig. 

“It’s not about that,” you croak. 

“I don’t understand you, doctor. You of all people should want to help.”

But he’s the man I’ve been seeing for days, you almost scream, but the blatant disapproval in Graves’ eyes makes you hold your tongue. You know your instincts aren’t wrong. Basic science isn’t wrong. Even if his spacesuit were able to provide basic environmental protection and life support, the longest a human might be able to survive after becoming untethered from their ship would be just under nine hours. 

You don’t know why this isn’t registering as strange to any of them. They act as though there’s nothing at all unusual about a man floating in space without any spacecraft within fifty million miles of him. As if this were just something that happened from time to time, and not an unprecedented anomaly. 

“Well, you could probably do with some shut eye after your trip, I reckon,” Graves says, clamping a hand down on Gaz’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “We have a spare bunk near mine—bit cramped, but I’m sure you’ll make do.”

Gaz tips his head in thanks. “I’d appreciate it.”

“And—sorry, forgot to ask, but are you good? Not feeling faint or sick or anything? I know our doctor’s a little prickly, but whatever you need, she can help with.”

The weight of Gaz’s gaze makes your body feel leaden. 

“All good for now,” he says, still smiling serenely. His stare never wavers, smile never dips. “But don’t worry, love. I’ll come find you when I need you.”

Nikolai’s arm drops from his shoulder and Graves leads him off down the corridor to recuperate in his new room. The scream is buried in your throat; if you try to cough it up, only blood and mucus will come out. 

You can only watch helplessly as they walk away, Farah gone by the time you remember to look for her. 

After that, hours pass by without any sight of the man who recently boarded your ship. You don’t see much of anyone in fact. Hadir eats lunch around the same time as you, but his conversation is oddly circulatory, muddled, like he can’t keep his thoughts straight. He mentions the same thing twice and doesn’t seem concerned when you politely remind him that he already told you. He also doesn’t seem to register your words when you tentatively broach the subject of Gaz’s sudden appearance. 

Hadir shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “Better for us anyway. Could be nice to have another warm body around here.”

“Don’t you…don’t you remember what I told you the other day?” you prod, pushing your potatoes around with your fork, your stomach in knots. “When I told you I saw someone outside?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s who I was talking about,” you whisper, as if concerned about being overheard. “I saw Gaz out there. He must have been out there…for days at least.”

“Ah,” he says, mildly contemplative. “Funny, that.”

The conversation feels like a dead end because it is, and you abandon it not long after when you realize that though Hadir is responding to your words, he doesn’t seem to be understanding them. It’s like you’re talking to an automaton, something designed to give you a response but not engage like a human would.

Even that thought seems wrong somehow. You shouldn’t be thinking those kinds of things about your coworkers. 

Back in the medical unit, you pick up the stool that fell to the ground on your way out earlier and take a seat, sipping periodically at the ice cold coffee still sitting on the table. Your mind goes blank for some time. Different than earlier though—not the blankness of concern and paranoia, but the blankness of complete stupefaction. 

It gives you some time to think, but no matter how many times you run through the events of the day in your mind, you keep coming back to the same questions. The same questions with no answers. 

Appetite a no show, you figure it’s better to just retire to your quarters for the evening. 

In bed, you read the same paragraph of your book three times before it sinks in. You can’t concentrate on anything. The same phrase on a loop, your real thoughts swarming like locusts and drowning out the narrator in your head. 

A knock at your door startles you, accidentally making you crinkle a page of your book with your thumb. You bite back a curse, smoothing the page out and calling out a frustrated one second when the person on the other side of your door knocks again. Impatient much. 

You open the door, expecting to find Graves or Nikolai on the other side, only for you to balk when you’re met with the sight of Gaz towering over you, his forearm braced against the doorframe. 

“Hi,” he says after a beat of silence. 

“…Are you lost?” you ask suspiciously. 

“No. Thought I’d stop by before I turn in for the night.”

Something occurs to you the longer you stand so close to him. It’s been lingering in the back of your mind since the interior doors to the airlock slid open and he boarded the ship, a thought hidden under its own afterbirth, placenta and membranous fluid soaking the ground beneath it. A thought that, to this point, has escaped your notice, hiding away like a prey animal. 

And it’s that: Gaz doesn’t have a smell. When you inhale, he doesn’t smell like anything you’ve ever smelt before. No lingering traces of body odour or sweat or soap. You breathe in and it’s like you’re standing in front of an empty doorway staring out into the empty hallway. 

But he does have a scent. 

It doesn’t register to your nose, not a scent that your olfactory senses can detect. Nothing like that. Instead it hits you like a memory, like a feeling blooming in your chest. Palo santo and orange blossom; the sound of a tennis ball hitting a racket; an aerial view of an Olympic pool and someone swimming laps, their body stark against the blue; white florals and a masculine voice laughing. 

His scent is a delicious rush of wonder and elation, a dopamine spike. You crane your neck to meet his eyes and honestly you’d forgotten how beautiful he is. An Adonis; over six foot and body corded with muscle. Lean waist and wide shoulders. The most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, sculpted from something divine, a substance not found on Earth but in a more heavenly realm. 

You rock forward on your heels, pulled like a magnet towards his lips. His lips gently part, anticipating yours before they’ve even met.

Your hand hits the wall and reality comes back to you. Solid metal under your feet and an aluminum composite under your hand. White, sterile walls. In the hallway, the lights dim as the night cycle commences. You have to physically shake your head to rid your mind of any thoughts of Earth. It’s still there though, on the periphery of your senses; a dream world that you might get lost in if you were to look for too long.  

Something is very wrong. 

You rest back on your heels and move your hand until it hovers over the button to close your door. 

“Unless you’re sick, I can’t help you.”

“I’m not sick, love.”

“Then what do you want?” you bite out, overtly hostile now. 

He smiles but he doesn’t blink. Then his eyes flick up, studying the room behind you, his gaze roving over the walls and furniture, scrutinizing your space. Examining the clothes strewn over your bed, the little knick knacks and oddities that make your room yours. 

“Just wanted to see what it looked like from the inside,” Gaz finally says, and your blood goes cold. 

With that, he pulls his forearm off the doorframe and straightens to full height. 

He makes it a few feet away from your door before turning around to look back at you. “Night, love. See you in the morning.”

[maehemthemisfit]

XIAO DOESN'T really comprehend mortal fears being the ever vigilant yaksha that he is, he's seen tragedies over the course of his life, things no human could imagine. So when you shake at the thought of being on high ground or in high places, he's a bit apathetic when you tell him. "many mortals fear such a thing... incomprehensible. fear of something so common..."

You refuse to go on the rooftop with him, but he doesn't mind coming down for you in an instant. It's not unusual to find him perched on high places, but you simply wave as he jumps effortlessly down to greet you, becoming nervous whenever he descends but he lands gracefully every time.

It's only when you desperately call his name that he sees just how afraid you are. Tears run down your face as you cling on to a branch high up in a tree. Apparently, you were trying to face your fear by using a glider for the first time and things just went horribly wrong.

Xiao is quick to grab you, pulling you into his embrace before teleporting back to the ground, his eyes scanning you worriedly as you break out in a cold sweat. The way your chest finds it hard to take in air and the way your eyes press tightly close, he's struck with his own sense of fear. He never wants to see you like this again.

He holds you until your cries and hiccups stop, keeping you grounded as you both sit beneath the tree.

"call my name when you're afraid, I will be there no matter how odd i find your fears to be."

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (Part 16)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like hersmut💦 Part 15 - Silence smut💦 Part 16 - Mine 📍

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Where we left off: After a busy evening of drink, dance, and dashing from the police, you finally confessed with a heartfelt bouquet. Alastor's reply was nonverbal but a reply nonethless.

Part 16 Mine

Alastor wants a chance to reply properly, and you return to work.

「Warnings/Promises: Human!Alastor x Fem!Reader, none really, A short one dears but it needed its own piece, foreshadowing out the ass, a slow night at the theater, a lot of catching up as we try to set our newly confessed lovers into normalcy, more is written I just wanted this moment to exist on its own」

When you woke up and instinctively reached for him your hand came up empty. Something that very rarely happened. Waking up without Alastor always left you panicked, even if it wasn’t a common issue. 

In the past when he’d left bed for chores or restlessness your worry was so strong he promised to leave you a note in the future. So you’d know he was coming right back. It wasn’t a concern of trust for you, but safety. 

Or maybe there was a deeper fear. A lead bullet in your gut he’d disappear entirely. Before you had said the words, you knew the stress had been mounting. Loving someone so sincerely meant putting everything truly important to you outside of your control. Ripe to be taken from you for any number of reasons. Turning to your side of the bed you saw there was no note either. Your stomach twisted. Had you fucked it up that efficiently? An embarrassing display of affection and already you were alone again. It was irrational, you could see that, but wouldn’t it just make sense that was your fate? 

After several moments your body caught up to your waking mind and you heard the splashing of water outside. Ah, he was there. He was home. 

A breath so deep and slow it was embarrassing. You’d have been less relieved if a speeding car stopped inches from you. 

Looking out the window you saw the greenhouse was empty. A pause to figure out where he could be before turning slightly to realize the sound was coming through an open window.  You briskly crossed the hall to his mother’s old room and stopped short of sticking your head out. He was washing his car. The twisting of your stomach stopped but the knots didn’t unravel. Your confession had apparently mattered so little he was moving swiftly past it. 

“Hey.” You leaned down and shouted out the window. There was no plan beyond that.

His head perked up, glasses reflecting the sun brightly and hiding his honey brown eyes. His face went from rest to grinning. His teeth were so pretty. He wore a white shirt that shone in the sunlight and those loose fitting pants. Perfectly pleated with his iron, a task you heard single men complain about often. One he never asked you to take up.

“Hey! Good morning!” He lowered the hose and bent it to weaken the flow, “I’m sorry about last night.” A little laugh, you could see his eyes close with the sound as his head tilted from the sun’s glare, “Come down here.” His eyes opened and cut into you, “Let me try again.”

Your body responded with a flinch, bringing the back of your head into the window’s bottom rail with a thwack that echoed down to your teeth.

Alastor rushed to turn off the spigot, “You okay?” He yelled up to you. 

Your hands were clean of any blood, you hadn’t broken the skin but it felt like you had, “Yeah.”

Why was this scarier than the confession itself?

You’d made it halfway across what used to be his mother’s room before you stopped. She chose that room so she could see him as soon as he got home. To feel relief as quickly as possible that he’d made it back every time he left. 

The cold tendril of fear took hold of you by the ankles. Saying it was terrifying, but unrequited love still meant freedom. Even if it was a little harder to enjoy. But if he said it back, that was it. There would be expectations. Could you stomach being the woman in the window waiting for him to come home safe? It was one thing to do it now, but once you’d let your guard down fully it would mean tearing away your flesh to be taken away from him. Your heart outside your body. Your life intertwined so intimately with another that you would mourn your own unlived future if they were to leave. If Alastor were to leave. You had to say the name, because it made it so much worse and somehow all the more worth it. 

Telling Alastor you loved him was for Alastor. That was a necessity. A truth you had to share. But accepting it from him?

You found yourself chewing on your thumbnail absentmindedly. A bad habit, one you couldn’t quite place the origin of. 

Had you really not expected him to say it back? You heard the door squeak open downstairs.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He called up from the base of the stairs. 

“Yeah.” You shouted back, a false chipperness to it you hadn’t meant to give. It sounded so fake and unlike yourself that it made you cringe.

As the wind pushed the clouds east over the old home and you fell into a shady darkness, Alastor entered the room. 

He said something as he approached you, but your eyes were drawn to his shoes. Wet and dirty, tracking the driveway into the normally pristine room. And then he was so close to you that you could feel the heat of the sun radiating off his short sleeved polo. A daring color to wash a car in, but Alastor always liked to look like he was in control of everything; even splashback. 

Warm. That smell of sweat and soap and sun-kissed water rose to meet you. 

Looking up at him felt like turning the next page, so you stared at his chest before you. It was glowing, the sun coming back into view of New Orleans and pouring light through the windows.

Alastor didn’t know how to say it plainly. For so long his love sat like kerosene in his chest. Purposeless and evaporating slowly over time as it went unneeded. Dying fumes dizzying with their evaporation. Suffocating him as it threatened to go entirely wasted before he died. A love so like him, dangerous but with reason; by design. Just a little spark, a tiny flicker of something true to set him alight.  Unused love sitting in his chest like lighter fluid, waiting for something to burn it away.

He could do anything, he could bury whomever. So what good were words now? How could he offer you sounds and pretend it carried an ounce of weight compared to the burning in his chest. Alastor knew he should have replied the night before. But he took the risk and trusted what you’d said. That you wouldn’t be going anywhere. That you loved him for the sake of it. He could be scared and make missteps without worry of you leaving.

His head dipped down to meet your eyes from the side, and as yours flitted to his he lifted back up and your gaze followed. 

With a breath he opened his mouth and then exhaled. A hot palm came to rest on your forearm, the other slipped between elbow and nightgown to rest on your back and bring you a little closer. 

You had to take a step and a half toward him to not fall forward. What were you meant to do with your hands? The illustrations inside the covers of novels came to mind. You chose against them all, and instead let your hands stand at your sides. 

His eyes locked onto yours, moving back and forth like he was checking for something. Unbearable for you, to be seen so thoroughly and to not be able to look away. Could he feel your heart racing in your chest? Could you sense his doing the same?

Words he never thought he could say and mean before you. Words he had to whisper out of cowardice before. Words that he paradoxically finally understood and yet knew meant so little in comparison to what he felt. Insufficient. Base. 

“I was scared last night,” he said.

“Of me?” You huffed a laugh, “That’s rich, given your hobbies.”

“You are terrifying.”

“Aw, the three words every woman longs to hear.”

“In a wonderful way. In a way I don’t want to lose.” The rustle of the wind in the trees outside as he took a calming breath, “Not that you’re something to have.”

You wanted to scream he’d had you since the alleyway beside the theater, since you saw him smiling from the crowd that night but you’d already exposed enough of yourself for one week. 

“I’m not…good.” His eyes wandered down your nightdress, something white and thin meant for warmer weather than what was rolling in now. “Everything I touch breaks, is cut, falls to pieces and sinks into….dirt holes and still waters.”

You had to remember to breathe, the words coming out quiet when your inhale was too weak to gather enough force, “Don’t decide for me if I break or not. That’s still my choice to make.”

A chuckle, a smile that made the small wrinkles beside his eyes deepen, “I wouldn’t dare. But, I don’t think you were supposed to meet me.” He watched the softness in your eyes turn on him.

“Who says? And as if you didn’t try to stop me. You failed spectacularly.” 

His hands came to hold your head, taking away your breath yet again. “I can feel them watching, the spirits beyond the safety of the haint blue of our porch. The ones always listening for words to twist. The bad things that eat good things. You are a good thing. And I love you more than I was ever meant to.” You watched his waterline fill before his arms wrapped around your head and pulled you into his chest. 

His entire body was rocking with the beating of his heart. 

He said it, actually said it loud enough for you to hear and register. Despite feeling so sure it would set off the hungry creatures to whom he owed his debts, his karma, whatever it was called if they even gave it a name. A declaration and a challenge. He felt it in his bones. He couldn’t keep you. No books about murderous men had happy endings of loving families and peaceful lives. It had always been a tragedy. And beautiful things only existed to twist that knife deeper. How many beautiful things had you given him already? How terribly would they hurt when he failed and you left? Like you had said, he had failed to keep you away. He surely would lose the battle to keep you near.

Tightly he held you, and only when your arms came to wrap around his chest and scratch at his back did he take slow deep breaths in. You felt the muscles across his ribs and down his shoulders relax under your hold. On your tippy toes you reached up to hold more of him. 

Love was scary, so it made sense to you that he was scared. You were scared too. 

But sometimes fear makes you bold. Defiant. His mother taught him about the ghosts that wandered around waiting to pull apart happiness at the seams, but your mother taught you to go down swinging. 

After several moments, watching the light of the room dim and grow with the winds and taking in the warmth of his body. The residual sun’s heat was still radiating off of him. The water from the hose and the faint smell of sweat rising to your nose. The feel of his shirt against your cheek and his racing heart. All consuming. In that moment he was monopolizing your senses and if you could you’d be buried in that moment. Surrounded on all sides by Alastor. 

If he had shouted his love at you from a tall building or wrote a banner and flew it past the house, it’d have meant so much less than what he had said. Your own confession had been a moment of vulnerability you hated, a display that exposed your guts to the open air. 

And in his own way, hadn’t he done the same thing? Alastor admitted his love had become a runaway train, something he wasn’t choosing but something that was carrying him away from his comfort just like yours had. The current pulling your ship out of the harbor into the still unfamiliar but promising open seas that was now your unrestrained relationship. Anchors gone, ropes cut. Neither of you had any control of where this was headed, but you were going together. There was a new comfort in that. 

And now you stood. Chests torn open gingerly for each other, hearts in your hands, blood mixed with blood. Sentiments neither of you could laugh off or wave away. 

It would be too much to address the topic any further now. But you didn’t need to. 

“You're damn lucky I didn’t walk home last night when you didn’t reply.” You said it into his arm, his embrace still firm. You always told yourself that was an option, just walking home if things went badly. It was hard to let old habits like back up plans and emergency exits die.

“In the dark? Darling it’s too dangerous out there, didn’t ya hear? Some mad man’s killing upstanding New Orleanians.” His arms loosened enough to let himself lean back and see your face. “And I did reply.” A sly smirk, his eyes rolling up, “just not verbally.”

Your brow crinkled with a tinge of embarrassment, remembering how silently he nodded as he laid you down and undressed you on the porch. “Well thank goodness I’m not upstanding. - I’m a nude dancer ruining the moral fabric of our country,” you read out the lines you so often saw in the papers with heavy sarcasm. The fight against burlesque was still strong and gaining traction up north. Briefly you thought about work. Maybe it’d be okay to go back soon. You’d need to check in first, see if any police or detectives had been lingering around. 

A hand came to tilt your chin up and out of your thoughts of work, “I love you.” He heard your sharp inhale as if the words hurt you some way, but closed in for a kiss. Soft, you thought. Comfortable. The sensations would have kicked in your fight or flight before him, to be kissing so sweetly on another person’s property. But it didn’t. Instead, you felt like you had unclenched your shoulders for the first time in years.

For once someone's affections weren’t a police searchlight chasing you down and revealing you harshly, but a soft golden spotlight you could call home and bask in. You’d thought before it had been cruel to not accept the love others had offered when it was thrown at you. But you’d break a thousand more hearts if it meant getting to see Alastor’s. 

At first it was just words, albeit pleasing ones. Words that made your stomach flip and something flutter in your chest. I love you, you said it tentatively at first whenever you felt overcome with something new and immutable stirring in you. But soon it became a phrase you said so confidently; A declaration when he left for work, a promise before you fell asleep. You relayed it like it’d gain more weight with every breath. 

And for Alastor, it did. It was becoming something solid he could feel inside him. A disproportionate weight to its size, like gold under his sternum. It held his feet on the ground so the strong winds of insecurity couldn’t carry him away. That magnet he always felt pulling him to you grew stronger. He was sure he could feel you across the river when he was gone. Alastor began to think his mother hadn’t been exaggerating when she said she could sense when he was hurt or upset. He was sure he’d feel it, too, for you. 

It became an expression you couldn’t hold in if you tried. And every time you said it it felt like peeling another strip of flesh off your chest, exposing a little more of yourself. And every time, it hurt less. 

A bleeding heart, but the meaning was much different for you. 

You could imagine it, the blood of your love soaking through your dress and down your stomach. Was it your blood, though? 

“You always look lovely in red,” Alastor marveled at the color of your lips as you slowly applied your lipstick. Your eyes tore themselves from the gorey mirage in the vanity mirror.

“You'll like tonight’s set then.” Another week had passed sitting pretty in Alastor’s home after your confession before you found the strength to call the theater and check back in. Slowly you settled back into life as it was before Brady. First watching rehearsals, then discussing a comeback, practice and costumes and precautions. It was time to return. 

“You're wearing red?”

You considered the words closely, “Hmm, wearing is a loose term. I’ll be undressing in red.” 

Not every show could be rhinestones and feathers. Mostly due to costs, but there was something to say for a more intimate style. It had been decided your return would be special, and you offered your own idea.

A simple night in.

Johnny’s brow had quirked at the idea, Ruth trying her best as newly promoted artistic director (as she proudly named herself) to gently remind you the point of burlesque for the majority of the crowd. But with a little demonstration and conversation you got them on your side.

The theater said there’d been no issues. Well, the staff didn’t notice anything. The dancers said there was an influx of more new faces but it couldn’t be discerned who was a looky lou and who may be looking for trouble. You were going to just slip back into things casually but it had been decided by the theater they might as well flaunt the drama, bring in some more bodies with the excitement of the arrested dancer back at work. 

With Alastor letting the cat out of the bag, as much as he had atleast, and nothing coming from it meant you could just … let go of the pretense. It’d be Alastor’s first time watching your show as your guy, and it was a fact you didn’t need to hide. 

He had been right about Brady. He had several weeks while you hid at Alastor’s and let the theater and neighborhood at large settle down again to make some move and nothing came of it. Brady had nothing. Alastor spent the time home as well. No hunting, no killing, he avoided gossip and news to keep the urge dead. You both had circled the wagons. But the threat was seemingly gone.

Plus you missed the art of burlesque. And carrying his love with you onto the stage felt like something new and shiny that would add to your skill. 

When your set was next in the line up and Alastor seated among the crowd, you felt the nervous energy in your fingertips. There was little chance of failure for you physically. But you could find you didn’t get the warm welcome you had hoped for. Maybe people were still angry at the attention you turned on your seedy little part of New Orleans. You’d heard word other establishments nearby had lower attendance in the days following your arrest. 

The music started low and slow, setting the mood for your performance. The scene was set with a partition, a dressing table you all had dragged from the back, a cushioned stool, and that was it. Nothing fancy. It’d just be you up there.

Small and quick steps, your ankle length dress a bright, obscene red limiting your range of motion. The neck was high and modest, but as you turned the audience could see the bareback that ended in a neat satin bow just above your tailbone, tied tightly to keep the back strung taut. White satin gloves past your elbows added a layer for you to remove. The perfect image of a lady of leisure on her way home from some event. A strappy heel that clicked as you walked across the stage and echoed out past the music. Burlesque at the time was dance more than anything, quick movements of the chest and shoulders, rolls of the hips. A curtain of fabric letting peeks of cheek flash at the audience. A twirling of cloth giving quick and insufficient glances of your barely there but still bejeweled panties.

The places people were the loudest at showed more, but every theater and every dancer had their own norms. 

And tonight you wanted to go slow. 

Taking a seat on your stool you unclipped your earrings and set them down, the crowd still murmuring with their own jitters. You unhooked your necklace and the clinking sound was buried under whispers. When you turned your body to the side and bit the tip of your glove you stopped as if interrupted.

Glancing over your shoulder you looked out at the audience as if you’d heard a noise. 

You made a face, a gasp, was someone watching you?

A loud hush through the audience, mischievous snickers popping up as you waved away the intruders and returned to your task. 

Pulling slowly with your mouth you removed your right glove and let it drop. You tugged at each fingertip of the left to loosen its hold and just as slowly unsheathed the other arm. 

Everyone was finally understanding. 

Turning to face the peeping toms, you bent down and undid your heels and slipped out of them. The neckline was high and didn’t offer any glimpses of cleavage, but the lovely and long lines your body made were their own treat.

Standing, you walked half across the stage and paused, another slow and deep bend as you rolled your dress higher and higher up your thigh to reveal your garter. The curve of your thighs and backside the focus. Once undone you took your time rolling the nylon over your bare leg until it stopped at your ankle. With a little kick, it flew off. You repeated this on the other side and continued your saunter to the paper partition across from you.

Before retreating you reached back and pulled at the bow, the top of your dress gliding over your shoulders with the tension now gone, leaving a bare back and a loosely hanging skirt on your hips.

Once behind the partition, the light popped on for a classic silhouette tease. You let the dress completely fall off and stepped out of the pile of clothes. A turn to the side, a shadow of your near naked body visible to the audience before facing away from the hidden voyeurs. Your garter was taken off and dangled before you tossed it over the thin divider hiding you, panties soon following them.

And then the light cut off, you quickly slipped into something that wouldn’t have the cops running in again and waited for the shift of the focus. The stage light moved to the mirror of the dressing table, the light bouncing off expertly to give you a new spotlight.

Alastor watched you with a swell in his chest. He didn't have the same reaction as the others, because he knew what bodies were. He knew people were meat and bone and blood and sinew. But, he still felt so much. As he watched the strangers watching you, whispering about you, adoring you, Alastor could feel his ego overwhelming him. 

People paid to watch you move and undress, a pleasure he had daily. And no matter how hard they could try, Alastor knew no one would beat him out for your affections. 

And if they did…

How much more common thoughts of murder for the sake of keeping you came to him now. 

Alastor had felt a disconnect with death since his youth. It was enthralling, and part of the fun was being God in that moment of someone’s quickly ending life. Deciding they were bad and not worth having around. Being the man who made that decision and acted it out with finality was the initial appeal.

But… he’d kill Brady. He’d kill anyone in the room with him now. He killed Tommy.

The only thing any of those people have in common was the perceived threat they posed to him and you. None of them were truly bad as he had always claimed his victims were.

The hum of his heart became a chant, Mine, Mine, Mine.

Yes he knew he would lose you, even as the fear calmed over time and the fact remained. But who would try to steal you from him?

Someone handsome, he thought as his eyes roamed around the room. Someone family oriented with a respectable job. Someone with cleans hands. Someone who wouldn’t hold you too tightly. 

Someone Alastor could burn away with whatever love you left behind in him.

So consumed in the puffing of his chest as the sinners breathed out lust and he inhaled pride he didn’t notice the young woman taking a seat at the table beside him. Her attention decidedly not on the performance. 

You ended the show by slipping out of your dressing gown just in time to flash a little cheek to the audience before you were spirited away behind the curtain.

As you let yourself relax again you wondered if anyone could see the tremble in your fingers. It was nerve wracking to be on stage again. But the applause made your skin tingle, a buzzing down your stomach when flowers kissed your toes as they slid across the stage. The theater had made a show of advertising your return, and paid a young man to stand out near the front with roses for sale. Nothing gets people in quite like a line of people with flowers. Must be special, they think. And it was special, because it was Autumn Hind’s return to the stage after her sudden and violent arrest.

He’s in love with her, the rumors had spread. The detective wanted her all to himself but she said no. 

Suspended because he couldn’t keep himself away from her, you heard from the others during rehearsals. Sent to the boonies to clear his head and brought back to sit at a desk.

An order from his boss, he’s not allowed within 500 feet of the theater, the patrons harshly whispered as you slunk onto stage earlier that evening, Well I heard he can't come within 1000 feet of the pleasure district Autumn works.  

But even the comfort of the dressing room and high of the praise was sullied when a loud noise made you shriek. You couldn’t admit you thought it was Brady storming in to take you again, so you laughed it off when everyone turned to look at you. The previous days of practice and getting back into your normal routine at work was mired with quick glances around for cold blue eyes and a stiff hat. It had been more than a month since you’d heard a peep from the man. Even his name felt foreign now, something your mind willed to the dustbin. 

Well, you couldn’t say nothing happened. Alastor did receive an odd call at work not long after your confession. A promise from the former partner of Brady that he had indeed been briefly removed from his role and forced into a week of “vacation”. From the horse’s mouth Alastor learned that Brady had a bit of a breakdown at work. When his superior told him trespassing and a coerced search of someone’s property was a step beyond the pale no matter what vague confession Brady had heard or imagined, he slammed the door on his way out so hard the glass had shattered. Which was…unsettling. You hadn’t taken him for the violent type, but it must have been humiliating. To have the killer smile in your face and your boss just wave it all away as something you thought you saw. 

The adoration of the audience did have its usual effect though. You floated from stage to seat and only the brief scare could bring you back to earth. You let thoughts of him drift away and allowed your feet to leave the ground again when you put on something cotton, loose with a ribbon on the low waist, and reintroduced yourself to the crowd. Modest, but put together. Clean straight lines, your hair neatly in place as if you hadn’t been sweating under the lights some time before. 

You could understand how some people confused your workplace for a combination of entertainment and marketplace. Most dance halls didn’t have the talent mingling among the tables after their sets. But maybe that was the draw for many. Not all, but some of the dancers were accessible. And for a drink and maybe a cigarette anyone could enjoy a conversation with their own private star.

If others thought more should be expected, well that was on them. You could see the hopeful expectation in the eyes of some of those approaching you. How long had it been since you played your little game? Your own hunt. Finding someone arrogant and assumptive to get drunk and finesse. 

Skillfully you greeted old and new faces while still keeping your eyes peeled for Alastor.

He could see you exiting from the same doorway he had followed you through so many months ago. But as he slowly approached you, taking in the sight of several others watching you hungrily, he was stopped.

“Hello!” 

Alastor bristled, the voice unknown and the hand hooking his arm violently unwelcomed. Had he been in a more secluded place he’d have yanked his arm away. But this was his first real debut at your work and he didn’t need rumors he was rough with women reviving Tommy.

His head turned quickly, a petite woman with pitch black hair and bright eyes was hugging his forearm far too familiarly. He blinked, confused as to if he knew this person and forgot. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Hello,” it came out flat, the edges of his tone upturned with agitation.

“I’m new here, could you show me around?” Alastor watched her flutter her lashes and turn in her shoulders to make herself small. He sighed. With a glance down her clothes he leaned back to look at her shoes. Dressed well, making good money but unmarried. Fashionable but in a sense meant to draw attention. She worked for an established brothel with all the proper protections by the looks of her, a fallen angel as they were euphemistically called.

“I’m new here as well, sorry, can’t help you doll.” Alastor slipped his arm away but she pulled it closer to her chest and squeezed.

“Well then maybe we could go somewhere you know better.” Her smile was sweet, nothing about her seemed desperate. Maybe she did just find a chance for an attractive John. He smiled at the thought, she would be so lucky to catch him. 

Alastor looked back at you. You were nodding along to something someone was saying, their hand on your wrist as if they’d never let go from a handshake. There was a sense of urgency in him he couldn’t place. He liked watching them fawn over you, but he worried how it looked now. You sweetly smiling to some older gentleman with too many rings and his arm between some young lady’s breasts. He wanted to steal you away and break the hearts of everyone in the room. Wanted you on his arm so he could drink in the glares and sneers. A thousand little deaths of those who had hoped for your time.

“You’re a flatterer, but no. I’m happily taken and needed here.” As his left arm pulled free, the woman snatched his hand and pouted.

“Taken but not the kind to wear a ring?” Her painted finger tapped his.

Alastor cackled, loudly laughing at the audacity. Rarely had a woman ever been so brazen in their crooning, most stuck with coy or blunt not bounced between the two in the same interaction. She recoiled at the sound, the unhinged nature of his laughter unsettling.

“You”, he pulled his hand from hers harshly and let his index finger gently bop her on the nose, “are too pushy for your own good. Find another tree to shake, sweetheart.”

She didn’t walk away though. In his peripheral he saw her still standing there in the center of the room, watching him and biting her bottom lip in contemplation of something. A fan, he considered. He had those, after all. It’d been so long since he’d gone out he had forgotten sometimes they popped up.

Finally, he could move past the others and make his way to you. A stream slipping past rocks and fallen branches to get to its mouth. To the place it could flow and become more than it was, vaster and deeper. Ah, that’s what love was, he considered as your head turned to him and he watched your face light up at the sight of him. The ocean, deep waters running cold and slow carrying you both somewhere new. 

Your wrist was freed and you seemed to be attempting to introduce Alastor to the person you’d been talking to, but your words were stifled.

His fingers slid up the back of your neck to feel you held in his two palms as he pulled your face up to kiss you. 

Yes you’d leave someday, but he’d not let go so easily. 

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei ,  @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk  , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf ,  @fizzled-phoenix   , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk   , @bontensbabygirl  @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog  , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

[revelboo]

Your ongoing Starscream thing is SO GOOD literally you write his inner conflict so well. Chefs kiss. I desperately crave a happy ending, but for now I’m content to see the sadness drag on.

Also, reader has friends (sort of?) now! Yay! Kinda wanna make low effort art of the cassettes showing Starscream a shitty PowerPoint presentation about how humans are sentient hmm. It’s written in cybertronian comic sans and has all the animation effects between slides

Thanks! Go for it, cause that sounds awesome 😆 And yes, reader now has friends/ terrible influences that are most likely, definitely, going to get them in trouble.

Everything is Alright pt 16

Starscream x Reader-unraveling

• Starscream’s only dimly aware of his fellow Decepticons moving out of his way as he stalks the halls. Of the looks. Those might be because his weapons are charged and humming or the rictus of a smile stretching his lips in a denta baring snarl. Let them be afraid. Whoever has stolen from him certainly will be before it’s over. He’s coming apart at the seams, held together with hatred and fear.

• Apparently word that he’s on the war path is spreading. The deeper he moves into the warren of halls and corridors, the fewer Decepticons he’s seeing. And the more unstable he feels. He’s walking a thin line now, processor snarling with scenarios custom designed just to hurt him. Teetering between fury and crippling anxiety, his wings are the only thing giving away the latter. That stupid tremor he can’t stop or control.

• There ahead. Voices. Soundwave’s cassettes? Lazerbeak swoops out of a hall leading the little group of miscreants, but it’s Frenzy his optics land on. The cassetticon’s hand firmly wrapped around a fragile little wrist to pull you along with him and the others as they run. It’s the smile on your face that freezes the energon coursing through him. You’re not only smiling, you’re laughing. Had your expression ever been that open and warm for him?

• Stopping suddenly in front of you without warning, you smack right into Frenzy’s back with a yelp. You shove away from him angrily and realize all the cassettes are still. Quiet. Skin crawling, you turn to see what’s got them on alert and- oh. Starscream. And he looks furious. Your breath catches as you just stare at him, a rabbit confronted with a hungry coyote. Common sense is screaming to run, because that anger is aimed right at you, but your body isn’t on board with the plan.

• And then Frenzy’s hand lands in the middle of your back. “Sorry, squishy,” he says, shoving you toward the Seeker as he and the other cassettes just bail. Abandoning you to Starscream. You stumble forward and fall down, palms and knees smacking the hard, metal floor. You keep your head down as he stalks forward, feeling the faint vibration of his steps. Then he’s just standing there over you. Intimidating and furious, and you can’t make a sound. Can barely breathe.

• You still won’t look at him and it’s twisting inside him into a seething miasma of confused anger. He wants to lash out, but doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s alone. You’re his. You hate him. He needs you anyway. Venting roughly, he kneels to carefully curl his servos around your unresisting form to lift you. You’re trembling and that fear unravels him faster as he cradles you to his chassis and heads back to his quarters, denta grinding.

• Why isn’t he yelling? Almost afraid to move in his careful but firm grip, you risk a glance up at his face. There’s definitely going to be yelling, his denta are bared in a grimace as he walks. He doesn’t look at you, though and that just makes you feel more jittery with anxiety. Had you finally pushed him too far? That dark, furious silence smothers you as you shiver in his grip.

• He carries you to the berth, his servos flexing around you. Tightening. And that kicks the panic into high gear, because you’re not sure what he’s going to do. Gasping, you go wild twisting and clawing to get free. Anything but be crushed. “Stop,” he growls, that furious edge just making you more frantic. “I said stop.”

• “Please stop.” That breaches the panic, those angry and so tired words. A request not a demand as he presses you to his chassis alongside his canopy and you can suddenly breathe again. Can feel the barely there tremor in his servos. “I thought you were gone.”

• Cheek pressed against his canopy, you crane your neck to try and see his expression, because this is new. Raw and painful and you need to see his face. It almost sounds like he does care. That you’re not just a pet or a possession. Something more even if you have no idea in what way. His palm shifts against you, keeping you pinned and unable to really see his face as he lets his head fall back against the wall the berth is against. You can hear him venting, that rough rhythm slowly evening out. Calming and you can’t hold onto your own anger at him, can feel it slipping through your fingers, because as awful as he sometimes is, he needs you. You don’t really understand it, but you do understand that you’re as trapped by whatever this is as he is.

• His venting hitches as you lay a tiny, soft palm against his canopy. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words are soft. And even if they might be a lie, he needs them. He needs this even if it can only hurt him.

Previous Next

[demon-at-peace]

hi, so i generally don't like demon twins, like it's fanfiction, but relationships don't work like that, they aren't brothers. Even if they separated at age 6, 7 or even 8.

because you don't remember stuff. You remember a teacher making you cry, the friends you have. With the terrible dynamic portrayed in most of the fics, both of them would likely only hold on to the bad memories. I'm also between 16-18 and it's like that for me.

I was thinking about it, and why don't they have a terrible relationship in these? it makes more sense then suddenly being brothers. Often we see a cruel Damian, with a neglected Danny in flashbacks. And even more common is Danny and Damian dueling to the death to decide and heir.

Logically then the hate would be one sided, Danny would hate Damian, but Damian wouldn't hate Danny. And Damian (after apologies and treating Danny better) he would expect to be forgiven. He was just a kid, he didn't understand surely Danny can see that.

Danny would see someone who tried to kill him, who betrayed him, who left him to die, and of course he'd hate Damian. but a even cooler response would be fear, he was a kid and trauma exists.And normally these start like that, before they smooth it out in a chapter or 2.

but that's not how it works. I think Danny would avoid Damian he'd snap at him, and on principle he'd dislike the bats, I can see him heading to crime alley because they don't patrol there only to meet Jason and panic.

And Damian would chase him, it's his brother, he has a second chance, and the bats would too. And it would end up terribly. Danny runs and hates them so much and avoids them. they also might remind him of Maddie and Jack or Skuller and lead to panic attacks.

So Danny runs for a year, and the Bats regret their actions. they were rash. They lost a brother, they still search, sifting through reports, looking into people, checking data bases for fake ID's.

Danny is paranoid, he's still quips, still a hero, but he has a mask, he changes his speech patterns, he changes his name entirely. He changes his style to be more like Sams, he looks almost unrecognizable. And he's still scared, and on rare instances he still wakes up with dreams from when Damain stabbed him.

of course to make it worse he could become an established part of the JL a couple years or so after he leaves Gotham. so he's finally settling down finally has friends, and he avoids the Bats. No one in the JL know why Danny hates them, why he's skittish, why he looks at them with so much fear.

Oh misunderstandings! please, have them think Bruce hurt Danny, but he's the worst around Robin. Have Jon try to convince Danny that Robin is nice and all Danny can see when he offers to spar is the duel!

So while I personally don't enjoy this in general this is a concept I would read avidly, though this principle would likely be a heart wrenching angst fic now that I think about it. Anyhow thanks for reading my rant.

i'm sure there is overlap on this idea out there, and I had zero intention to plagiarize anything, please let me know too.

edit: apparently there is a fic like this, and all credits go to the author, thanks to the commenter who told me or I wouldn’t have known,

it’s called Broken Bonds https://archiveofourown.org/works/54372952/chapters/137720050

hi found another by stroke of luck

it's called counting constellations

thanks :)

[reagent-leon]

Let's talk about pre-Sinyala Coyle!!

Okay so, I’m really into character design, and I’ve noticed that a lot of people who draw pre-Sinyala Coyle tend to miss out some cool details about his Blackwell uniform. So, I figured I’d break it all down, covering 1950s fashion conventions, how Coyle blatantly ignores them, why he gets away with it, and some extra points about his overall dodgy behaviour. Because this post spiralled out of control.

Before we jump in, a quick note: Because of the comic’s style, there are definitely some inconsistencies, but I’ll do my best to piece things together. If you're into history, fashion, and Leland Coyle, stick around 🖤

First, some historical context.

Whether we like it or not, personal grooming and aesthetics have always played a big role in how we’re perceived. But in the 1950s, fashion wasn’t as focused on self-expression as it is today. Rather than standing out, most people aimed for conformity, with conservative ideals and public perception heavily influencing fashion choices. How someone dressed and presented themselves to the world immediately signalled their social status, character, and values. Maintaining a facade of respectability and adhering to social norms was a priority for most.

After World War II, being clean-shaven became a key part of a man's appearance. This was partly inspired by young men who had served in the military. Veterans accustomed to shaving daily carried the habit into civilian life. Of course, not everyone was clean-shaven, but facial hair was generally more common among older generations, as well as musicians, and actors, people who could flout convention without damaging their reputations.

By the mid-1950s, however, facial hair started making a bit of a comeback, thanks to cultural icons like Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash. Alternative hairstyles, especially those associated with greasers, weren’t widely accepted in professional settings. Instead, they became symbols of rebellion, linked to actors, outcasts, and those who rejected the status quo rather than conventional, well-to-do citizens.

With that out of the way, let's talk about Coyle!

Thanks to the comics and in-game documents, we know that Coyle meets Clyde Perry in a Blackwell diner on February 16th 1956. Based on what we can piece together from his past, Coyle would have been around 33 years old at the time. Perry’s account of the altercation directly tells us that Coyle was well-liked and respected within his community.

Blackwell was (and perhaps still is) an extremely conservative town, where conformity to social norms would have been enforced through intense social pressure. The fear of negative judgment would have kept most people compliant. This makes Coyle’s deviation from 1950s conventions all the more apparent, though when we consider his past, things begin to make a bit more sense.

From both the comics and Coyle’s in-game dialogue, we know he had a troubled childhood (details to follow in a separate post). His adolescent delinquency eventually landed him in a military academy. However, his honourable service in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II, combined with his undeniable charisma likely convinced most locals that he was a reformed man, paving the way for his position as a police sergeant.

His rough-around-the-edges persona may have only added to his charm, allowing him to get away with behaviour that might have otherwise raised eyebrows, such as openly flirting with a waitress or publicly beating a man senseless.

Although Coyle is primarily depicted as a silhouette in most full-body images, we can still piece together details of his uniform. Interestingly, his attire aligns more with a 1940s police officer than one from the mid-1950s. This could be a deliberate design choice to emphasize how both Coyle and the town he rules over are stuck in the past.

His uniform has a few key features:

Sam Browne belt – A leather belt with a supporting strap that runs over the shoulder and connects to a waist belt.

Standing collar & shoulder boards – Formal elements more common in earlier decades.

Shoes instead of boots – Just a note for the artists in the room. 

Utility belt essentials – Includes a handgun, handcuffs, and a nightstick, which were standard for the time.

We get a clearer look at the general appearance of his uniform from some of the police cutouts in the Trials, though none of them feature a Sam Browne belt.

Coyle’s hair defies the social conventions of the time. It isn’t styled into any particular fashion and appears free of product, an unusual choice for a police officer, who would typically be expected to maintain a polished image, if not for personal pride, then at least for professionalism's sake. His hairline is noticeably receding, and it’s possible he combed it forward to disguise the thinning. By the time the events of the game take place, he’s completely bald, whether from stress-induced hair loss or simply shaving it once the recession became too obvious to hide. Pure speculation on my part. 

His stubble, mussed hair, and unfastened top button suggest that when he meets Perry, he’s either finished work for the day or, at the very least, on his lunch break.

I found a few references of what I think Coyle's hair would look like because the comic is very bad at keeping it consistent. I went out of my way to find a guy with sideburns too. (Don't say I never do anything for you.) It's also worth noting that Julian Bailey, Coyle's VA had a receding hairline in years past. It's my personal belief that they used Julian's face as a reference for this younger version of Coyle.

As a ‘respectable’ police sergeant, he should present himself as buttoned-up, clean, and tidy, proudly representing the Blackwell Police Department and setting a good example for his subordinates. Instead, everything about his presentation suggests a man who sees himself as above reproach, someone who enforces social conventions but doesn’t feel the need to follow them himself. In fact, one could argue he’s rewarded for breaking them, receiving positive attention from women despite (or perhaps because of) his disregard for propriety.

Coyle placing his hat on the waitress is a particularly bold move, especially given the strict dating conventions of the 1950s. Historically, a man placing his hat on a woman's head was a flirtatious gesture, a subtle but effective way of ‘claiming’ her, particularly in cowboy culture (Coyle’s parents were cattle ranchers, cowboy Coyle is canon).

In this context, it’s unlikely to be a genuine display of interest. More than anything, it’s a power play, a deliberate act of pushing the limits of propriety while asserting his dominance. The real impact comes when Perry walks in, seeing Coyle has already ‘marked his territory,’ immediately undermining Perry and ensuring he feels off-balance in the face of Coyle’s effortless machismo. 

At the comic's conclusion, while Perry is driving away, injured but alive, he looks back to see Coyle standing outside the diner, wearing his police cap. At some point, he must have retrieved it from the waitress, likely with a charming, offhand apology for making a scene. Coyle doesn’t need to kill Perry to send a message, because letting him live IS the message. And Perry hears it loud and clear.

A quick side note, this isn’t so much about Coyle’s appearance, but rather his character.

When Oklahoma became a state in 1907, it adopted prohibition as part of its constitution, remaining a dry state up until 1959. Alcohol was largely banned, though moonshiners and speakeasies operated in secret, often with local law enforcement turning a blind eye. As a consequence, one of the only widely acceptable alcoholic beverages was “low-point beer” a drink containing just 3.2% alcohol, considered non-intoxicating under state law.

Perry states that Coyle ‘drank heavily’ before their encounter, but the fact that it was low-alcohol beer explains how he could be four pints down and still completely in control when it came to beating Perry.

It’s possible Coyle was pulling a deliberate ruse, letting Perry believe he was drunker than he actually was. If so, it wasn’t just about drinking, it was a test. Coyle may have wanted to see if Perry would try to take advantage of what seemed like a weakened opponent, only to prove that he was never at a disadvantage to begin with.

For a police officer to drink so openly in a conservative Christian town flies in the face of everything he’s supposed to uphold. Yet no one seems to care, or at least, no one dares to challenge him. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s respect. Either way, Coyle knows exactly what he can get away with, and he enjoys every second of it.

There are plenty of inconsistencies in the comic, and the art style doesn’t always make the details easy to see. Honestly, I could spend forever picking it apart and analyzing it, and one day, I probably will.

But in the meantime… I hope it's been informative. And I hope that some artists who draw pre-Sinyala Coyle will start depicting him in his Blackwell uniform. As much as I love a leather jacket, I’m a sucker for those military-style uniforms.

I hope you enjoyed this little dive into Coyle and his antics. Before I wrap up, I’m leaving you with a picture I annotated—it was meant to be the main image for this post, but... it’s awful. Apologies in advance if it hurts your eyes.

If you enjoyed my descent into madness, please inflict it upon your friends. I welcome friendly and constructive conversation in the comments. And hey, if you think I’m talking out of my arse, that’s your prerogative! This wasn’t meant as a critique, just the ramblings of someone who spends far too much time pondering the hows and whys of this man.

Well done if you made it this far, and thank you for reading!

As usual big shoutout to the Coyle Crew @misa-bun @decayinghost @soggy-bean for enabling me

[thebroccolination]

THE DIRECTORS OF “THAMEPO” AND “BE MY FAVORITE”

After “ThamePo” ended, I was perusing the Instagram stories of the cast, and I decided to check out the director’s page too since “ThamePo” was her baby that she apparently held onto for five years (!) until she had the right cast to do it justice, and I have an enormous amount of respect for her.

And look who she posted about:

Waa, the other director I have an immense amount of respect for! And I immediately thought, “Ohhhh, these two having mutual respect for each other makes sense.”

I don’t want to trust auto-translate but I think the gist of her caption is that she always knew he’d do great things, and she’s proud of the work he did on a certain movie called “Love You to Debt.”

Which is the movie that Thame and Po can’t get around to finishing because they have to make out instead.

But y’know what she also included in “ThamePo” that’s directed by Waa?

“Good Old Days”! The series Thame and Po watch that first time they spend all night talking on the phone.

It’s fairly common for GMMTV series to sneak snippets of other series into the narrative, but I love that Mui chose two of Waa’s to feature.

It gave me a little spark of joy to see this overlap of directors, because of all the Thai series I’ve seen, I think “ThamePo” and “Be My Favorite” are the all-rounder best in overall quality thanks in large part to the dedication of their directors who also worked on the scripts. And in both instances, they truly brought the best out of their actors.

Mui knew Est was the lead she was waiting for, and Waa wanted to work with Krist again after working with him on “Good Old Days.” As protagonists, Est and Krist brought a lot of pathos to Po and Kawi, and both roles asked a lot of them in different ways. Po’s character grows in such a quiet way that Est didn’t have a ton of emotional range to work with, so he really had to knuckle down and find small ways to show it. Meanwhile Kawi runs the gamut of extremes and it took an enormous amount of physical energy from Krist to convey it all. Mui had to make sure Po was still visually interesting, and Waa had to keep all of Kawi’s extremes balanced so he still came across as realistic.

But Waa and Mui also knew how to get the best performance from their less experienced actors, too.

“Be My Favorite” was Gawin’s first lead performance after a slew of side characters and cameos. He was cast as Pisaeng after 1) Singto turned down the role to go freelance and 2) Mike left the production, but Gawin really made that role his. In behind the scenes interviews, Gawin said that Waa both expected and asked a lot from him, and his acting saw sharp improvement as a result. Gawin was always good at playing outwardly sassy characters, but Waa helped him prioritize portraying Pisaeng’s interiority. Pisaeng has that same sass Gawin is known for portraying, but there’s also got a lot going on that Pisaeng can’t and won’t express in words or actions, and that was a real challenge Gawin pulled off beautifully under Waa’s meticulous direction.

Meanwhile, “ThamePo” is William’s first series ever and bro, what a powerhouse this kid is already. But a lot of what makes his performance really shine are the guidance given and choices made by Mui. His unbroken soft-spoken delivery as Thame, the long holds on his face to give him space to emote, etc. I think it was a genius decision to have Thame never raise his voice in anger or fear or anything, not even once, and that definitely came from the director. Having Thame express his strongest emotions quietly made a profound impact and gave real nuance to his character.

When I heard that Mui had been holding onto this script for years because she hadn’t found the right fit yet, it immediately made me think of “Be My Favorite.” In a podcast interview in 2023, Waa said he told GMMTV at some point early on that he needed more time to work on the script for “Be My Favorite,” that he wanted all the major characters to have their own separate arcs, and that he didn’t care how much the fans complained about the wait, because he wasn’t doing it for them. “Be My Favorite” became his favorite child of all his productions even though he knew before it aired that it wasn’t going to be a massive hit for him in large part because of ~fandom politics~ (the atypical casting meant both sets of fandoms loudly planned to boycott it—and did). His only concern was making a series he was proud of, and in the long run, the pettiness of the fandoms won’t be remembered, but the quality of the series will.

Directors like Mui and Waa are the kinds of champions I always hope for with queer series. Because of course they want people to watch their work, but they’re creators before they’re anything else, and you can see their passion and devotion to craft in every frame of their work.

Sometimes a series is just a vessel to launch an actor to popularity so they can sell things and make money for the company who signed them.

Sometimes—if you have the right people—it’s art.