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mothiir · 3 months ago

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summer hunger

more Taleath/reader for the Xenosfuckers amongst us!

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It is the heat keeping you from sleep, you tell yourself, and if you repeat the lie enough maybe it will become true. Your first time planetside in months, and Macragge’s summers are never gentle. The heat lingers long after the sun slinks below the horizon, and this week has been uncommonly still, with nary a breeze to stir the yellowing grass. Air thick as syrup presses against your sweat-glossed skin, and it is the heat, the heat, the heat. You have to blame the heat. You have to. Because if you do not blame the heat, you must blame Taleath, and to blame Taleath is to acknowledge the way your lips are parted at the thought of his fingers ghosting along your tongue, before plunging further back into the lush softness of your throat, coaxing deeper and deeper, as though testing you -- trying you -- preparing you --

It is the heat. It has to be the heat. If it is not the heat then it is the memory of his voice, snarling and ragged: I want to consume you. It is the knowledge that you would let him eat you down to the raw pink marrow, that you want to pant into his pointed ears as he moves within you: I am yours, always yours. You want your legs around his waist, and his hand at your throat. His fingers would span your neck with little trouble -- they would even overlap, caging you neat and pretty. Would he want you to open your mouth for him again? Show your teeth, like you’re a beast at market he’s inspecting? Would he bite your lips?

You press your knees together, roll onto your stomach, and grind your throbbing cunt into the mattress, and try to continue the lie: if you can make yourself cum, then maybe that will ease you into slumber. And yet your thoughts swiftly turn back to the Aeldari, like a lodestone seeking north. Taleath has not spoken to you -- has not even looked at you -- since the incident at the library. It has barely been a week, and yet each of the days has felt like a knife in your gut. It is addiction. It is humiliating.

By the grace of the God-Emperor, it is not enough.

You practically fling yourself from bed, tugging on your filmy dressing gown as you pad barefoot onto the moonlight-silvered balcony. Nightbirds twitter, crickets hum: the night dances with sound and energy, the frenetic business of life continuing about you. You run your hand along the marble parapet. Would Taleath bend you over here, if you asked nicely? If you begged? For a moment, you entertain the madness: you know where his quarters are. You could knock on his door, peer up at him with spit-wet lips and wide eyes — please, you would say, please, and he could take the rest of your meaning from your thoughts, and you would not even try to shield your intentions. You would let them splay out in a tapestry of pure undiluted want: utter supplication. Take me, have me, own me, fuck me —

“Oh little one,” coos a very familiar voice from behind you, rough and rich as midnight velvet. You wheel about, your pulse singing in your ears, and there is Taleath, as though you have manifested him, slouched against the doorway with a casual artlessness that painters would sell their soul to immortalise on canvas. He’s wearing casual robes of navy silk, embroidered with a repeating pattern that you recognise from other Iyanden Aeldari attire: it is a variation of their written language, but a specific sort of script only used to embroider poetry onto clothing; Aeldari have well over a dozen ways of writing their own language, each notably different to the next, because of course they do — they thrive on complexity.

The inner garment looks like it is designed to button to his throat, but it hangs open, revealing sleek pale flesh, mottled with scar tissue from battles that probably occurred before your grandmother’s grandmother drew breath. The outer garment — a more fanciful version of your own dressing gown — billows in a sweep of misty fabric, despite the lack of breeze. His yellow blonde hair is loose over his shoulders; his black eyes focused on you; and, as ever, he is smiling like he knows some great secret that you will never understand.

And yet you remember the unhinged hunger on his face; the way he lapped your blood from his lips. I want to consume you. You wonder if he too has been kept awake by thoughts of your tongue on his fingers, if he too has blamed the heat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord?” you say, a pretense at coyness.

“I thought I would see how my favourite human is settling into her new quarters. Is that permitted?”

“Traditionally, one knocks before entering a lady’s abode.”

He cocks his head on one side, taps his lower lip. “Hm. I did not know this. Thank you for educating me on your culture — it is always good to learn the ways of lesser species.”

“It is. That is why I make a habit of studying you so intently,” you say, and he barks laughter.

“You are droll -- for a human.”

“And you are charming -- for an Aeldari.”

“What happened to your diplomatic grace?”

“I’m not working at the moment. No one is paying me to be graceful.”

“No. And there is no Primarch here to tell you to watch your tongue.”

“No. Only you.”

“Yes. Only me. Would you like me to tell you what to do with your tongue?”

Your cheeks warm. “I don’t know. Do you want to?” you say, feeling like you are edging your way barefoot along a cliff edge, hearing the sea roar below.

“Do I want to tell you what to do with your tongue…?” he muses, and stretches, leonine and lazy, arching his arms above his head. The movement disturbs his clothing; his robe slides off his shoulder, revealing more pale flesh, and the sharp angle of a clavicle set an a degree just slightly different to your own. “Maybe. If I do, would you obey?”

“I -- “

“Hush.”

You close your mouth without thinking. Taleath’s smile widens by two or three teeth, and your flush deepens when you realise that you have just answered his question.

“Hm. Good. Follow me.”

With that, he turns and strides into your room, as bold as a cat laying claim to a house it has just discovered. You pad after him, feeling all of two feet tall, and yet so aroused you can barely breathe.

It is far, far too late to blame the heat.

You find him in the high-backed armchair next to your bed, his knees splayed apart in -- invitation? Command?

He pats his thigh.

“Come here,” he says.

Command, then. For a moment, you imagine how astonished he would be if you turned to leave -- or if you retired to your bed, pulled the covers over your face and started snoring. It would almost be worth it. Almost.

But you look at his face, at the uncanny edges of his cheek and jaw, at the void-black of his eyes; the disconcerting xenos beauty -- and you never really had a choice. Not since you felt his teeth at your neck -- no, before that. When you let him ease his thumb into your mouth, when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. Maybe even before then -- when you were but a slip of a girl, staring up at the stars, dreaming of a life that would carry you far beyond the nameless planet you once called home.

You step forwards. The crickets and the birds and the singing frogs and chattering bats all fade to a background hum, then vanish entirely, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. You are acutely aware of every sound your body makes; the stick of your soles on marble, the hush of your breath. You try your best to control it -- one two three, one two three -- and to gather the shreds of your dignity about you, because you are a representative of most Holy Terra, you are under the command of Roboute Guilliman, Avenging Son, and your behaviour reflects on him and --

You stand between Taleath’s thighs, and thoughts of loyalty and protocol drift away like stardust. Your neck -- still bruised -- throbs, as he brushes aside your hair and examines the wound. His thumb presses against the raw scab, and you try not to cringe.

I do not want you to be hurt -- no, you misunderstand -- I do not want you to be hurt by anyone who is not me --

You swallow the saliva puddling in your mouth as his fingers tapdance along your jugular, along your chin. Even sitting down, he is still taller than you, though at least the difference is now a matter of inches, not feet.

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your whole body shudders. Every fine hair on your arms stands on end, and your cunt pulses. You daren’t look down, terrified that your arousal is soaking through your nightgown, dewy and damning.

“You’re so needy,” he purrs. “So desperate to be devoured.”

“Only by you,” you say, and he chirrups with satisfaction.

“Yes. Only by me. Only ever by me. Because you’re mine, aren’t you? You belong entirely to me, to do with as I please.”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation. He leans forward, his breath warm on your face, smelling vaguely floral.

“Whatever I want. Whenever I want.”

“--up to a point,” you manage, as he leans forward. He stops, his lips scant centimetres from yours.

“Yes?” he prompts, pulling back a little. You resist the urge to lean forwards to follow him, like a dog begging for attention, tongue lolling out.

“Yes,” you say, fingers furling into fists. “As long as it -- it does not interfere with my duty, with my -- “

“With your dedication to your lord and master?” he says, with a slight edge to his voice -- one you recognise. Men are always men, after all, no matter how pointy their ears, and you know jealousy when you hear it.

“Yes. I serve Roboute Guilliman first and foremost. And always,” you say, completely sincere.

“Of course you do,” he sighs, toying with a lock of your hair. “You are fortunate that your faith in that blonde-haired boy-king tastes quite so delicious. Those who worship the corpse-on-the-throne taste of candle wax and stagnation -- but your love for your living saviour? It is brighter than sunrise and more fragrant than frangipane.”

Your brow furrows; you may not be the most devout member of the Imperium, but you still dislike the heresy implicit in Taleath’s words. “I serve the Emperor --”

“You serve Guilliman, the once and future king, not some corpse-god lingering on a throne that was never his,” Taleath says curtly. “And that is all I wish to say on the subject.”

With that, he pulls you closer, your chest suddenly flush with his, your breath catching in your throat. Troublesome thoughts of theology vanish as his nose brushes your throat. You close your eyes, his breath on your lips, waiting for the touch of his fingers, or his lips, or --

His teeth close down on your ear without warning. Your eyes spring back open, and you yelp in pain. Taleath croons, his tongue sliding over the bloody marks he has left as he nibbles his way down to your earlobe, where he bites again, worrying the slip of flesh between his teeth and tongue. And then he bites his way back up once more, his tongue sliding over the cartilage, his throat vibrating with a pleased coo.

He licks over the rounded top of your ear, and pulls back to survey his handiwork. You feel warmth dripping down your neck.

“Wha -- “

Before you can finish the sentence -- what in the name of fuck are you doing -- he’s redirected his attention to your other ear, repeating the process of chewing and licking and purring, and it is only when you look over at his ears, flicking back and forth beneath his hair like those of a rabbit, that you think you understand.

Awkwardly, you lean forwards and close your mouth onto the sharp edge of his ear. The vibrato coo deepens, his spidery hands sliding from your hips to your buttocks, where they squeeze experimentally.

Right. You suck a little, trying not to be put off by the alien movement of tendons under your teeth -- Aeldari have bones in their ear, not cartilage, permitting a far greater range of movement -- and then bite. Hard.

“Yes,” Taleath moans -- a throaty sound you didn’t think him capable of making. “Yes, like that, little prey thing, little pet --”

Right. Of course. If Aeldari ears are erogenous, then it stands to reason why he would be so fascinated by yours. You repeat the gesture, while tipping your head to the side, exposing the long slope of your neck in what you hope is an obvious invitation. Chew on that, you hope the gesture says, not my poor earlobes.

Thankfully, he understands -- or, rather, he understands and chooses to act, because you’re not so naive as to think he would understand and then completely ignore your request, preferring to continue his quest to pulp your ears entirely -- and sets his teeth against your flesh. He is gentler here, licking and sucking rather than biting. His tongue feels strange -- almost like a cat’s, rough against you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pulling his mouth away from your throat after what seems like an age. You’re dizzy with desire, unresisting as he pulls you onto his lap, his hand resting on your thigh, his fingers so so close to where you want them -- where you need them -- and you can’t help but push your hips towards him. He chuffs laughter into your hair. “Moving so swiftly, aren’t you? I forget -- humans have so little time. No wonder they seek to copulate so swiftly -- Aeldari can take years of foreplay before penetration is even considered --”

Impatient -- and also because you think it may be the only surefire way you have to shut him up -- you press your lips against his. He laughs against your mouth, laughs as you kiss him, his tongue sweeping against yours with an ease that is completely unfair. His fingers curl into your hair, yanking you closer, and he breaks the kiss -- only to bite your lower lip hard enough to break the skin.

“Ow! Do Aeldari also chew on their partners like -- like --”

Comparison fails you. He licks your mouth, your lip already swelling from his abuse.

“No,” he says. “Most don’t. But most don’t have sex. They don’t trust themselves.”

Aeldari culture is a mystery to most -- even you, who speaks their language (well, as best as a human can), and works alongside them, does not understand the depths of it.

“Most don’t? But you do?”

“Hmm. Do I? I suppose we shall see, won’t we?”

The clit-teasing damnable bastard. He inches your nightgown up, and you return your attention to his ears, biting until your jaw aches.

“Good girl,” he says, and you cannot see it but you hear his smirk. Finally, he bunches your skirt up around your waist, bearing your dripping cunt to him. You spread your knees, instinctive, and he peers down at it like he is examining a curio. He spreads you open with his index finger and thumb, cocking his head on one side. “It’s prettier than I thought it would be,” he says, at least, and you smack him.

“How do Aeldari ever manage to procreate if this is how their men try and seduce someone?” you say hotly. “I’m astonished your womenfolk even let you into bed. It’s prettier than I thought.”

“What would males of your species say?” Taleath says. “That you are -- hmm, let me think -- round-chested and fecund? That you have childbearing hips and your cunt is…tight? Is that correct? Is that what your little human heart wishes me to say?”

You squirm, horribly aware that the condescension in his voice is only serving to make you wetter, your cunt dewy and ripe under his gaze.

“I mean -- not quite that --”

“You have a pretty cunt, and a pretty face, and I look forward to my seed covering both? Is that it?”

“I -- “

“That would not be untrue,” he continues blithely. “I would not be opposed to filling you up.”

He sinks his middle finger into your dripping hole, and you gasp, arching your back, encouraging him deeper. He pets around inside you, exploring.

“You’re so soft. And wet. You take me so easily.”

He pushes another finger inside you.

“I like it! It’s like another mouth, all spacious and welcoming.”

“Spacious --” you splutter, indignant, and he quiets you with a deep kiss that has you all but swooning in his lap.

“It is a compliment. Accept it. I wonder if I could fit Harbinger inside you -- I think I could! I will. Later.”

It takes you a moment to remember what Harbinger is. “Your sword --” you squeal, and he nips at your bruised and bloodied neck affectionately.

“Yes. I’d keep the scabbard on -- do not worry. I would not want to tear you open completely.”

“You are not putting a sword inside me --”

He sinks a third finger inside, and you cry out, full to the point of pain. He splays his digits open within you, fucking them in and out, curling upwards until he finds the soft spot within you that has you seeing stars. You’re close -- so close -- reduced to mindless sensation, rocking your hips into his grasp, so close, so close --

And then he stops. He removes his fingers, still sticky with your arousal, and wipes them on your nightgown.

“Wha --” you say, blearily. “What -- why did you stop?”

“Because I wanted to,” he says, and taps you on the nose. “I only ever do what I want to do, little one.”

“But -- but -- “

He sweeps you up as though you weigh nothing at all, and carries you bridal style to your bed, where he deposits you, tugging your discarded blankets around you.

“There. Nice and comfortable, yes?”

“I -- “

“Sleep tight, little human --”

“But what -- what was that --”

“Oh, it was entertaining. Delicious. Delightful. You mewl so prettily, and your blood tastes better than the finest wine.”

To prove his point, he leans forward and licks your neck, a broad scratching sweep of his tongue that gathers up blood still leaking from the bitemarks he has left.

“Do you not -- “ Your brow furrows. Your chest twinges; foreign, deep hurt starts to spiral out. Are you that undesirable? Did you do something wrong?

Taleath clips you around the ear. It’s a gesture that would sting at the best of times, but given that your ears have been treated as chew toys for almost an hour it is agony.

“I still desire you. Do not be ridiculous. I just want to see you beg for me.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. He kisses your forehead, managing to make the gesture both deeply tender and utterly patronizing.

“I heard you thinking earlier. Something about showing up at my quarters, begging for me to own you? When you do that -- when you prostrate yourself at my feet, declare yourself unworthy even for a spark of my attention -- then I’ll fuck you. I’ll cum in that tight little cunt of yours and carve my name into your breasts, and you will love it, won’t you? But not before.”

One more nuzzle at your throat, and he’s standing. You do not reach for him; you do not let yourself. You swallow thickly, sitting up against your pillows.

“You came to me,” you say. “You came to my quarters, because you wanted me. I don’t think you’ll wait for me to beg.”

His smile is sharp as a knife in the dark. “Oh I like you, little one. Challenging an Aeldari to a game of patience? Let us see who wins. You’ll be begging for me before your neck heals clean.”

He bows -- a flourishing, mocking gesture -- and just like that, he’s gone. Moving so swift and sure you’d think he had teleported.

You roll over, and shove your face in your pillow to stifle your scream of frustration. Because damn him, damn him, damn him -- you know that he is right.

#my writing #reader/drukhari #reader/aeldari

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more-than-tender-curiosity · 7 months ago

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for those of you asking for the garden scene (tumblr's search function is off the shits) it's below the cut. remember, the Princeton draft is from 1924-25, and it came before Trimalchio. It's handwritten and I'm still. trying to transcribe it. while working a full time job and still providing fic. it's coming. i promise.

After that I watched for Gatsby, and found him several evenings later, coming across my own lawn. He had lost a little of his ruddy tan and his eyes were bright and tired. We sat down on a bench in the yard.

“Going away?” I asked.

“No, old man. Why do you ask me that?”

“I hear you fired all your servants.”

“I had to have somebody that could keep their mouths shut,” he replied after a minute. “These two towns are pretty close together.”

“Where’d you find these?” I inquired, a little startled by the romantic revelation.

“They’re some of Wolfshiem’s people.” He broke off. “Can you come to lunch at Daisy’s house next Saturday?”

“All right.”

We sat for a few minutes in silence. Then he asked me if he could tell me about something that was on his mind, something that had happened to him when he first knew Daisy several years ago.

“Will I bore you?” He looked up quickly. “For God’s sake tell me if it’ll bore you.”

“It won’t bore me.”

They had been walking together down the street one autumn night when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year and Gatsby became aware that everything was alive. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and a bustle among the stars. He took a step toward her, perceiving out of the corner of his eye that the blocks of the sidewalk formed a ladder and mounted to a roof garden above the trees where one could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the humming and the song. Then he kissed her. At his lips touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

…He didn’t really say any of this. What he said was that she had been an “ideal” of his, and that he’d never have such ideals about things or girls anymore.

“Well, you have Daisy,” I said. “After all she ought to be a pretty satisfactory incarnation of anything.”

“She is,” he answered without conviction. “But it’s a little like loving a place where you’ve once been happy.”

“You don’t know what you want,” I told him impatiently. “You wait three years and then after three weeks you’re tired.”

“We all grow old,” I told him. “It seems to me you’ve come pretty close to getting all your desires.”

“I haven’t got anything,” he said simply. “I thought for a while I had a lot of things, my house—“ He looked up at it for an instant— “and things like that. But the truth is I’m empty and I guess people feel it. That must be why they keep on making up things about me, so I won’t be so empty. Why,— Daisy’s all I’ve got left of a world that was so wonderful that when I think of it I feel sick all over.” He looked around with wild regret. “Let me sing you a song—I want to sing you a song!”

He began to sing a song in a low unmusical baritone. The tune seemed to be a rough compendium of all the tunes of twenty years ago. It went about like this:

“We hear the tinkle of the gay guitars We see the shining Southern moon; Where the fire-flies flit And the June bugs sit Drones the cricket’s single tune. We hear the lapping of the wavelets Where the lonesome nightbirds sing And the soft warm breeze Tell the tall palm trees The Dreamy Song of Spring”

“I made it up when I was fourteen,” he said eagerly, “and the sound of it always makes me perfectly happy. But I don’t sing it often now because I’m afraid I’ll use it up.”

Through all he said, even through the doggerel of the song, I was reminded of something that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound and what it was that I had almost remembered was incommunicable forever.

#the great gatsby #nick carraway #jay gatsby #natsby #tgg #the garden scene #the princeton draft

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cavycaptain · 1 year ago

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03 - Whole - MegaSound Week 2023

Baby Cassette Nightbird meets her heroes for the first time—she’s nervous about making a first impression but they already love her (Soundwave already signed the adoption papers)

#liaperezart #maccadam #maccadams #transformers #megatron #soundwave #tf megatron #tf soundwave #tf sg #tf shattered glass #MegaSound #megasoundweek2023 #megasoundweek #megasound2023

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just-someone-online · 6 months ago

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Nightbird in Earthspark

I just wanna see the funny ninja again. Minor spoilers for season two of Earthspark.

Thirty years ago, the Decepticons stole an experimental ninja robot in the hopes of using it against the Autobots and their allies. Much like the original G1 version, she gets damaged in battle (We'll say Optimus was the one to shoot her instead of Starscream, feeling that he had no other way of stopping her) and abandoned by the Decepticons. G.H.O.S.T claimed that if she was repaired, then the Decepticons might try and take her again, so they shut her up in storage. And there she stays for the rest of the war.

Cut to a few months after the final battle against Mandroid. The Autobots have begun the slow process of clearing out G.H.O.S.T's HQ and turning it into their own. They come across Nightbird and decide to give her back to Dr. Fujiyama, so she's loaded into Prime's trailer for him to deliver her. But on the way, he gets called by the other Autobots and the Terrans. An Embershard has been found, and they're pinned down by the Decepticons. So Prime takes a detour to help out, with Nightbird still in his trailer.

Skipping over the battle a bit, Prime's trailer is eventually opened so he can use its cannon, but that also exposes Nightbird. During the chaos, the shard is flung into the trailer, its casing shatters, and it gets lodged in Nightbird's plating. At some point in the fight, it began raining, and when it comes into contact with the shard and Nightbird, it brings the ninja to life as a Terran protoform.

Nightbird awakens, and she sees the Autobots, Decepticons, and Terrans staring at her, confused. She suddenly remembers the battle thirty years ago. Optimus shooting her, Megatron abandoning her, G.H.O.S.T locking her up. Thankfully, she wasn't disarmed when she was put in storage, and she throws a smoke bomb and escapes in the commotion. With Nightbird and the shard gone, the bots all take their leave.

Nightbird remains hidden for several weeks after that. The Maltobots can't feel her through their bond, and the Autobots can't find any trace of her on their scanners. It isn't until Nightshade and Twitch are out getting cave water that they find the ninja, half dazed as she runs out of energy. Of course, they get her some cave water, speedrun through an explanation of the last thirty years, and try to convince her to come home with them. Nightbird is hesitant, as she doesn't want to associate with anyone allied with the Autobots, but she does tentatively follow them back home.

She lets Nightshade run diagnostics on her to see if it's safe to remove her Embershard, and once it's out, she mostly just hangs around the bunker. After all, it's not like she has anywhere else to go. The Malto's help her adjust to being alive and sentient, and sometimes suggest alt mode ideas to her (She's largely ambivalent to getting one but there has been a motorcycle or two that's caught her eye.)

Things are tense between her and the Autobots. She tolerates Bumblebee since the Malto's consider him family, but when the others come knocking, she'll usually retreat into the woods for a few hours. If Optimus or Megatron in particular try approaching her, then she vanishes for a few days. She may not have actually been alive during the war, but it's still hard to forget the way she was cast aside and left to gather dust.

I'm not completely sure how she interacts with each Malto individually, nor do I know what she does in season two proper. So that'll just have to wait for another day.

#transformers #earthspark #transformers earthspark #transformers au #nightbird #earthspark spoilers #you wouldn't believe how many times i accidentally typed nightshade instead of nightbird #i didn't bring it up in the main post but she doesn't speak #whether it's because she can't or because she chooses not to remains to be seen #i'm also torn on whether she gets an alt mode or not #on one hand i like keeping her as a non transforming bot #but i also like bikeformers and i have at least two ideas about how to integrate her alt mode with her ninja weapons

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19thcenturylover · 2 years ago

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Some doodles/HC because I can finally draw again

The university is not being as hard as I thought but it does take up a lot of my time, so now I have 1 or 2 a week to draw what I like— So I bring these rotb doodles that I did yesterday :D

I have a Headcannon for Wheeljack and his little antennae: He in one of his many failed experiments blew something up in his face, leaving him almost completely deaf. He uses headphones for it and his antennae are part of that object :P

And for Nightbird I had two ideas for her design: my first idea was to base her on her voice actress (Michaela Jaé Rodriguez) but at the same time I love the idea of her being Japanese (with the samurai aesthetic that she uses in her renders), I'll try how it looks with the first idea but I love both :P

oh! and I also gave Cheetor longer hair, I don't know, I wanted a character with really long hair and I love how it turned out :]♡

#digitalart #fanart #transformers #transformers rise of the beasts #tf #rotb #humanformers #hf au #wheeljack #nightbird #cheetor #doodles #yeah idk

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redsea8me · 7 months ago

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Shoutout to when I tried to participate in Nightbird week forever ago but literally only did Day 1 and also never told anybody

#nightbird #maccadam #transformers #transformers g1 #red draws #Day 1 was creation if I remember correctly

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metalhoops · 2 years ago

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Steve had always thought his house was haunted. It wasn’t until the bodies started showing up on the front porch that he suspected it was something more sinister.

The Harrington house had an air about it, with its elongated, hollow halls resembling gaping maws come sundown and all the familiar clicks and ticks that came with living in an enormous house alone. The pipes rattled like cuffed hands clapping when Steve stood beneath the shower spray. The wooden walls warped with the seasons, making all sorts of odd creeks. Then, of course, there was the wildlife, the shrieking of nightbirds and nocturnal creatures in the woods around the house.

He used to think the haunting was the extrapolation of an overactive imagination. It was the reanimated corpse of a broken home. Sometimes an open window would blow shut a downstairs door, letting Steve think for a moment his parents had returned, only to find a silent house at his feet.

After his first run-in with The Upside Down, he got paranoid. He slept with his bat by his bed, bolted the windows and checked the locks twice before going to sleep. Nothing ever happened. Each time the paranoia waned, another apocalypse would rear its ugly head, and he’d be back to the old routine.

March 1986 sent him over the edge with Vecna's disappearance, Max’s coma, and Eddie’s death. He made new sets of keys, figuring with Hawkins being the way it was, his parents would avoid the place like the plague. He borrowed one of Nancy’s guns and kept it in his bedside drawer. However, unlike in other years, the house was anything but empty.

He’d wake to the sound of slamming doors in the middle of the night and walk downstairs to find all the kitchen cupboards open and the front door ajar. Things escalated quickly. By mid-May, he was finding dead animals on his doorstep.

He’d held back vomit one morning when he’d stepped out onto the welcome mat to find his once pristine white Rebooks wedged between the ribs of a coyote. The creature was pallid to the point of purpling. The front yard was a crime scene, the neatly cut grass streaked with blood. It seemed like the blood was everywhere but within the animal. It’d gone cold and stiff in the night.

The next week it was a fox, the week after, a possum. Steve became more well-acquainted with death. He’d thrown house parties every week back in high school, and knew about deep cleaning, burying any trace of what a state the place had once been in.

At first, he’d tried to think rationally. He tried to make some excuse about the change in weather, bringing the creatures to his doorstep. He’d even mentioned it to Robin, who’d been appropriately disgusted but level-headed. After all, the town had almost been cracked into a hundred little pieces months before, and nature acting strangely was expected. Every other day a bird would take a nosedive into the video store window.

Steve became good at explaining these instances away until he found the final body on the floor of the living room. It wasn’t dead, but it should be.

The familiar sound of a slamming door roused Steve from his sleep. He grabbed the gun and headed downstairs only to find himself looking down at the familiar body of a boy, sprawled out on the living room carpet. His form was covered in fading scars, his pale skin ashen with the transparent sheen of death. It was Eddie. The boy Steve had watched die.

Steve saw the man’s chest rise and fall in languid gasps. He was dying at his feet all over again, and Steve was too used to strange things to question the authenticity of the sight before his eyes.

“Eddie?” Steve choked, disbelievingly watching as Eddie’s eyes sprung open. He’d known them as warm brown coco, but now they were gaping black pits, open yet unseeing.

��Stevie?” He echoed, sounding disorientated.

“It’s so freaking cold,” the boy huffed, attempting to sit. It was an echo of a conversation they’d had while Eddie was dying. Maybe Steve was dreaming.

He dropped the gun and helped pull Eddie into a sitting position, one hand on the back of the boy’s knee, the other on his shoulder blade. His hands were covered in blood, but Steve couldn’t see an injury.

“I was looking for you... thought you’d know what to do. Jesus Christ, you’re warm,” Eddie hissed through chattering teeth, his whole body leaning into Steve. They were on the cusp of summer and Steve was sweating, while Eddie was as cold as death.

Steve felt like he was standing on the edge of a steep cliff, being asked to jump. Something primal in the base of his brain was screaming for him to turn tail and run.

“You died, Eddie. I saw you, you shouldn’t be here,” Steve let out a string of incoherent ramblings. The boy couldn’t be alive.

Eddie curled further into himself, into Steve, a quiet groan escaping his lips.

“Can we save the crisis for later? I’m so damn hungry, man.” Steve nodded and pulled Eddie to his feet, leading him by the wrist to the kitchen.

He switched on the lights and watched Eddie wilt beneath them, using his hair to shield his face from the brightness. Steve, oh too familiar with migraines, flipped the lights back off, letting darkness swallow them.

He poured Eddie water from the sink and watched him inhale greedy gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing while a vein in his neck throbbed. Steve scraped together food from the fridge and watched as the man ate with the same frenzied fervour, before spinning on his heels and throwing up in the sink. Steve cringed but rubbed circles across the man’s back.

“I feel like I’m dying,” the boy groaned.

Steve couldn’t tell him he wasn’t. He didn’t know what was happening to Eddie, but he knew he didn’t want to watch the guy die again.

Steve felt Eddie’s body trembling beneath his fingertips. He rubbed his hand down the length of Eddie’s arm, trying to warm him.

“I’m going to get you a blanket,” Steve spoke, backing away from Eddie, keeping his eyes on the boy until his back slammed into the doorframe.

By the time he gathered the sheets from the upstairs closet and returned to the kitchen, Eddie was gone. The only trace left of his visit was the open front door and the bloody handprint on the sink.

After that night, Steve stopped locking his doors. He didn’t tell anyone he’d seen Eddie. They’d think he was crazy. He thought he was crazy.

It would be weeks before Eddie woke him again. This time, Steve was startled by another body sliding into bed beside him. The room smelled of rotting fruit and iron. Sickly sweet and coppery. Steve rolled over, finding himself looking into the vacuous black eyes he’d come to know as Eddie’s.

“Are you real?” Steve murmured, almost certain he was dreaming.

“Last time I checked,” Eddie grumbled, still shivering.

“Are you the one leaving the animals on the porch?” Steve asked. He’d been doing a lot of thinking, and contrary to popular belief, if pushed, he could put two and two together.

Eddie didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His face spoke volumes.

“It works in horror movies,” Eddie grumbled.

“Did it work?” It surprised the both of them how non-judgemental Steve’s tone was, as though they were discussing the weather.

“No,” Eddie confessed.

Steve felt the same sinking sensation he had when Eddie first appeared, but he never was one for running from danger.

“Do you think something else might?” He tried to remain cool, but his heart was a kick drum in his chest. Steve was good at playing the martyr. That didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified each time he did it.

“Satanic Cult Leader Lays with Hawkins High King and Local Golden Boy, Luring Him into his Ranks Through Blood Sacrifice. That headline has a nice ring to it, huh?” Eddie teased, putting on his most dramatic news anchor voice, shattering the illusion as he stuttered the final words out through chattering teeth.

“It’s a little wordy, and ‘lay with’ are we five?” Steve grumbled, trying to help Eddie by moving closer to the boy.

“I didn’t mean to imply...” Eddie grumbled. Despite his decrepit state, he still managed to look like a deer caught in headlights.

Steve shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t care that you did. Do you still feel like you’re dying?”

Once more, Eddie’s silence spoke volumes. Steve knew he was about to do something stupid, but chose to do it anyway.

“I want you to try it,” Steve insisted. Instead of moving closer, Eddie shuffled further away, going to stand when Steve reached out, catching him before he could recreate his disappearing act.

“I know what happens to you in horror movies, Stevie,” Eddie whispered, shaking himself from the boy’s grip.

“Only the predictable ones,” Steve argued, sitting up in bed.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“And I don’t want to watch you die again, so just hurry up and get it over with,” Steve hissed.

“Christ, you have a death wish,” Eddie grumbled but returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged opposite Steve.

The two boys sat, looking each other over for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Steve watched as Eddie’s eyes became darker. The moonlight from the window turned his skin the same silver, blue as the night. His lips purple. His cheeks hollow. The veins across his face appeared like a million little highway lines cutting across the map that was his skin.

“Can you hurry up?” Steve spoke, feeling his nerves stretched thin.

“Sorry, Harrington. S’not like they give you a manual on this shit,” Eddie complained, leaning over and gathering the gun from Steve’s bedside drawer, switching off the safety and placing it in Steve’s right hand. He took Steve’s free hand with a beat of hesitation.

“Here’s something I thought I’d never say. Harrington, I give you consent to shoot me if shit goes sideways.” Steve’s eyes swelled wide, but he nodded to show he understood.

The idea of something was always worse than the real thing. He shut his eyes and tried not to squeeze his finger on the trigger as a sharp spasm of pain shocked up his left arm. The sound was worse than the pain. He could block out the sensation as time went on. It was hard to ignore the intermittent slurps or smacking of lips. Just when the world started to blur around the edges, Steve felt Eddie pull back.

“Sorry, sorry.” Eddie apologised as he grabbed a shirt from Steve’s things, trying to wrap it around the wound.

Eddie’s face was a sight to behold. Blood painted it from nose to jaw, a pool coagulating at the corner of his lips. That was the thing that tipped him over the edge. Steve felt the world go dark.

He woke hours later. The curtains were drawn, and he felt a body by his side. A warm body. Steve rolled over, surprised to find Eddie’s face pressed into his side. The boy was deep in sleep. Steve glanced at his mangled wrist, finding it wrapped in gauze, unsure where Eddie had found it.

Steve supposed his life was never going to be normal anyway. He might as well let it happen. At least he wasn’t going to be alone in the house anymore. If Eddie was alive, Steve couldn’t be haunted.

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