#not bad for a superficial sweep

[syluses]

love is a bitch

sylus x female reader

sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.

▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior, stockholm syndrome

▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡

You’re stubborn, tonight.

Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.

Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.

Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

sweeping you off your feet for the second time

an : rafayel x nonmc | nonmc is introverted & nonconfrontational | mc is the girl bestie of nonmc | college au | tried to make it fluff but maybe i failed | typed on my phone & non proofread | might be triggering for some - read at your own risk cause its hard to make a label for every single thing | i wrote this cause i wanted to hurt myself

previous next

CHAPTER NINE

The days that came afterwards were undeniably better.

With MC by your side, a constant, comforting presence, you felt a significant weight lift from your shoulders.

You no longer had to navigate the campus alone, always scanning for potential encounters with Rafayel’s old circle. Her infectious energy and unwavering support were a balm to your wounded spirit, and you often found yourself laughing freely, truly unburdened for the first time in weeks.

However, Rafayel seemed to be taking his declaration—and that surprising kiss—very, very seriously.

He wasn't all grand, sweeping gestures; he knew you hated that, knew you saw through the superficiality.

Instead, his approach was calculated, subtle, and utterly persistent.

One afternoon, he found MC and you at the campus café, and without missing a beat, he introduced himself to her.

MC, still fiercely protective, glared at him, arms crossed. Rafayel, remarkably, met her gaze head-on, giving her a serious, almost humbled speech of apology for his past behavior, for the dare, for the pain he had caused you. He spoke with a sincerity that even seemed to disarm MC, if only slightly.

From that day forward, Rafayel would always find a way to be close to you.

He’d appear outside your classes, not to corner you, but to walk alongside you to your next lecture.

He seemed to intuitively know what you needed, often appearing with your favorite iced caramel macchiato on a particularly grueling study day, or a perfectly timed joke when your shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.

He always found ways to surprise you in good ways, small, thoughtful gestures that began to chip away at your carefully constructed guard. He wasn't being pushy; he consistently gave you your space, always respectful of your boundaries, and seemed to mind you very much, his attention always centered on your comfort.

Your conversations with him slowly began to return to how they were when you first became friends – easy, flowing, filled with shared interests and quiet understanding.

But now, his actions felt imbued with a new, intentional weight, and his gaze at you was less guarded, more open, as if he genuinely wanted you to see how serious he was towards you, how truly, deeply his feelings had shifted.

Then, one afternoon, as you and Rafayel were walking along a tree-lined path on the campus grounds, deep in conversation, you came across his old circle.

Leah was there, her usual boisterous self, along with the very friends who had been at the convenience store. They called out to Rafayel, attempting to make amends, perhaps sensing his renewed distance.

Leah’s eyes landed on you, walking so casually beside him, and her face twisted in a familiar sneer.

She opened her mouth to spout another mean comment, but Rafayel was not having it. He stopped dead in his tracks, pulling you slightly behind him, effectively shielding you from their collective gaze. His body language was a clear barrier, a silent declaration of protection.

“If any of you,” Rafayel began, his voice low and dangerously calm, a chilling contrast to his usual vibrant tone, “as much as think of something bad against her—or even talk bad behind her back—I’ll make your lives a living hell.”

One of his friends, still reeling from Rafayel’s unexpected ferocity, managed a sneer. “You can only try, Rafayel.”

Rafayel’s lips curved into a chilling, confident smile.

“I don’t need to try,” he replied, his voice laced with icy conviction. “I only need to act. And you’ll all regret your actions towards her.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind his words was immense. His old friends backed down, their faces paling.

You couldn't see what they were seeing, but Rafayel gave them the meanest, most murderous, serious glare that they had never witnessed before.

It was the kind of look that said he didn’t threaten with empty words; it was the kind that promised he’d do it in a heartbeat, and he’d enjoy every minute of it.

Then, Rafayel took your hand gently, his fingers intertwining with yours, and guided you away from his stunned friends. They were left scared and speechless, wouldn't even look at you as you walked away.

Once you were a safe distance, Rafayel turned to you, his gaze still holding a hint of that dangerous intensity.

“You need to tell me, cutie, if any of them try to hurt or harass you again. Just one word. And I’ll make them suffer.”

You hesitated, the gravity of his words settling in. “But Rafayel… it might be too much. After all, they’re still your friends.”

He dismissed your concern with a shake of his head, his grip firm on your hand.

“The dare was one thing,” he said, his voice flat with finality. “But to try something that would physically harm you or scare you, and also humiliate you in front of others—those are different. Very different.”

His eyes, dark and resolute, met yours. “I reminded you before, cutie. I promised that things will be different from now on. I will not let you get hurt again. Never.”

You softly nodded.

This time, somehow, his words didn’t feel empty.

They felt weighty, true, a promise forged in the heat of a fury that was entirely for you.

And Rafayel?

He really meant every single word he said.

[thedarkmongoose]

SPOILERS: i have mixed feelings about the bear s3 but knowing that s3 & s4 were written/filmed at the same time makes sense. s4 will prob answer s3's q's. (A LOT was left open-ended) usually i love that, but it felt like the show lost itself in certain places, esp the self-indulgent finale. all stories are indulgent to some degree, but too much decadence rarely leaves room for substance.

and i get why they tried to do the chef's table thing, but other than andrea, syd, and luca, everyone else's acting was disjointed and trite. but i loved ep 1; it was an ethereal, artsy, meditative piece (peace) that was necessary after the chaotic s2 finale. however, as a big fan of the show, it was hard for me to finish the eps.

the standout in s3 FOR SURE was tina's ep - directed by ayo. glad we got her backstory. personally i liked her anxiety-inducing job hunt bc it's really like that irl, esp for older woc. the sobbing while eating a free sandwich was relatable, and the mikey convo was super impactful. but as much as i loved the ep, it still felt superficial compared to s2 'forks' (richie) or 'honeydew' (marcus). we never see her son again either; all we get is tina yelling at him to quiet down.

then there was marcus's mother's funeral which seemed like it was going to be more central to the plot than it was. i wish we got more. and claire is still one of the most underwritten characters EVER. nothing about her or the mis en scène really sells it that she's a doctor lol. and the scene with the faks trying to apologize on carmy's behalf was beyond cringe. i like matty matheson - i have his cookbook, but there was entirely too many faks in s3.

and let's be real: where was ebra & sweeps? ebra has such an interesting story that i'm HOPING we get to see in s4. sweeps too - he tried out for the chicago cubs! but on a positive note, i loved the chemistry between syd/luca. it was v sweet and organic. wonder if they'll be a thing in s4 since luca is carmy's foil. too bad marcus was barely in s3, tho the hug between him & luca at the party was cute. syd's meltdown mirroring carmy's in s2 was also a nice touch.

idk how to feel about sugar's labor scene. most praise it, but it didn't hit the same for me. donna's over-acting (the whole series) is really distracting and i can't take her seriously. ik she's supposed to be mentally unwell, but it borders on cartoonish. the hospital moment was heartwarming, but again, artificially. and pete was so underwritten too, just so they could have that mom moment. i liked the scene with him and syd tho. it felt authentically awkward.

i also understand what they were trying to do with the finale, but it was a flop for me. the scene with andrea/carmy staring out into the chicago night was introspective and beautiful, but the msg doesn't hit all the way bc we have a group of wealthy celeb chefs saying it's okay to stop while you're ahead and enjoy life while you can. every second counts. unfortunately for those who are not celeb chefs, it's not that easy to simply "enjoy life."

on one hand, i agree that food is life and restaurants have been community "third places" forever (essential to life itself; historically, like when revolutionaries would gather at pubs or cafes). however, do i think that fine dining and the "art" that comes with it is necessary? no. if there were more spots like the original beef/bear in the world tho, that would be a good thing.

[irene9900]

Flowers

Giyuu Tomioka x GN!Reader

Flufftember

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, injuries, to those allergic to lavender I'm sorry, bed-sharing, night-terrors, getting cut by glass, reader is like a nurse of sorts at the butterfly mansion/has a lot of medical knowledge, limited knowledge of medicine (from me lol),

A/N: I had many different ideas for this one (some might turn into other fics/drabbles) and I listened to Chuck Berry while writing this. This also got more carried away than originally planned. Flowers became an afterthought, nonetheless I hope you enjoy. Posted a few days early just because.

Word Count: 1,000+

The recent battle had been a tough one for the stoic pillar. The demon had been stronger than previously anticipated, leaving Giyuu barely conscious after finally defeating the demon. Through the efforts of the kakushi, he was brought to the butterfly mansion for further treatment. 

Upon his arrival, you were tasked with cleaning up his wounds and bandaging them. As you removed his uniform you noticed glass shards trickle out, and scratches along his torso. Why is all that glass there, you thought, wasn’t he in the forest when he battled the demon? 

Your thoughts drift as you clean the glass from his wounds. You've known Tomioka for a good bit of time, from before he was a hashira. He was always a quiet one, hardly holding a conversation, but he did sit and listen to your rambles when he was treated at the butterfly mansion. He often stopped by along his routes too, he always brought sweets or other trinkets with him when he visited the mansion. When he visited you. Sometimes he told you stories, when you were alone, that is, he didn’t tell you about the bad parts of his missions, but rather the people he met along the way and how he came into possession of the newest piece of your ever growing collection of trinkets. While it was his job to travel across the vast country slaying demons, your job was here, tending to the wounded and healing, seldom traveling to the other wisteria houses for lent support. 

One of your favorite items you’ve received from him was a book on medicinal flowers and herbs. It reminded you of some of the medical books Kocho had stored in her office. It was a useful book Giyuu found when he passed through the city. It’s come in handy a few times, you’ve even added a few notes in the margins here and there that aid your studying. You carried that book with you in your med bag everywhere you went. 

His wounds were mostly superficial, save for the three gashes on his arm, which you had promptly disinfected and stitched. You disinfected the rest of his wounds littered along his arms and chest, before wrapping his arms in bandages. Getting up from the bedside, you carefully pull a top on him, tying it loosely. You grab your med bag, your book falling out in the process. It falls to the page on the lavender plant, one you have held interest in for a while.

Hm? Well lavender does have calming properties, I could put some by his bedside, you thought. You walked out towards the garden, cutting off a few stems to place in a small vase. An extra measure, you draped your haori over him, while you cleaned his. With one last sweep through the room, you turned to leave.

“Rest well, Tomioka, I’ll be back to check on you later.” you say as you quietly close the door behind you.

It was a pretty uneventful day afterwards, with Giyuu still resting, not even a small twinge from you inserting an IV. Until you heard screams down the hall from your room. You jumped up, grabbing your scarcely used blade and ran to the source. Your heart drops in your chest when you realize whose room it is, who it is. 

You burst open the door to find an asleep Giyuu, thrashing in his bed, pulling at his bandages and IV. You dropped the sword you were carrying and rushed over immediately to calm the man. Grabbing his wrists, trying to overpower the man, to no avail.

You let go, moving closer to his head, hands coming up to rub his temples. You whispered to him, trying to gently wake him up. Slowly the thrashing stopped, and he woke up. Your eyes met his dark orbs. His face went from panicked to calm, relaxing in your touch. You moved to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge.

“Where’d you go?” he whispered. You looked at him puzzled, you hadn’t been there most of the day. “You were here, then all of a sudden you left me. I couldn’t feel your presence anymore.” 

Your eyes scanned down to your haori, which had fallen off of him at some point and onto the floor, “Tomioka-san, I haven’t been here most of the day. I’ve been running around the butterfly estate.” You respond. 

A soft oh escapes his lips, leaving you both in a calm silence. You impulsively reached up and stroked his hair, brushing your fingers through his soft locks.

“Are you feeling better?” You ask, retreating your hand from his hair. Before you could fully pull away, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him. 

“Don’t leave please,” he barely manages to whisper. So you don’t. You pull yourself under the sheets. Letting him cling on to you for dear life, tears running down his face. It was different to see him so… vulnerable. Before, his body language was always the same, distant. Always an arm length away, except now. He held you tightly to his chest, as if you would slip away at any moment.  You both fell back asleep peacefully like that. 

He wakes in the morning to your sleeping form, arms wrapped around his neck, head buried in his chest, he freezes. His mind can’t remember how you got there or why he was holding you. You slowly awaken from your sleep, rubbing your head against his chest. You meet his eyes, also freezing upon realization. You untangle yourself from him gently, making sure not to hit his wounds. Profusely apologizing about what happened. 

Before you can leave, however, he grabs your wrist firmly, keeping you back.

“What happened?” He asks, letting go of your wrist. You turn to see him better, gliding back to the bed. 

“You don’t remember?” you ask, confused. 

“I remember you leaving and coming back. I don’t remember you getting in my bed.”

He doesn’t remember the nightmare, you thought. You begin to recount the prior events, starting with him arriving at the butterfly mansion, leaving your haori in place of his dirty one, placing an IV later in the evening, to the nightmare he seemed to be having. 

“I remember smelling lavender. I thought I dreamed of you.”

“Oh, the lavender? That’s what I put by your bedside. The book you gave me said it had calming properties. Plus it reminded me of you.” 

“Not from the flowers. From you.” 

“Ohh…”, you weren’t sure of what to say. It was hard to find the words to explain that feeling in your chest, knowing he felt safe and comfortable with you. Awkward silence filled the air.

“What happened to my uniform? My haori?” Giyuu broke the silence, eyes searching around the room for his belongings.

“I discarded the uniform, there were a lot of broken pieces of glass over it, but I cleaned your haori. It’s in my room,” you reply. 

“Broken glass… that means-” he muttered. 

“Means what?” you ask.

“I just-,” He pauses, “I had something special in there for you. It’s nothing really.”

Your ears perked up, “Something for me?”

“There was a stall selling perfumes, the scent reminded me of you, so I purchased it.” 

“That’s so sweet Tomioka-san. You don’t have to bring me gifts every time you see me. I appreciate them though.” 

“I want to bring them to you,” he says, “I don’t really know the right words to say, but I’m fond of you. You give me feelings I never thought I could experience.”

“I’m very fond of you too.” You blush. 

Bonus:

“You know, since you like lavender, I could press these flowers for you to keep. I know it's not much compared to all you’ve given me, but-”

“I would love that. I’ll cherish anything you give me.”

[themaladaptivewriter12]

Title: Break

Part 6 of my “Cray-Cray for Cater” series! Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5 can be found here!

Parings: Cater Diamond x Twisted Wonderland Male OC (Mirai Yuhara)

Summary:

With fall break finally here, Mirai is once again reminded of his place within this world. But maybe, just maybe, it won't be that bad after all?

cw: Kinda spicy? Nothing explicit but I wanna just throw that out there. Biting, love bites, heavy kissing, literal sleeping together. Let me know if the rating should change.

a/n: I don't hate Cater's family, but I'm going for this medium between them trying to fix their behavior towards each other, but it's like, not enough. They are such a grey area for us, yet so impactful on Cater's character.

Reblogs are appreciated, just use my custom tag, #TheMaladaptiveWriter12, if you do!  (─‿‿─)♡

Cross posted from my Ao3: TheMaladaptiveWriter12

It was fall break at Night Raven College and because of that, everyone was going home for a week. Mirai was kinda bummed about that, not that he really missed home that much, but things like that really made him remember how much of an outsider he really was, how much he didn’t belong there at Night Raven College. He didn’t have a place to call his own. No house to go back to, no friends, no family, absolutely nothing. All he had was Ramshackle, but even that was superficial. He could lose it all at the very whim of their oh so “benevolent” Headmage, or when he eventually had to “graduate” from Night Raven College. Then where would he be? He couldn’t stay here forever. He’d be way too old to even live on campus, it would be just plain weird, and worse case scenario, he’d have to stay there forever and become the college campus legend. “Student of Night Raven College that never left” they’d say. He’d eventually grow old and die in the Ramshackle Dorm and become one of the ghosts, haunting the Dorm forevermore. Okay, maybe that was a stretch, but Mirai was too deep in his head to use common sense. 

And if he did leave, where would he be able to go? Where would he live? How would he even survive in a world totally different from his own? Just the very thought of that was beginning to stress Mirai out as he wandered the dorm, alone. Even Grim left, not even telling Mirai where he was going, Mirai just hoped that the little monster cat didn’t stay out too late. Grim came in and out as he pleased, getting food, and going to sleep where he saw fit, but then he was out again. And when Mirai asked what he was up to, he wouldn’t say. All he said was that he was on a “mission to greaten his magic prowess,” whatever that meant. Mirai couldn’t phantom what the cat was up to, but he hoped he wasn’t getting into any trouble, that was the last thing Mirai needed.

Mirai sighed to himself as he made his way back to the lounge. He had cleaned thoroughly, washing the bed linen, washing his clothes, dusting, sweeping, mopping, and he even maintained the outside of the dorm for once. He cut the grass, weeded the garden, and watered the plants. He washed the windows, cleaned the rain gutters, swept the stairs, raked the leaves, and even maintained the gargoyles exactly how Malleus taught him to do. Of course all of that took a while to complete, three days to be exact, but he still had about a week of loneliness to go. 

If this had been a few months ago, this loneliness wouldn’t have bothered him one bit. He’d be back in America, working from sunup to sundown, eating takeout, catching a late night showing on tv before going to sleep, wherever that was, and then repeating the dull, life draining process in the morning. A few months ago he wouldn’t have missed the hustle and bustle of the college, he wouldn’t had missed Ace and Deuce’s bickering, Riddle’s rule enforcing rampages, Azul’s food at Mostro Lounge, Ruggie’s snickering as he messed with Leona, Kalim’s joyous attitude, Rook’s dramatic way of speaking, Ortho’s childlike wonder, and or Malleus’ random visits. Of course he wouldn’t have missed any of this a few months ago, he wouldn’t have known any better, but now? It was a heavy cloud over his head, and a heavy weight on his shoulders and heart. 

And mostly, Mirai missed Cater. He missed Cater’s Magicam photoshoots, Cater’s playful demeanor, and their late night talks. He missed Cater’s hugs, his kisses, the doting nature Cater had when it came to him, he missed everything about Cater. Mirai was berating himself for acting like a lovesick puppy. He could handle not being with his boyfriend for more than two days, but Mirai supposed it was due to the fact he knew that the redhead wouldn’t be back for another seven days. 

Mirai grumbled around his leftover spaghetti, sighing as he checked his phone for any messages from his friends, there were none. Cater had promised to call him to check up on him, all of the guys did, knowing his situation, but not one of them did, well, not yet at least. And Mirai really didn’t want to call them, he didn’t want to be a bother while they all were trying to enjoy their break with their families, and especially not just for something trivial as small talk. But Mirai couldn’t help but feel sad and angry. Sad and angry that the guys had forgotten about him, but also sad and angry at himself for even feeling that way. He felt clingy, and he suspected that it was because he knew, in reality, that he truly was alone. Mirai sighed again as he checked Cater’s Magicam page. Cater hadn’t even posted, which surprised Mirai. Cater posted about everything, no matter how small it was. He was hoping to see a little more of his boyfriend’s life, and if not, then just hear his voice through a post or see a more recent picture of his face. 

Mirai got up from the kitchen table and put his bowl in the sink, not even bothering to clean it like he usually did, but he did have half the mind to rinse it first. Dragging his feet as he shut off all the lights, Mirai made his way upstairs for the night. A depressing mood hung over him like a fog as he showered, brushed his teeth, and changed into his pajamas, taking off his prosthetic, and by the time Mirai was plugging in his phone and crawling into bed, he was biting his lip, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Mirai threw himself into his pillow, pulling his blanket over himself as sobs escaped his lips, chest heaving. He was lonely and he hated it, hated being so weak and clingy, hated the fact that he felt like this and he couldn’t fix it. He wanted a hug, he wanted someone to talk to, he wanted Cater. 

Mirai didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but woke up to his phone blaring on his bedside table. His pillow was wet, a huge dark spot where his head lay, his eyes stung, burning from crying before he fell asleep, and his eyelids lids stuck together from his dried tears. Mirai wiped his eyes, reaching for his phone. The time read three in the morning, it was nowhere near the time for him to get up. So why was his phone going off? Mirai checked his notifications, heart skipping as he read that he had three missed calls from Cater, one not even five minutes ago. Why would Cater be calling him so late? Maybe there was a time difference between the Shaftlands and Night Raven College? But even still, Cater should know that, so why would he call so late into the night? Mirai was debating if he should call back or just wait until the morning when his phone rang again. Mirai quickly swiped right, putting the phone to his ear, answering.

“Hello?” Mirai called, flinching at how raspy his voice sounded from crying and sleep.

“Hey Mi-Mi,” Cater greeted, sounding guilty, “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay,” Mirai reassured, clearing his throat a little, “I don’t mind.”

He really didn’t. Mirai couldn’t describe the relief he felt just from hearing Cater’s voice. He’d wake up any day at any time to talk to Cater. He was so happy that he almost wanted to cry again, but he refused, his eyes already burning from earlier.

“S-So what’s up?” Cater asked, “How’s your break been?”

Cater was being weird, but Mirai ignored it for now, going along with what Cater was trying to hide. “I did a whole bunch of cleaning,” Mirai sighed into the phone, “My body hurts so bad, I might as well have been taking supplementary lessons from Coach Vargas.”

Cater chuckled, his laugh sound too stressed, too dry to be truly genuine, “You poor thing. You should be relaxing, not working yourself so hard. We’re on break after all.”

“Might as well get it out the way now rather than later. But now I have the whole week to relax.”

“That’s good. Don’t work yourself too hard, ‘kay?”

“Mn,” Mirai hummed.

There was silence, neither of them saying anything for a long while.

“So,” Mirai started, “Is there like a time difference between here and the Shaftlands? ‘Cus it’s three in the morning.”

“O-Oh, yeah. A little,” Cater stuttered, “I must be ruining your sleep. I-I’ll, I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Cater?”

“‘Sup?”

“What’s wrong?” Mirai asked, done pretending that he didn’t notice his boyfriend's mood.

“I-I-I don’t, I’m not, I-”

“Cater? What’s wrong?” Mirai asked firmly.

“I’m, I’m outside,” Cater whispered. 

“What?!”

Mirai dropped his phone, rushing out of bed, not caring that he was only in one of Cater’s shirts and a pair of cotton boxers. Mirai twisted the lock and ripped the door open, looking around until his green eyes finally found Cater’s curled form sitting next to the door. Cater looked up from where his phone was on the ground next to him, eyes meeting Mirai’s as he forced a smile.

“Cater,” Marai gasped.

“H-Hey, Babe,” Cater stuttered.

“C’mere,” Mirai breathed, “C’mere.”

Cater staggered as he got up, ending the call and pocketing his phone to grab his luggage. Mirai let Cater in, and just as he shut the door, twisting the lock back in place, Cater was pulling the Ramshackle Prefect into his arms, squeezing him in a desperate embrace. 

“Oh Cater, you’re cold,” Mirai sighed softly. 

“I-I’m fine,” Cater whispered, shivering, voice sounding broken. 

“Come sit, come sit.”

Mirai pulled Cater to the lounge, turning on one of the lamps and he sat Cater down. As Mirai pulled away, Cater grabbed his wrist in a desperate attempt to keep him close.

“Please don’t go,” Cater begged, “Please.”

Mirai got a good look at Cater and his heart shattered. His usual cheerful face was sullen, dark bags under red rimmed eyes that were void of their usual brightness. His smile was replaced with a deep frown, he looked miserable.

“C’mon,” Mirai said, forgoing his thoughts on tea. Clearly it wasn’t what Cater needed at the moment.

Cater grabbed his things, shutting off the lights, following Mirai up to his room.

“Make yourself at home,” Mirai said, turning on the heat.

Cater nodded, grabbing some clothes to change into and entered the bathroom. Mirai waited, nervous energy building up inside him. He had so many questions, but knew he had to take everything slowly, one step at a time, lest he wanted to overwhelm Cater, who already looked to be on the verge of a breakdown. Cater excited the bathroom, clad in his pajamas. He looked nervous like he didn’t know what to do with himself, teetering back and forth on his feet. 

“Come sit,” Mirai beckoned.

Cater stuffed his clothes away and sat on the bed. He didn’t say anything, he just stared into the dim corner of the room like it held all the world's answers. Mirai didn’t know what to do, what to say, but he was gonna try.

“Hey,” Mirai said softly, sitting on the bed next to Cater, “We can do whatever you want to do.”

Cater nodded slowly, still not looking Mirai’s way.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Mirai grabbed Cater’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He wanted to give Cater a chance to speak, to say anything. Even if it was one of the stupidest things Mirai would ever hear in his life, he would wait. But when their silence dragged on too long, Mirai knew he had to take it step by step. 

“Do you wanna talk now, or sleep?” Mirai asked after some time.

“Sleep,” Cater croaked out, “please.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

Mirai crawled up to the top of the bed, flipping his tear stained pillow over, and pulled back the cover to let him in. Cater crawled up next to him and scooted under the covers, pulling them over himself. Mirai scooted closer, slowly wrapping his arm around the older male, giving him a chance to pull back if he wanted to. He didn’t. Cater accepted the cuddle, pulling Mirai closer, pressing his face into Mirai’s chest. 

“Sweet dreams, Cater,” Mirai whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Cater’s head. 

Cater didn’t respond as he pressed himself further into Mirai’s embrace.

Mirai woke up, the sun blaring through the curtains of his floor to ceiling windows. Mirai groaned, hiding his face into his pillow, but instead, his nose was filled with ticklish strands of orange hair. Mirai reeled back, nose tingling with a sneeze. Once the tingling stopped, Mirai looked down, and giggled. Sometime that night, Mirai and Cater rolled over, and now Cater was hugging a pillow as Mirai held him. Mirai found the sight amusing. But then again, there was something about holding Cater like this that made Mirai’s heart warm. Mirai wanted to be someone Cater could lean on when he needed to, and as sappy as it sounded, he sometimes wanted to protect the older male from the harshness of the world, taking the damage for him like a shield. He knew he really couldn’t do that, since everyone had their own wars to fight, but that also didn’t mean either of them didn’t have to do so alone. So just holding Cater like this was enough.

Mirai reached up and pulled Cater’s hair out of his face and behind his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his head. Mirai would lie here as long as he had until Cater woke, he didn’t mind one bit. Mirai began carding his fingers through Cater’s hair softly, pulling thick orange strands back against his head, blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp. 

“Mn, that feels good,” Cater sighed, voice raspy from sleep.

Mirai chuckled, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

There was silence after that, and both of them didn’t know how to break it. Mirai tried to peer over at Cater’s face, but he couldn’t, not without jostling them from their comfortable position.

“You hungry?” Mirai asked after some time.

“Mn.”

“How about you go shower and I go make breakfast? How do omelets and pancakes sound?” Mirai asked.

Cater just nodded, yawning into his pillow. 

“Okay.”

Mirai scooted backwards, releasing Cater from his embrace, and Cater immediately turned around, chasing after the Ramshackle Prefect. Mirai entered the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Cater followed doing the same, the both of them standing shoulder to shoulder. They both looked a mess. Their eyes were tired and puffy, lined with sleep, their faces were red, marked from their pillows, and their hair tangled and all over the place. Mirai laughed, trying not to spit toothpaste on the mirror as they fought for sink space. Cater nudged him with his elbow and Mirai nudged him back. Cater chuckled around his toothbrush, bumping Mirai back with his shoulder. They were being childish, they both knew, but they didn’t care, the mood definitely better than last night. 

Mirai washed his face, scrubbing at his skin, ridding himself of the night's filth. Mirai blindly reached for his towel, drying his face, and when he checked his appearance in the mirror, looking for any residue soap, he caught Cater’s reflection. He was standing behind him in nothing but his black cotton boxers as he turned on the shower faucet. Mirai’s green eyes raked over Cater’s lean body, his thin waist, his smooth skin, his soft muscle. Mirai looked up and over his shoulders, to his neck, and face, where he met Cater’s green eyes staring back at him, a knowing smirk on his lips. 

“Naughty little Mi-Mi,” Cater teased, walking over to Mirai, “checking me out like that.”

“I mean,” Mirai said with smug thoughtfulness, “the view is nice.”

Cater chuckled, the sound echoing off the tile of the bathroom, “Yeah? And what was Mi-Mi thinking about when he was looking at little ol’ me?”

“Secret.”

“You’re a dirty little thing,” Cater sang, smacking Mirai on the rear.

Mirai gasped, face flushed with a pout. He supposed he deserved it, for he was unabashedly staring at his boyfriends semi naked form.

“Don’t pout, Babe,” Cater cooed, wrapping his arms around Mirai, voice dropping to a sultry octave, “or I may have to bite those pretty little lips of yours.”

Mirai flushed even more, if that was even possible, face hot as he gasped at their close proximity, and Cater’s state of undress. 

“Sh-Shower! Shower,” Mirai commanded, shoving Cater towards the tub.

Cater laughed, throwing his head back, “Mi-Mi’s embarrassed! #Cute!”

Mirai pouted, flicking Cater on the shoulder blade.

“Ow,” Cater complained playfully, “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

“You do that, you dummy,” Mirai huffed, marching out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Mirai busied himself with putting on his prosthetic, changing the bed linen, and putting on some pants, as he waited for the flush on his cheeks to die down. After he finished, Mirai made his way to find Grim. He was asleep in the lounge.

“You want food, Grim?” Mirai asked.

Grim instantly woke up, little pink tongue darting out to lick at his lips. “Yeah, what are we having?”

“Pancakes and omelets.”

“Oh, add bacon to mine!”

“Alright,” Mirai chuckled. “Go wash up, yeah?”

“Don’t wanna,” Grim pouted petulantly. 

Mirai gave Grim a look, a look that said ‘you get nothing if you don’t wash up,’ and Grim deflated, grumbling as he made his way upstairs. 

Mirai was on his fifth omelet when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist.

“That looks good,” Cater muttered, kissing the back of Mirai’s head.

“Thanks,” Mirai said, his free hand coming up to hold Cater’s.

They stood in their embrace, Cater humming occasionally as he began to rock back and forth, moving the Prefect with him. Cater was warm from his shower, skin and hair still a little damp.  

“Could you set the table? The pancakes and the hashbrowns are already done.”

“Mh hm.”

Cater set the table, placing the decent sized stack of pancakes in the middle of the table along with two cups, a bottle of orange juice and a stack of napkins. By the time Cater was done, placing down the last fork, Mirai was done with the last Omelet, plating it on the empty plate. 

“Here,” Mirai said, placing the plate in front of the seat Cater was standing behind. 

“TYSM,” Cater smiled, sitting down. 

“Grim,” Mirai called, “Breakfast!”

Little thumps were heard, and soon, Grim was scurrying into the kitchen. “Thanks, Hench-human,” Grim said, taking his plate.

And as soon as he was in, he was out again.

“Where’s he going?” Cater chuckled.

“To his room,” Mirai said. “He has been up to something recently, and has holed himself up in his room. I don’t care as long as he cleans up, and doesn’t cause me any trouble.”

“Oh.”

Cater and Mirai served themselves. Mirai took a couple of pancakes, adding a load of butter and syrup. Cater on the other hand opted to just eat his omelet with some bacon and the hashbrowns Mirai had made. As they ate, they chatted about everything, school, tv shows, the weather, anything to fill the silence. But as they did, Mirai knew that they really needed to talk about what had happened last night. Mirai had so many questions, like why and how Cater ended up on his doorstep, how long had he been sitting there, why had he looked like he had been crying? But he wanted to give Cater time and the chance to eat before he brought the topic up again. And Mirai had noticed another thing, Cater hadn’t picked up his phone since they woke up. It wasn’t even on his person, it was upstairs somewhere. Cater never wasn’t without his phone, he was almost always either posting on his Magicam or checking his feed. There was never a moment Cater wasn’t seen without it.

As they finished their food, Cater began to fidget in his seat, a guilty countenance set upon his face. Mirai felt bad, he knew that Cater knew that they were gonna have to have that conversation, and he hated the fact that he was the one that was causing it. Mirai got up, washing his dishes and everything he used to cook with, and Cater joined his side not long after.

“Wanna go back upstairs, or do you wanna stay down here?” Mirai asked, taking off his rubber gloves. 

“Upstairs,” Cater answered.

Back in his room, Mirai crawled atop the bed, sitting up against the headboard, reaching a hand out. Cater crawled in after him, situating himself in Mirai’s arms for a cuddle.

“Wanna talk about last night?” Mirai finally asked with a sigh, not wanting to upset Cater anymore than what he was now.

“I really don’t want to, but I know it’s better that I do,” Cater sighed.

“I’m not forcing you,” Mirai soothed, rubbing Cater’s back. “I’m just concerned.”

“I know. That’s why it’s better if I explain.”

“Okay.”

Cater sighed, burying his face into Mirai’s shirt, hands clutching at the fabric on Mirai’s back. “I got in a fight with my mother.”

Mirai didn’t say anything, but he held Cater tighter in reassurance.

“I normally don’t go home for break, making excuses on why I can’t make it, why I can’t spend it with them, and then I go and spend it with Trey. But I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, so I decided to go home, since I haven’t been in a while.”

Mirai hummed to let Cater know he was listening.

“When I got home, my mother wasn’t happy. She started yelling at me about how I was never home, and that I should’ve never left for school like my father had urged me to, if I wasn't gonna come home. I mean, I deserve that one, but I don’t miss home at all. And of course my sisters had all kinds of things they wanted me to wear, and all kinds of sweets they wanted me to try. And I couldn’t say no, I’m not allowed to,” Cater rasped, voice was straining as he spoke, trying not to cry as he retold what had happened. “It all became all too overstimulating too fast. I wanted to tear apart all the frilly and lacy outfits my sisters made me wear for them, because my clothes were “so not cute.” I wanted to shout back at my mother as she picked apart my wardrobe, as she berated me for my grades, for the way I spoke, for the way my hair was styled, for what I was posting on my Magicam.”

“Cater,” Mirai breathed, holding the older male’s shaking form even tighter.

“I wanted to throw up with the amount of cake I was forced to eat, all the cookies I wished I could change the flavor of, and I did, I forced myself to, and I did,” Cater admitted, hiccuping a sob into Mirai’s shirt.

Mirai felt horrible. While he was here, upsetting himself over something small, petty even, for missing his boyfriend, wallowing in self pity, Cater was suffering, fighting his own wars on his own home front. Mirai felt choked up, tears threatening to fall as Cater spoke. 

“I miss, I miss my father,” Cater cried, “He, He never made me do anything, b-but he’s never home. I-I mean, it was never a better situation, and I-I know they’re trying, b-but what’s it matter if, if they never truly ask what I want? A-And last night, my sisters found out that you were my boyfriend.”

Cater was now crying, tears soaking Mirai’s shirt, chest heaving from his sobbing, and Mirai was crying tears of his own as he rubbed Cater’s back, trying to sooth his boyfriend. 

“We somehow g-got on the topic of partners and marriage. My sisters wanted t-to hook me up with one of their friend’s li-little sisters, when I told them I was seeing someone. They asked why I c-couldn’t be with someone c-cuter, s-someone like Vil Schoenheit, someone w-who wasn’t so ugly, so, so hideous,” Cater stuttered, as he cried, his voice taking an angered tone. “I was so angry with t-them that I screamed at them, I screamed at m-my sisters, at my own mother. They don’t know you! They don’t know you like I do, so how could t-they say such things?! And, and the thing is, they do. They always do and they always did. And, and b-before I knew it, I-I was storming out of the house with my things in hand.”

Cater gasped a breath before continuing, “I didn’t know where to go, I didn’t have anywhere to go. But then I remembered that you were still here, so I came back here. And by the time I got here it was so late, and I really didn’t want to wake you. But I didn’t know what else to do so I called, hoping you’d wake up, and you did, I’m so glad you did.”

Cater sat up, his form looming over Mirai’s as he grabbed the Prefect’s wet and blotchy face between his hands. 

“Cater?” Mirai called, voice quivering with tears.

Cater didn’t know what these feelings were, but he wanted to try. Cater Diamond didn’t fall in love, everyone fell in love with him. He was never one for long lasting relationships, never one for sappy words that came from the heart. He just liked to play his cards right with the next pretty face, and when they broke it off, he found someone else. But Mirai was different, so much different, and he didn’t want to miss his chance. Before Cater could stop them, the words he’d been keeping close to his heart came tumbling free.

“I love you,” Cater confessed, voice warbling, “I love you so much.”

Cater’s face was wet, flushed red from his crying, his green eyes were bloodshot, and swollen, his lips red and abused from biting them. Mirai’s whole world seemed to slow at those words, eyes widening as it all sank in. Mirai was stunned silent, voice caught in his throat, a garbled noise emitting from his lips as he tried to say something, anything. After a while Cater’s eyes widened in realization of what he just had confessed, color draining from his face. 

“A-Ah,” Cater gasped, shooting up, sheer panic coloring his face, “I, wait, I, no, I didn’t mean, wait, no, I meant it but I didn’t mean to say it-ugh! Way to go, Cay-Cay, talk about #Lame.”

Cater ran his fingers through his bright orange curls, exasperated. His freckled cheeks were beet red, his eyes looking anywhere but Mirai as he sighed. Mirai stared at Cater, mind still reeling. Mirai reached forward and slowly pulled Cater to face him. Cater looked up confused, and before he could ask, Mirai was smashing their lips together. Cater staggered, surprised, but melted quickly after, deepening the kiss with a sigh. It hurt a bit, their lips colliding with a clash of  teeth, but neither of them stopped, neither of them cared.  

 Mirai pulled back, holding Cater’s face in his hands. “I love you too,” Mirai whispered, teary green eyes steely and serious, yet so soft and full of love, “I love you.”

Cater chuckled breathily, and Mirai thumbed away the tears as they started to fall down Cater’s face again. 

Mirai and Cater lie together, basking in the afternoon sun beaming through Ramshackle’s floor to ceiling windows. Mirai lay above Cater, his chin resting atop Cater’s head, and as always, Mirai was playing in Cater’s hair, fingers scratching at the base of his neck. Cater lay below him, head lying halfway on Mirai’s chest, their legs tangled together. One of Cater’s feet was rubbing at the back of Mirai’s calf, and sometime during their cuddling, one of Cater’s hands found its way under Mirai’s shirt, his fingers flittering up to his ribcage and back down, his thumb rubbing small mindless patterns into the dip in his hip. 

“Why were you crying last night?” Cater asked, pressing his face into Mirai’s neck.

“Crying?” Mirai asked befuddled, “I wasn’t crying.”

“Your face was really puffy, and your eyes were red, so I thought you had been crying.”

“O-Oh.”

Cater sat up, looking his lover in the face, “So you were crying.”

“It, it was nothing important,” Mirai huffed, looking away from Cater.

“It is, if it made you cry.”

“But it’s not important now.”

“How is it not?”

“Be-Because, because you’re here now! So it’s fine,” Mirai flushed, covering his face with his hands.

“Eh?” Cater huffed, reaching down to pull Mirai’s hands from his face. “What do you mean because ‘I’m here now?’ I don’t get it. And stop hiding.”

“Be-Because,” Mirai stuttered, “I-I-I missed you! I missed you and me and my stupid separation anxiety was being a big baby about it because I was lonely!”

Cater’s fight left him at Mirai’s words, a small smile gracing his lips, “You could’ve called me.”

“And be that overbearingly annoying clingy boyfriend? No way! Hard pass! No thanks!”

“You could never be any of those things to me,” Cater cooed, kissing Mirai on the nose.

Mirai grumbled, hiding his face again.

“Don’t pout,” Cater cooed, leaning down to whisper in Mirai’s ear, “You know what happens when you pout.”

“Cat-ah! S-stop!”

Mirai laughed as Cater ran his fingers across a particularly ticklish spot on his stomach. Cater chuckled, pulling the Prefect’s shirt up his chest, and ran his fingers all over Mirai’s stomach. Mirai was cackling, tears in his eyes as he tried to fight off Cater’s attack.

“O-Okay! Okay,” Mirai laughed, “I yield! I g-give! I’m sorry!”

Cater ceased his attack, giggling as Mirai continued to scoot away from him. 

Cater stared at Mirai, taking in the sight of his lover in the afternoon light. Mirai’s pale blonde hair was haloed around his head reflecting the sun, his freckles that littered his warm pale skin that was flushed a bit from laughing, the dark eye bags that never seemed to fade, his vivid green eye and the scars that marred his face. Cater felt warmth in the pit of his chest, so much that it almost hurt.

“What?” Mirai asked fondly, “What is it?”

“I really am in love with you,” Cater whispered.

“So I’ve heard,” Mirai chuckled, “But yeah, I’m in love with you too.”

Cater leaned down, holding Mirai’s face in his hands, their noses touching with their closeness. Cater hummed happily as he pressed his lips against Mirai’s in a chaste kiss. Mirai breathed a laugh, leaning up to kiss Cater back. After a while their sweet kisses turned into something more as Cater deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing past the Prefect’s lips. Mirai whined, opening his mouth to let Cater in, his tongue chasing Cater’s. Cater groaned, pressing his body closer, his hands snaking up Mirai’s shirt, feeling their way up his lover’s torso. Mirai was whining loudly as Cater’s hands rubbed, pinched and pulled at the skin on his hips. And when Cater’s tongue ran across the roof of his mouth, Mirai was moaning, back arching. They parted, lips smacking, and Cater continued his assault down Mirai’s neck, kissing, biting and sucking wherever he could. 

“Bite me,” Mirai breathed, “Bite me harder.”

Cater groaned, latching on to the skin where Mirai’s shoulder and neck met, biting down hard. Mirai gasped, arching up into Cater, hands scrambling for purchase on the back of Cater’s shirt as he continued to abuse the spot, sucking and licking a big dark mark into his skin. Cater let go, licking the mark one last time before sitting up to look down at Mirai. The Ramshackle Prefect’s face was flushed a lovely red, lips swollen and wet. His hair was disheveled and so was his shirt, all crumpled, riding up his heaving chest, his eyes were clouded with heat, and on his neck was the mark, already starting to bruise, pretty against his pale flushed skin.

“Oh, that’s a good look on you,” Cater practically groaned, breathing haggard, “Wanna take a pic so bad.”

“Only if you let me mark you too,” Mirai smirked. 

Cater reached for his phone that was on the bedside table and booted it up. Once it powered on, Cater was immediately spammed with a bunch of messages. Cater’s face fell for a couple of seconds as he fiddled with the device, and if Mirai could guess, he probably was clearing out the messages from his Mother and sisters. 

“Come here, Baby,” Cater beckoned with a sly smile.

Mirai crawled up to where Cater was, allowing Cater to move him around for the picture. They ended up lying down, facing each other. Mirai’s face was pressed up into Cater’s neck, face hidden, both of them with their arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled together.

“Bite me,” Cater breathed, holding his phone above the two of them.

“Y-You’re gonna take it with me b-biting you?” Mirai stuttered, face flushing red.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I-I don’t mind.”

“Alright, cool. Whenever you’re ready.”

Mirai moved closer to Cater, trying to find a good spot to bite.

“This good?” Mirai muttered.

“Yeah, that’s good. Perfect.” Cater sighed.

Mirai took a breath before latching his mouth onto Cater’s neck. He took to an experimental bite, trying to feel how Cater would react. 

Cater sighed with a gasp, the hand under his shirt gripping his waist a little harder.

“Harder,” Cater begged.

Mirai whined, biting harder, relishing in the way Cater moaned loudly when he bit harder, sucking on his skin. He tasted like soap, his soap, and he smelled like it too, but underneath all of that, he still smelled distinctly like Cater, crisp, clean, and spicy. Cater twitched and shivered in his hold as Mirai continued to suck on his neck. No longer taking pictures, Cater relaxed in Mirai’s hold, gasping and moaning as Mirai continued to suck on his neck.

“M-More,” Cater gasped, “Again. Pl-Please.”

Mirai let go and moved atop Cater, pushing the strawberry blonde onto his back.

“Oh?” Cater teased breathily, “Someone’s feisty.” 

Mirai smirked as he got comfortable on Cater’s hips, hands pressing down on Cater’s chest as he leaned down, lips ghosting against Cater’s as he spoke, “You like it though.”

“I do,” Cater whispered back, pecking Mirai on the lips.

Mirai picked a spot on Cater’s collar bone, kissing the spot before latching on and biting down. Cater moaned, the sound rattling in his chest as his back arched, his hands coming up to hold Mirai’s hips, his head thrashing to the right. Mirai whined, sucking harder at his neck. 

“K-Keep, keep going,” Cater gasped.

Mirai hummed, pulling down Cater’s shirt collar to suck a new mark high on his chest. 

“So good for me, Baby,” Cater cooed breathily.

Mirai continued his loving assault on Cater’s neck, the both of them lost in the feeling of each other. Mirai gave a particularly hard suck on Cater’s jaw right below his ear, and Cater let out a keening whimper high in his throat, back arching, his hips grinding up into Mirai’s, and Mirai unconsciously returned the action, the both of them moaning out at the contact. 

They both froze, hearts hammering in their chests. Mirai pulled back, green eyes wide, face crimson as he looked down at Cater below him. Cater’s appearance wasn’t better off at all, he looked utterly debauched. His green eyes were glazed over, lips wet and red, face flushed red down past his shirt collar, and his neck littered with love bites, red and bruising against his honey skin. None of them said a word, staring at each other, not knowing what to say or do.

After a couple of moments of awkward silence, Mirai spoke, stammering, “So, how does, how does Ramen sound for dinner?”

Mirai boiled some ramen noodles as Cater played some pop music on his bluetooth speaker, dancing around the kitchen as he scrolled on his phone. Mirai laughed as Cater inched his way over to Mirai, hips swaying with the beat.

“Can I post this?” Cater asked, turning his phone around. 

“You took a video?!” Mirai shouted incredulously.

“Yep. It’s easier to get good pictures that way. I can delete it if you want me to.”

“I don’t mind, but don’t post the video.”

“Ok, how about this one?”

It was a nice picture, Mirai had to admit. It was quite provocative, yes, but it was a really nice picture. You couldn’t see the top halves of their faces, Cater’s being cut off by the frame, all that was visible was from his nose down, his lips that were crooked in a smirk. Mirai’s face was covered by Cater’s and his arm, his head cocked up into Cater’s neck, mouth latched on Cater’s neck, the bruise Cater had given him earlier visible to the camera.

“That one’s nice,” Mirai nodded.

“Yeah, this one’s my favorite, totally Cater approved. #Sexy,” Cater smiled. 

Mirai snickered, “You sure you wanna post that? Like doesn’t most of the student body follow you, including Riddle?”

“I won’t post it unless you don’t want me to,” Cater said, pulling Mirai into him, swaying them both with the beat. 

“I don’t mind. My issue is that I’m more concerned about you and your reputation.”

“How so?”

“Like, for starters, Riddle. I’m pretty sure you’re probably gonna get an earful if and when he sees that. And second, are you ready to like, make us more than a Heartslabyul secret? What about your followers?”

“Riddle’s totally gonna yell at me, but yeah, I think, I think I’m ready to officially change my Magicam status. My main reason was to keep it from my Mother and sisters, but since the cat’s out of the bag, why not post an actual picture of me and my totally sexy boyfriend, and not pass it off as friends just hanging out? And just to see my comment section blow up, I’m not gonna reveal who you are yet. Wanna make ‘em jealous.”

Mirai scoffed, taking the noodles off the stove, “Who would want me?”

Cater scoffed playfully, “Uh, me?”

“Besides you, you dummy.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Mirai looked surprised, “What do you mean?”

“You have quite the rep around here, and believe it or not, it’s more positive than negative.”

“I can’t see why? Like, who would want an ugly, scarred up, broken-”

“Finish that sentence and I will tell Riddle that it was you and Ace who put that hole in the wall.”

“Cater,” Mirai shouted, a pout on his face. “You promised! And Ace was asking for it!”

“Then don’t finish that sentence and I won’t tell,” Cater laughed.

Mirai pouted, as he dished the ramen into three bowls, setting the table.

“But back to our original conversation, is it alright if I post this?” Cater asked, sitting down.

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” Mirai said, sitting down next to Cater.  

“Cool.”

Five minutes later, Cater posted the picture.“#FallBreak, #BestVaycayEver, #Boyfriends,” Cater rambled, other hashtags Mirai couldn't catch with the speed Cater was posting at. “And done.”

“Sap,” Mirai laughed.

“Love you too,” Cater cooed with a wink.

Mirai shook his head. 

Grim came down sometime after, taking a seat at the other end of the table.

“So why’s he here?” Grim gruffed around a mouthful of noodles.

“Grim,” Mirai warned.

“What?! Isn’t he supposed to be on vacation? Who’d want to spend their vacation at school?”

Cater smirked, “What can I say, Cay-Cay missed his totally adorable boyfriend and his boyfriend’s totally adorable cat.”

“I am not a cat!”

Cater began poking fun at Grim and Grim retaliated with empty threats and harsh words. Mirai, on the other hand, laughed loudly at their bickering.

Grim left, more annoyed than angry after Mirai gave him a donut for dessert, Mirai and Cater continued to eat their ramen, Cater’s music filling the space. Mirai watched Cater eat, finding it endearing as Cater tied his hair up into a short ponytail to keep it from falling into his food. 

“Is it hot enough for you?” Mirai asked, “Because if it’s not, there’s all types of hot sauce in the pantry.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m good,” Cater dismissed. 

Mirai got up from the table, confusing Cater as he rummaged through the pantry until he found the hot sauce. Mirai brought the small bottle back to the table, setting it in front of Cater.

“You didn’t have to do that. It’s good as is,” Cater reasoned.

“You like it spicy right? So just use it,” Mirai argued.

“But it’s good. I couldn’t mess up your food.”

“The only reason why it’s not spicy is because I can’t handle spicy food.”

“Nope, it’s fine.”

“You really don’t want it to be spicy?” Mirai asked.

“It’s fine, really,” Cater laughed. 

The pair finished their food, washing the dishes together, Cater washing and Mirai drying. Mirai put away the last dish, and when he turned around, Cater was dancing again. The song was upbeat, the kind of music you would hear at a party. Cater looked the Magicless Prefect in the eye as he swiveled his hips, a hand running up his torso, pulling his shirt up with it, his smooth stomach revealing itself in its wake. 

Mirai put a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow, and Cater snickered, wiggling his eyebrows. Mirai laughed. 

“C’mon, Dollface, dance with me,” Cater laughed.

“Can’t dance,” Mirai smiled, “but the view is nice.”

Cater cackled, throwing his head back. 

Cater grabbed both of Mirai’s hands and pulled him close. The pair did nothing special, swaying to the beat of the music, Cater and Mirai spinning each other here and there. The couple had fun dancing around, Cater belting out a couple of lines, his voice playfully and airy, and more than once did they have each other blushing and laughing. Then a slower song played and they slowed their step to a slow dance, their movements unhurried and steady. Cater sang quietly to the song as he held Mirai close, his head resting on top of Mirai’s, his arms wrapped around the younger’s waist and shoulders.

“You smell good,” Mirai mumbled, pressing his face into Cater’s chest, tangling his hands in the back of his shirt.

“You always say that,” Cater chuckled. “What do I smell like?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. Like, I know you wear cologne, but you always smell clean, crisp, and spicy, sometimes even deep and musky, and sometimes light sweet, but it’s you.”

Cater hummed. 

Cater buried his face in Mirai’s hair, kissing the top of his head, and Mirai pressed his ear to Cater’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat as they danced. Mirai couldn’t explain the giddy warm feeling he felt when he was with Cater. Whether it be talking to Cater, eating with Cater, cuddling with Cater, or simply just sitting next to him, Mirai felt happy, and safe. And he never wanted to let that feeling go. 

Mirai turned his head and looked up at Cater, and Cater looked down with a warm smile.

“Yes, Cutie Pie?” Cater cooed.

“I love you,” Mirai whispered, face warming.

Cater flushed as he held Mirai’s face in his hands, his thumbs petting Mirai’s soft cheeks. Mirai reached up to place his hands on top of Cater’s, his hands running up the length of Cater’s arms until they were on his. They stared at each other, lost in each other's eyes, in the sweetness of the moment, and neither of them wanted it to end.

“I love you too,” Cater finally said, leaning down to kiss Mirai softly.

Cater’s phone went off, the ringer a playful little tune as it sounded through the room. The pair broke apart and Cater rushed over to his phone, face lighting up as he answered it.

“‘Sup Trey,” Cater chirped happily. 

“Not to dampen your mood, but you good?” Trey asked, genuinely concerned. 

“Yeah,” Cater breathed, “I am now.”

“That’s good, I’m glad. Thanks Mirai.”

“It was nothing really,” Mirai spoke up, looking over Cater’s shoulder, “Would’ve done it for any of you, honestly.” 

Suddenly Cater’s phone started going off again and after Cater clicked a button, Ace’s face came into view. 

“‘Sup Acey,” Cater winked. 

“Hi Ace,” Mirai waved.

“So we just not gonna talk about that picture you two posted?” Ace asked, an eyebrow raised. “Riddle’s gonna kill you.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Cater laughed.

“Oh, but I do know.”

Cater froze as Riddle’s face came up next to Trey’s, face twisted in anger. 

“H-Hey Riddle,” Cater said, voice full of fear.

“Oh! Let me get Deuce in on this,” Ace said and not soon after Deuce joined the video call. 

“You’re so dead,” Deuce laughed. 

“Tell me Cater,” Riddle growled, “What would possess you to post something like that!”

“Mi-Mi gave me the okay to post it,” Cater defended himself. 

“Mirai! How could you let him post something so provocative like that?!”

Mirai laughed as he poked his head over Cater’s shoulder, “You have to admit, it was a nice picture.”

“Mirai!”

“It was, though,” Ace agreed.

Deuce and Trey nodded in agreement. 

“Don’t agree with them,” Riddle shouted.

“Lighten up Riddle, they’re having fun,” Trey soothed. “We’re letting the little things go, Riddle, remember?”

“This is not a little thing!”

“Totes a little thing,” Cater laughed.

Mirai laughed at Riddle as his face grew red.

Cater turned around, grabbing Mirai so that he was sitting on his lap, as Riddle and Trey continued to argue.

“Look at his neck,” Riddle yelled.

Mirai looked at their necks from the phone camera, and Mirai had to agree, their necks did look pretty bad. 

“Cater’s is worse than Mirai’s,” Ace laughed.

“It’s worse than it was in the picture,” Deuce laughed. 

“Oh Queen of Hearts, please help me,” Riddle groaned.

“Dang Mirai,” Ace laughed, “You really went to town, didn’t you?”

Mirai cackled, “He asked for it.”

“Mirai,” Riddle scolded.

“Keep telling y’all, wrong impression,” Mirai laughed.

“Looks like it hurts,” Deuce said.

“Oh no, Hon” Cater said, “It feels really good.”

“Cater,” Riddle chided.

Everyone laughed, while Riddle groaned miserably. 

“Ugh,” Riddle whined. “Why are we even discussing this?”

“You brought it up, boo,” Cater winked.

“But how are you gonna cover it up?” Deuce asked.

“It’s not like anyone’s gonna see it, I’m not going anywhere,” Cater said nonchalantly.

“You say that like you intend for no one to see that, yet post it on the internet,” Trey deadpanned. 

Cater laughed, flashing the camera with his signature three fingered salute. 

“So like, you guys aren’t afraid of what people might say?” Deuce asked warily. 

Everyone seemed to quiet down at his question.

“If you had asked me that a couple of weeks ago, I’d say yes, but now, I could care less,” Mirai said sincerely. “Anyone who has a problem can kick rocks.”

Cater, Ace, Trey, and Deuce laughed and Riddle sighed.

“I’ll let this one slide,” Riddle huffed, “But I don’t wanna see any more photo’s like that coming from either of you.”

“No promises,” Mirai sang.

Riddle growled.

“Have you seen Savanaclaw's posts?” Cater asked incredulously. 

“I have no control over Savanaclaw and what they post.”

“I think it was a nice photo,” An unfamiliar voice commented. 

Mirai looked at the screen, and jumped in surprise at the floating head behind Trey and Riddle.

“Get out, Che’nya,” Riddle yelled, swinging his arms. 

“Aww but I missed you,” Che’nya whined, body materializing as he held onto Riddle. 

“Get off me!”

The two began to argue, their voices loud and echoey through the phone, and it wasn’t until a pillow was thrown, most likely by Riddle, did Trey get up.

“Gotta go,” Trey said, wincing as the yelling continued, a loud bang resonating through the phone, “Talk later, yeah?”

“Bye, Trey,” Ace and Deuce waved. 

“Night,” Mirai waved. 

“Laters,” Cater waved. 

Trey hung up, leaving the chat.

“Ima get off too,” Deuce said, “It is late, and my mom is asleep.”

“That’s fine,” Mirai said, “Let’s all just call it a night. We can chat in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah, night guys,” Ace called, “Night mama’s boy.”

“Hey,” Deuce shouted.

Everyone laughed.

“Night,” Cater chirped.

“Night, Deuce,” Mirai laughed.

“Night,” Deuce grumbled.

Cater ended the call, and Mirai stretched his arms over his head, yawning, as he stood up from Cater’s lap. It was late and Mirai thought about settling in for the night. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Cater asked.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Mirai said thoughtfully.

“You can set up my laptop,” Cater said quietly, “but first, I’m gonna call my mother, and apologize.”

Mirai nodded, leaving to give Cater his privacy.

Mirai and Cater watched a movie on Cater’s laptop as they laid in bed together. It was some romcom where the female lead gets accepted for a job as secretary, but what she doesn’t know is that her new boss is the man who she dumped back in high school. Mirai was trying to pay attention, he really was, but with Cater playing with the hair at the base of his neck, his fingers scratching at his scalp, the slow relaxed rise and fall of Cater’s warm chest, and the sound of his beating heart, Mirai was struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Falling asleep, Sweetpea?” Cater muttered, his voice sounding sleepy as well.

“No,” Mirai lied, a yawn escaping his lips.

Cater chuckled softly, “Liar.”

“Am not,” Mirai pouted, eyes closing again.

“Go to sleep, Baby. We can watch this another time.”

“I’m, I’m not tired,” Mirai slurred sleepily.

Not even a minute later, Mirai was snoring softly. Cater chuckled to himself, grabbing his phone to take a quick pic before he carefully shut and moved his laptop.

“Good night, Mi-Mi,” Cater whispered, placing a soft kiss to the crown of Mirai’s head, “Love you.”

Cater smiled to himself, nuzzling his face into Mirai’s hair. For once in his life, Cater could just be. He didn’t need to put on the pretty face created by his sister's perfection for all things cute, he didn’t have to put on the face he reserved for people so that they didn’t get too close, all because he and his family never stayed in one place when he was a child. He didn’t have to keep the fake smiles, no matter how he was feeling, just so that people couldn’t actually see how broken he really was. He didn't have to smile through the pain and lie through his teeth, because Mirai was always a step ahead of him, always so caring and attentive. So he could cry, he could be tired, he could be angry, he could be human again. He could be the man he wanted to be, the man he always wanted to be, not the jumbled up mess he was now. And most importantly, he could be himself. 

For once in his life, Cater felt that he belonged somewhere, somewhere he felt safe, somewhere he felt free, somewhere he felt loved, and somewhere he felt truly at home. And that somewhere was in the arms of his lover.

--------------------------------------

Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it. If it weren't for the smattering amount of yall who ready every time I post, I would have given up long ago, so thank you so much!

[arisenreborn]

For Reverie ☺️

stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?

For Emrys ☺️

bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?

Got to his a bit slow but thank you so much!! <3

(Character Design Asks)

Reverie:

Stillness seems to come pretty naturally to Reverie, in fact it's a little eerie at times just how still she can become when she's watching something, waiting for the right moment to act. But if there's no tension and she's just standing around at the market, waiting, or in a conversation, she will tug and fidget with the ends of her sleeves, or gloves. She also has a tendency to roll on the balls of her feet and sway a bit, occasionally, stretching a little to limber up. If she's wearing heavier armor she does tend to slouch and shuffle about more, getting impatient with the weight of it.

Emrys:

He doesn't have a lot of jewelry actually, or at least none that he would wear around (but does have little 'trophies' of varying but ultimately superficial sentimental value). He might sometimes wear simple, dangly trinkets out of feathers, animal claws/fangs, pretty stones he might make, but mostly stuff hanging off of his belt as opposed to necklaces and the like. He does however have a bracelet that Liùsaidh (@apricot-sprites) made for him. Normally he's ill-inclined to wear stuff like that because he figures it's liable to be damaged, so he prefers to leave it safely at home, but in particular this is one he generally does have a harder time doing so and likes to wear more often. Liù is someone who helped him start to put stock in things like 'hope' again, in good things overcoming bad things, so he thinks on this often when he looks at it, or needs that reminder. The other exception is the eternal bond ring Olivia gives him. She tried to make giving it to him a bit casual and wanted to respect how he felt about such a gesture, so she didn't push for it being any sort of sweeping indication, but... it definitely was and he definitely knew that. So he didn't wear it at first as he tried to fully grasp and accept everything that came with this little piece of metal. (And definitely made quite the impression when he finally did start wearing it around.) He doesn't always wear it when out traveling, but he always has it safely tucked away somewhere on him.

[teine-mallaichte]

The Clinic

The group have made it to the city, but that doesn't meant that their problems are over finally introducing 44

CW: living weapon, conflict, violence, military setting, medical setting, injuries, burns, gun shot wounds, loss of consciousness, weapons, killing, conditioning, past torture, past training.

On The Run Masterlist Complex 27

44 leaned against the clinic’s wall, her one good arm crossed over her chest, amber eyes narrowing as she watched the small group approach. Escorted by James with his shotgun casually testing on his shoulder - as always. They moved like ghosts - battered, hollow-eyed, and out of place amid the clatter and hum of the nearby trading post. She'd seen survivors in bad shape before, but these four carried something distinct: a weight she knew too well. Facility assets. Jake had warned her after he'd gotten the call over the radio, but seeing them for herself turned something cold and uncomfortable in her gut.

The tall one caught her attention first - frontliner, muscular, conditioned to cope with pain, but barely upright. His head drooped, the tattoo "84" visible on his neck. She catalogued his signs quickly—blood loss, likely shock, but it was the possibility of infection that worried her more. He moved like the body no longer belonged to him, like he was being hauled forward on borrowed time.

The woman propping him up—85—was all sharp control, her movements taut with fatigue, her jaw set in grim determination. She was lean but strong, sweat beading across her brow as she bore the man's weight. Small cuts marred her arms, mostly superficial, but the tension in her posture said she was likely under more strain that she showed. Medic, 44 thought instinctively. The way she scanned the group while keeping 84 balanced told her everything she needed to know.

Next was the blonde lanky figure—83—hobbling on a makeshift crutch. Bandages wound around his arm and leg, his movements pained but deliberate. The smirk on his face was pure deflection—an obvious mask over how much he struggled with every step. He stayed close to 84, his twitching hand betraying the urge to reach out. Protective. Likely a support role by training, combat roles didn't show emotions so clearly.

Finally, her gaze landed on the last figure—77—trailing slightly behind. He held himself stiffly, a slight unsteadiness to his gait. His dark eyes scanned everything—restless, paranoid. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, and a faint tremor betrayed the exhaustion he fought to hide. Fragile. She could see it as clearly as the tension in his jaw, the way he swayed ever so slightly, and the way he seemed to be looking at everything but seeing nothing.

James stopped a few feet from her, jerking his thumb toward the group. “got some of your 'people',” he muttered.

“They’re not my people,” 44 replied coldly, her amber eyes fixed on the group.

85 tightened her grip on 84 as they came to a halt. Up close, they looked even worse. 84 was barely upright, his skin grey and his breath shallow. 85’s gaze met 44’s, sharp and assessing, her posture stiffening defensively but remaining silent.

83 leaned heavily on his crutch, his smirk faltering as his eyes locked on 44’s missing arm and then to the number on her neck. Recognition flickered there—not of her, but of what she was. Observant, she chuckled to herself silently.

Meanwhile, 77 stood apart, his expression unreadable but his state poorly masked beneath a cold, calculating exterior. He met 44’s gaze head-on, unflinching. He was obviously running on fumes, but his defiance held steady.

Pushing off the wall, 44 stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over them one last time before speaking. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Facility assets. How long since you escaped?”

The woman—85—hesitated, then replied curtly, “Two days.”

Two days. That explained their condition. Escaping the Facility was a feat on its own, but surviving afterward? It was a whole different challenge. She knew that all too well.

“You’re not in good shape,” 44 said, her gaze landing briefly on 83. “He smells like he’s rotting.”

83’s smirk twitched back into place, though his voice was strained as he quipped, “Nothing like being compared to a corpse to boost morale.”

85 shot him a warning glance. “Not the time, Sam,” she muttered under her breath.

44 ignored the exchange, her focus shifting to 84. His breathing was labored, his head drooping despite 85’s efforts to keep him upright. She frowned. Blood loss, infection, and shock—he wouldn’t last much longer without intervention. “You can leave. I can handle them,” she said sharply to the guard.

James hesitated, his gaze lingering on 77. “That one might be trouble. Had a whole arsenal of hidden weapons. And he threatened Mark.”

44’s amber eyes flicked toward 77, who remained unnervingly still. Threatened Mark? She filed it away for later. If she were honest, she didn’t blame him—Mark was insufferable, and she’d been tempted to do the same more than once. She stepped closer, her movements measured, and watched as his body tensed further. His dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and unwavering.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said coolly. Then, to James: “You can go now.”

James grunted, muttering under his breath as he turned and walked away. 44 didn’t miss the tension leaving his shoulders as he left. She knew how they saw her—"Jake’s pet asset," a label she hated. Still, it afforded her some control.

She turned toward the clinic door, pushing it open slightly. “Jake, they’re here.”

From inside, Jake’s voice called back. “What’ve we got?”

“Four assets,” she replied, glancing back at the group. “Two clearly injured, but the tall one’s critical. The third’s likely a medic, and the fourth…” Her amber eyes flicked toward 77 again, her voice dipping. “Trouble.”

"Critical’s an understatement," Jake muttered under his breath as he emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the group, his brow furrowing. “Get him inside. Quickly.” His attention shifted to 44, and he jerked his chin toward the clinic. “Help her.”

44 didn’t hesitate. She moved to the tall man's other side, sliding her good arm under his shoulder to support his weight. He groaned weakly but didn’t resist. The woman at his other side gave her a wary glance but said nothing, her expression a mixture of relief and tension as they carefully maneuverer him into the clinic.

"Gunshot wounds to the left thigh and side, sustained about 48 hours ago," the woman reported, her voice sharp and precise, as she helped ease the tall man onto a cot. "Field dressings were changed and sutured, but we’re almost out of supplies. He’s lost significant blood, and there’s a growing risk of infection in the thigh wound. We’ve been moving constantly since it happened, so rest and proper care have been minimal."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the blond with the makeshift crutch, who was still hovering nearby, his smirk replaced by a tight-lipped expression. "Second- and third-degree burns on his left arm and leg, also about 48 hours old. Wounds cleaned and dressed, no deeper infection signs yet, but his mobility’s compromised."

She then shifted her gaze to the last man, standing apart from the others. "He… passed out last night. I suspect it’s burn-out. He’s in denial about it. He’s clearly overextended himself physically, but he’s… stubborn."

“I’m fine,” Ash muttered, shifting his weight against the wall. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling subtly at his hip—a reflexive motion, as if reaching for something absent. A weapon, 44 thought. She’d seen that kind of unease before: the restless tension of someone used to being armed, now stripped of the only thing that made them feel in control. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, her thoughts biting. Burn-out? No. Anyone with eyes could see the man wasn’t just tired—he was ill.

Jake’s sharp gaze flicked between the patients, absorbing the information. "You’re a medic," he stated, not questioning, just confirming.

"Yes," she replied curtly, her tone steady but her expression unreadable.

44 stepped back as Jake moved toward 84, his face tightening with concern as he assessed the injuries. She could feel his gaze shifting from 84 to the others, analysing the group. He glanced up briefly, his focus returning to the unconscious man on the cot. "You use names or we sticking to designation numbers?" he asked, voice calm but firm.

The woman stiffened, exchanging a glance with the blonde before she answered. “Names.” Her voice was hard-edged, but there was a crack in it—something close to desperation. “I'm Charlie. He’s Alex. That’s Sam.” She gestured toward Sam, who grunted weakly in acknowledgment. “And that’s Ash.”

Jake’s gaze lingered on Ash for a beat longer, eyes narrowing slightly, before turning to 44. “Get burn boy sorted. I’ll start with gunshots here.”

She turned her attention to Sam, who was shifting uncomfortably on his crutch, still trying to play the role of the resilient survivor despite the physical toll. "Sit down," she said, her voice flat as she approached him, "I need to assess your injuries."

Sam shot her a lopsided grin that didn’t reach his eyes, "I'm fine. Just a bit… crispy."

She stepped closer to him, her gaze cold and efficient as she studied the burns that marred his left arm and leg. The fabric wrapped around his limbs was a hasty field dressing, but it was clear the burns were severe. Second- and third-degree. There was no question—he’d almost definitely been through hell in the past two days. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, his exhaustion was written in every line of his face. "Sit down," she repeated, her voice sharp, "I’m not asking."

Sam hesitated, but after a beat, he shifted his weight and lowered himself onto the nearest chair, his crutch still tucked under his arm. His gaze flickered to the other assets, but he didn’t say anything. He was too tired to put up more of a fight.

She crouched, working silently, her hand moving shiftily as she peeled away the hasty field dressings from Sam’s burns. The smell of singed flesh was faint but unmistakable.

Facility assets. She’d been one of them, once. She knew what it meant to be them.

Her amber eyes flicked up briefly, watching Sam’s expression as he winced, the smirk that had plastered his face faltering. He was trying so hard to play the clown, to act like everything was fine. She’d seen it before. That need to keep the group’s spirits up, even when your own body was screaming in pain. It wasn’t just a coping mechanism; it was survival. Keep the team functional, even if you weren’t.

“Who treated this?” she asked as she inspected the burns, her voice sharper than she intended.

“Charlie,” Sam said, his gaze flicking to the medic. There was pride in his voice, a kind of defiance, as if daring her to criticize.

44 didn’t dispute it; the field care had bought him time, but barely. “You’re going to need these dressed properly. Antibiotics too, unless you want an infection that’ll make you wish you’d died on the way here.”

Sam gave a tight chuckle, though his expression wavered, “Comforting.”

44’s gaze lingered on Sam for a beat, studying the faint tremble in his limbs and the way his smile faltered when the pain flared. "If you want comfort you're talking to the wrong person."

The silence stretched for a moment, tense but oddly grounding. 44 didn’t bother filling it—there was nothing to say. She moved on to his leg, peeling back the scorched fabric with similar precision. Sam’s jaw locked as she worked, his breathing shallow and ragged, but he stayed still.

“I’m guessing you were hit with fire or an explosive,” she said, more to herself than to him, as she examined the burns.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, his voice flat, "I mistimed a detonation."

44 glanced up at him, her amber gaze sharp. “Engineer? EOD?”

Sam hesitated, as if weighing how much to say. “Infiltration. Communications. Sneaking in, hacking systems… making sure the mission works, no matter what..”

“And getting blown up?”

“Occupational hazard,” he replied, though there was no humour in his voice this time. His bright blue eyes darted toward the cot where Alex lay. “We needed a distraction.”

she caught the flicker of emotion in Sam’s voice. He was good at hiding it, better than most, but exhaustion had stripped his defences thin. She didn’t push him further, instead shifting her attention back to his burns. Infiltration. She knew what that meant—what it really meant. She’d seen the type before—the calculated charm, the practiced ease with words. Facility assets weren’t trained to persuade; they were trained to control outcomes. "You are a manipulator then?"

Sam’s expression tightened, the faint shadow of something sharp crossing his face. “Is that how the rest of you see us?” he replied, his voice quieter now, the mask of humour thinning. “I prefer problem-solver,” he said, his voice quieter now, though his posture tightened. “Manipulation’s just one of the tools. Like anything else.”

she studied him for a moment. Then shifted her focus back to the burns, her touch mechanical as she applied salve to the raw skin. “Call it whatever you want,” she said, her tone flat but her words carrying weight. “In the end, it’s all just survival. And survival’s never clean.”

“I’m good at survival,” Sam said, his voice steady, but the faint shadow in his eyes told a different story. Good at surviving, maybe. But not unscathed.

"You talk a lot," she muttered without looking up, her focus sharp and movements deliberate, but her tone carrying a slight edge.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Sam said, a faint grin tugging at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

44 didn't bother to respond, instead her gaze flicked to the IV Jake had set up for the tall man—Alex. The clear tube snaking from Alex’s arm to the bag hanging overhead seemed fragile, almost mocking in its simplicity. The slow drip of saline was a lifeline, though 44 knew it wasn’t nearly enough to undo the damage that had been done. She’d seen men like this before—a frontliner, just like she had once been. A tank. Designed to take hits that would drop anyone else, to absorb pain like a sponge until their bodies finally hit a wall and refused to obey.

Alex was no exception. His build, his conditioning, the way he’d still been standing when they arrived—it all spoke to the kind of training that left scars no one could see. But even the strongest weren’t invincible. Blood loss, shock, infection—it all added up. And judging by Jake’s tight expression and the meticulous but strained way his hands worked, Alex wasn’t far from that edge.

Her eyes shifted to the medic—Charlie. The younger woman hovered near Alex’s cot, her body taut with barely suppressed energy. Her fingers twitched at her sides, occasionally darting up to fiddle with the edge of her sleeve. Her gaze flicked between Jake and Alex like she was watching a bomb about to go off, and her hands were itching to take control, to diffuse it. She isn’t used to not being in control, 44 thought to herself. That much was clear.

Lastly, 44’s gaze moved to the man near the door—Ash. He hadn’t moved since they’d entered, hadn’t spoken since his curt insistence that he was “fine.” It was a weak lie, one that wouldn’t have fooled anyone paying attention. He looked glassy-eyed, like he was staring through the room rather than at it. The trembling in his hands didn’t look like exhaustion—it was too erratic, too sharp, the kind of tremor that came from something deeper. His skin had a pallor to it, the kind that reminded 44 of assets who’d been run too hard for too long.

Her  amber eyes narrowing as Ash’s knees buckled. One hand shot out to catch the wall, his fingers curling against the peeling paint like it was the only thing holding him up. His head dipped, strands of unkempt light brown hair obscuring his face, but she didn’t need to see his expression. She’d already catalogued the signs. It wasn’t fragility, she thought, watching as his weight sagged further into the wall. Fragility broke clean. This was different. It was control unravelling thread by thread, too slow and deliberate to be anything but self-inflicted.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the others—Charlie and Jake still preoccupied with Alex’s cot, neither had noticed the figure slowly collapsing against the wall—or if they had, they were choosing to ignore it

Sam’s smirk faded as his gaze moved from Alex to the figure by the door. His eyes narrowed, the faint tension in his posture betraying a flicker of concern. “Charlie,”  his voice dropped as he glanced at the medic. “Ash is about to go down. Again.”

Charlie’s head snapped up, her sharp focus shifting immediately from Alex’s cot to Ash by the door.

“Ash,” Charlie called, her voice cutting through the clinic’s tension with practiced authority. “Sit down. Now.”

Ash didn’t move, or maybe he couldn’t. His dark eyes were fixed on the clinic door, unblinking, as if something—or someone—might come through at any moment. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was something sharper, more desperate. His breaths came fast and shallow, uneven, like he was fighting against the tremors that wracked his thin  frame.

Charlie moved fast, crossing the room like she could will Ash to sit by force alone. The medic instincts were there, honed and sharp, but so was the desperation—too much emotion, too little distance.  “I said sit down.” She closed the space between them in a few quick strides and reached out to guide him toward a nearby chair.

44 watched as Ash flinched, recoiling from Charlie’s touch as if it had burned him. The reaction was immediate, almost instinctive, his body coiling tight. “I’m fine,” he growled, the words clipped and uneven, cracking on the final syllable. His hands curled at his sides, the tremor making them twitch erratically.

Charlie’s expression didn’t change, but 44 saw the subtle shift in her posture—the tension creeping into her shoulders. “You’re not fine,” Charlie replied, her voice sharper now, but still too clinical. There was no warmth, no reassurance, just the detached cadence of a medic assessing a malfunctioning tool.

44’s amber eyes narrowed, cataloguing the interaction. She didn’t need Charlie’s expertise to recognize what was happening. Facility assets were stubborn by design, conditioned to override every signal their bodies sent them until collapse was inevitable. But Ash wasn’t just at the edge—he was leaning over it.

Charlie moved again, reaching out for Ash, “You’re going to sit down, or I’ll put you down,” her tone devoid of emotion. It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact.

Ash flinched again, his weight sagging further into the wall. For a moment, 44 thought he might snap back, but instead, he only muttered, “I said I’m fine.”

 “She’s not bluffing, Ash,” Sam interjected, his voice dry but edged with a faint worry, “Charlie’s scary when she gets like this.”

Ash flinched again, his weight sagging into the wall. For a moment, 44 thought he might snap back, argue, fight—but his legs gave out, and this time, gravity won.

Charlie lunged, catching his weight as he slumped against her. His head tilted forward, breaths shallow and ragged. “Damn it, Ash,” she muttered under her breath, her hands tightening around him as she guided him down. For a moment, her frustration seeped through, raw and unfiltered, before her mask slipped back into place.

Ash’s eyes blinked sluggishly, the lids heavy and slow, as if every movement cost him more than he could afford. His pupils seemed to struggle to focus, drifting aimlessly before settling somewhere past Charlie’s shoulder, unseeing. His lips moved faintly, shaping words that dissolved into an incoherent murmur, too low and slurred for anyone to catch. The sound was barely audible, more breath than voice, and yet it carried a weight that drew attention, as though it held meaning just out of reach.

His head lolled to the side, the motion uncontrolled, a faint shudder running through his thin frame as if his body were fighting to stay upright even as it gave out. Charlie’s hands tightened instinctively, keeping him steady, her jaw clenching at the sight. For a brief moment, the room seemed to still

“What’s wrong with him now?” Jake called from across the room, his voice sharp, but laced with a weary sort of concern.

Charlie didn’t look up as she pressed two fingers against Ash’s neck to check his pulse. “Exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition,” she said briskly. Her voice was steady, but her fingers lingered too long against his skin, as though willing his pulse to steady beneath them. “Take your pick.”

There's something she's not saying, 44 thought to herself. Something’s off. But it’s not my business. Not yet. She let out a long breath, turning to return to the burn victim.

Sam shifted slightly, wincing as the motion tugged at his burns, but his gaze stayed on Ash. “Called it,” he murmured, half to himself.

44 crouched back down beside him to finish his leg. “You lot are a mess.”

Sam snorted faintly. “You should’ve seen us two days ago.”

[beautifulpersonpeach]

your bff parkparkjeon is throwing the baby out with the bathwater dragging jimin into tae's mess you should talk sense into her instead of liking her posts if you like jimin as you say

***

Lmaoooooooooo.

A lot of you are insane and have no one to tell you.

I suppose after I'd been deleting your asks sent while Anonymous, you decided to take off anon and send in the same BS. Which is a good choice I guess if what you want from me is a response.

I don't typically get or respond to asks about bloggers and I don't actually know PPJ. I don't know anyone on here at all actually, but as I keep saying, if you're not Black, sit this one out. You have no idea, not even an inkling of a reference point, to begin even trying to partake in this conversation.

**

I was initially going to leave my response to you at that, but I've changed my mind. Because though my feelings don't perfectly align with PPJ's and they don't need anyone, least of all me, to defend them, I do want to say something about how generally, people in fandom and community systems are unable to process complex and dissenting opinions based on experiences (other) those people cannot possibly relate to. Especially when it comes to Black experiences.

It's possibly why I've gotten asks from other people wondering why it's such a bad thing to mouth a word if you're just 'singing along' to a song. Honestly, these are questions you should be asking the Black people in your real lives, not a stranger on the internet. But whatevs.

Even if my feelings don't perfectly align with PPJ's, I completely understand their frustration. Whenever Black people express hurt referring to general groups of people and while making sweeping statements like that, the impulse from other people is to point out the exceptions, the anecdotal instances that show Black people (and in this case, PPJ) they could be wrong. But the reality is that Black American experience is riddled with violations to their person, daily, from other Black people, from other POC, from white people, from really everyone, and yet it’s difficult to acknowledge that fact without sounding like a perpetual victim. Which is how most people see Black people when they make such statements. Nobody woke up two days ago and expected to see Tae mouthing "nigga". He could sing along to songs, but he didn’t need to sing along to that word if he cared about the implications. It’s really that simple. He went ahead and did so because he didn’t think it was a big deal. And that’s not uncommon, which I believe is the source of parkparkjeon’s frustration. It’s that so many people have such a superficial idea of what that word means and why Black people want to reclaim it as only theirs, that they don’t actually see the big deal in mouthing or singing along to it.

It feels like fighting a losing battle honestly, because the fact is people will always do what they want, and saying someone can’t say a certain word, for some people just makes them want to say the word even more, or to look for arguments in which saying the word is fine. The civil rights movement ended in the 60s, and yet it's 2023 and we're still here. The world doesn’t actually, really care about Black people, and this includes other Black people themselves I’d say, which I know sounds defeatist and is controversial to say. The lives and experiences of Black people just aren’t taken seriously, at least not to the same degree as other races and classes of people are, and that’s due to the lingering ripple effects from centuries of subjugation, as well as other factors. We have a plethora of literature, spanning centuries, of Black writers detailing their peculiar experience on this note, but someone saying this in plain English is taken as them whining, being annoying, going on and on about how the world isn't fair to them when 'they should know' everyone knows the world isn't fair anyways.

That's bullshit.

I say nigga because that’s what I am, it’s what I look like and it’s how I’ve lived and been treated in America. I don’t feel any special attachment to the word, it’s just a fact of the matter, but the reality that other groups of people refuse to acknowledge what that means for Black people as a group in America, the people who have reclaimed it and use it in their art, even with daily violations against their person in the US, the fact this still happens only reminds people of hurt. I can totally see where PPJ is coming from. And the last thing I'll do from one Black person to another, is try to stifle their self expression. They get to say what they want on this note. Whether or not I like it. And I say this not because I'm Black, not because I'm Korean, but because I'm a person who recognizes that they're not hurting anyone, they are simply expressing feelings of hurt related to an experience that is long-documented and is uniquely theirs.

As to your mention of Jimin, when I said certain crimes in k-pop are 'sticky', this is partly what I meant also, because the fact is Korean society has evolved through a Western imperialist system and is racist. Taehyung doesn't operate in a vacuum and behaved the way he did likely influenced by his own personal beliefs, and environment. Digging far back enough implicates everyone around him, including Jimin who has also made colorist statements. Does this mean I think Taehyung and Jimin are racist? No. Just as I don't think the people sending me asks wondering why they can't mouth "nigga" singing along to a song, are racist. But it does mean I think neither Taehyung nor the people asking these questions in my inbox, care enough about Black experiences to think about why "nigga" is a 'bad word' that only Black people today are supposed to get to use. Other members in the rapline through direct scrutiny, have over the years become more conscious of what this means, but I'm very certain, just by virtue of their environment, that they still have blindspots.

That's it.

And it's okay for a Black fan, to express their discomfort, frustration, and/or anger with this reality. This is something Black fans do by default anyway, critically moving through a world that claims to care and yet the bare minimum, of thinking about why things are the way they are, is too much of an ask. And this is not a condemnation of you, or BTS. It's simply an acknowledgement of the reality Black people inhabit.

So, no. I won't "talk sense" into them. I don't even know why you thought this was a reasonable thing to ask anybody to do. If they choose to no longer associate with the fandom as a result of their experience, that's very much their right. As it is for anyone who comes to such conclusions for whatever reason. Whether or not I agree with it. Whether or not you agree with it.

Welcome to Pluralism 101.

[multi-lefaiye]

Yknow what here's a fun one for you: Do they see The Stepford Wives(2004) as mainly a Comedy, a Horror, or a Cringefest? (i'm in the horror camp, it unnerves me a lot worse than the original did.) and for a little queer test, how do they feel about Roger specifically.

OKAY GENUINELY THOUGH-

i think i actually remember seeing people bring up the stepford wives in a conversation about misinterpretations of midsommar, but i'll admit i haven't seen it myself so there's not much i can add here.

i also wanna do on a quick side tangent here. under the cut b/c this is rambly nonsense

so i'm not at all opposed to the usage of terms like "cozy horror" or w/e but goddamn the use of that gets on my nerves at times. i don't think it's at all bad to find comfort in horror, even more disturbing and upsetting horror concepts, but i think it's important to examine *why* you find something comforting. and i think midsommar is a *fantastic* example of this idea.

midsommar is a movie about a vulnerable person being drawn into and manipulated by a white supremacist cult. that's it. i see a lot of people describe it as cozy horror or a hard-hitting feminist narrative about a woman escaping a shitty boyfriend to find a community of people who truly care about her, and to be honest a lot of those arguments are significantly more disturbing to me than the movie itself, haha! because that isn't even a surface level reading of the movie--it's straight-up just falling for the same indoctrination that the main character experiences.

i don't think it's a red flag or anything for someone to enjoy midsommar or find some kind of comfort in that story (for example, i find it kind of cathartic in some ways to see the tragedy and horror of midsommar unfold, especially considering my personal history i won't be getting into here), but i am *very* suspect of people labeling it as "cozy horror" because i think that takes the bite out of this story. because it's not *cozy*, it's a horrific scenario and the ending is genuinely devastating if you're not approaching it through the superficial white feminist lens the cult uses to recruit the main character.

i don't know how much sense any of this makes actually, i just have a lot of thoughts about how people engage with horror as a genre. and like yeah sure there's no *wrong* way to enjoy fiction, but i am so so uneasy with folks who miss the point that fucking bad. because, y'know, not to make any broad sweeping generalizations, but how people interpret movies like midsommar can be *really fucking telling* for how they might handle a real situation like that.

(obligatory disclaimer: i am not at all saying that people who enjoy darker fiction like that or enjoy midsommar would be completely okay with a real-life cult situation like that. i'm just saying that people who look at midsommar as a girlboss feminist victory narrative about a woman taking revenge against her shitty boyfriend............. you missed the point to such a spectacular degree that i'm wary of whatever other opinions you might have regarding gender, race, etc.)

[bitchesgate3]

Such a huge leap to make an assumption like that. And goes to show how some users will perceive anyone who doesn't hold their headcanon in bad faith.

What I've been finding more telling lately, is how some people will only look at something superficially, and go with their first gut choice. If there is a problem, they blame the first thing they see that is associated with it.

In reality, there is often a systemic issue that is at play that makes the situation much more complicated than pointing a single finger. I need people to think about situations and ponder what was the intention behind it's creation, rather than taking it at what appears to you as face value.

Think of the ages and perspectives of the original writer team at Larian (before Baudelaire was hired). Remember what the overall story was back in early access. Think of why Larian is ok with how they portray the characters in media outside of the game. You can make a guess on what they intended to write and what they didn't intend to write.

Additionally, when it comes to older dnd lore, think again what perspectives those writers had and what they were exploring in the media they were creating. Do you think they were exploring victimization in 1974 in an interactive tabletop game? Or exploring themes that titillated them to make the game more "exciting"?

I think no matter what, we will always fall prey to confirmation bias when seeking information to support our headcanons. If certain themes jump out at you on a deep level, there is nothing I can do to convince you out of it. On the same end, there is nothing you can do to convince me out of mine.

You would be better off giving others the benefit of the doubt first, rather than making sweeping over-generalizations. You don't know me, and you will never know me. And engaging with media in this tunnel-visioned way will ensure you will only ever see your perspective as the "right" one and hence never see anything to counter it in good faith.

[astrxlfinale]

🧋 - to offer your muse a drink . (aventurine trying to get him to make bad life choices)

Penacony has been nothing but an exercise in bad choices.

So how should he perceive the cup that holds a bitter taste and a lively kick? Amidst the wild array of showlights that danced upon other sections of this club, to the natural, hypnotic sway and jig of many bodies indulging themselves in connection upon the throne of superficial, here's this bastard once again. More good times were made for his good ol' pal Caelus, that hypnotic gaze reflecting an invitation as a lorded source above that very glass.

It must be pretty damn bad if this guy of all people was taking pity on him. He has to look like hell. (Hardly getting any sleep while dead asleep, the irony.) It led to the brawler's face twisting into a visage of discontent and impulsivity as he snatches that very glass. "I swear this bullshit here is for people dead set on running away. Makes me sick." Which the natural conclusion was to become an utter hypocrite in that same notion.

A head tilted swig is taken of that very glass. Instead of glamor, he vies for the burn, rather than pristine wishes, what a gnawing side of him aches for is a form the thorn-like reality to be signified through his body. It felt as if his actual body above and this one received the potent height of being gluttonous with the alcohol. That too is fine, so is the fact his breath may reek of the stuff later on.

Oh well, come what may.

Allowing the fogged over glass to be tilted one way to another in his grip, it clicks, something about this whole situation simply wants to make him laugh. Where in the hell was this 'faith' in their bond coming from exactly? One big situation, a show, and here they were, seeing him be utterly fucked up as his feeling remained wired with constraint and flared all at once.

"........"

"Just can't stop moving one way or another, huh?" Motion at the least meant going somewhere. Whether a path ahead, circles of pointlessness, you name it. Seething within the depth of his being was an urge to let his body sing in exertion, to let his will be the proud caster and immutable flame that burned that desire strong. Maybe another thread of fate decides to join this pit of fancied indulgence. For upon the musical track lies a switch, a rhythm that sings to that very desire.

Being met with a temptation leveled in simplicity almost felt alien at this point. It's enough to bring their initial conversation to a pause, the approving holler of the crowd behind them sweeping his attention as the continuous thrum of that song echoes in his body. Unknowingly to the Trailblazer, he began to bop his head to it, a lost sense of vigor attempting to spark to life as he tacked his glass to the countertop.

He's led towards the sea of bodies that part as if charmed by a siren's song. An idea was brewing, not exactly a means to forget, but simply an act that must be performed for a heart such as his. Being Aventurine's valued guest was enough to warrant attention from some of the other partygoers. Despite those eyes, despite the hint of a growing show light beginning to bubble with life as it follows his direction, within moments he's letting his body express.

Caelus is both content and hates the fact that he very much wishes to learn about his new friend. So why not show him the results of this very gamble?

A firm pop of the hips!

A flawless roll of the head, enough to cause the spotlight to immediately brighten upon his figure.

Only then would a gloved hand ascend, bringing that very attention with a directed point towards one of Penacony's VIPs. Another searing show light situating over their figure (the technicians believed this was planned), leading to the warrior's whimsy to bring.. no, force this very situation upon the Stoneheart.

"How about we get to know each other a little better?" He mentions, offering up a challenging smile in tune with a cant of the head, allowing that silver hair to highlight the deviousness in his features, those golden eyes locked in.

"Let's show 'em how it's done, my friend."

@apocryphis

[mejcinta]

The stuff that happened with TCG is why I don't take this fandom serious anymore ...

For some reason we went from joking about our favorite War Criminals in the darkest humor possible to emotional weirdoes harassing actors on panels.

I blame the fucking marketing for taking a regular ass show and turning it into a goddamn litmus test of morality.

Yet, on the other hand, across the board, people are taking fiction way too serious.

Even in the Downton Abbey fandom super emotional female fans - yeah, I'll say it, fan girls - are basically holding the entire franchise hostage and not allowing any adult or darker storyline to take place because they view the characters as not just real people, but their friends. And no one can do anything but really cheesy fluff plots in the movies, because, the overly emotional wine moms will rip their shit if Lady Mary is shown in a bad light or something bad happens to one character or the other. They don't want any lasting consequences.

It's gotten so bad that even in fanfiction they black list writers if they write too dark or adult storylines with the character ... I mean actively go out of their way to try and hound them off of Reddit.

And this is Downton Abbey for fucks sake!

The level of completely out of control hate messages I still have from the HOTD fans over me defending Jaehaera as the rightful queen is insane. Over me supporting a little girl ... WHO IS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER!

I know you're younger than me (I'm 33) but what the fuck happened where these people can't seem to tell the difference between fact or fiction.

It's even bleeding into actors and actresses personal lives. The TCG incident is tame compared to one actress I know who played a character on a tv show who another female character was in love with in the show ... just once - ten years ago. Now, in her personal life, she can't actually date men openly because her fans will tear her apart if she's not dating a woman. Like their entire career is based on her fangirls believing she's a real life lesbian rather than Bi-Sexual. Even now she gets shit for being a 'fake lesbian' when she never said she was in the first place.

How the fuck did we get to this place?

You were right to say it. The Fan Girl ™ phenomena has become a sweeping and overpowering threat to modern entertainment and actors' personal lives.

Yikes! I can't imagine being forced to put up a front just because fans will lose it if I don't act like the character I play in real life. Wow!

I blame this on this growing desire in the West to tolerate and placate weak minded people, instead of encouraging mental and emotional development. The studios are no better because they pressure actors to play along with the loud and entitled audiences. Actors can't even be douchebags anymore because this obsession with image has taken over, instead of encouraging diverse views, and it's even worse when you factor in superficial feminism in stories, which has melted many fans' minds into goo!!! Literally, people stop using their brains when they see a female lead and don't allow anyone to do a fair analysis of said character because apparently "Woman can do no wrong", "Woman always right", "Woman strong". It feels redundant and cultish.

I don't know about y'all but urgent help in the West is needed. 😂😂😂 Seriously. The mental deterioration going unaddressed is leaking into entertainment and driving people into extremes as well as bankruptcy (Marvel and Disney)!! When the whole point of entertainment is to enjoy ourselves in whatever corner we choose to be and to view characters objectively and to treat them and judge them equally and humanly!

Instead we have morality Olympics on the daily, about how only one character is always wrong and another is automatically right for having a vagina. Weird behavior if you ask me. I'm sick of it.

[wherethedeadneversleep]

Cleaning up the Stragglers

As of late Logan has found himself spending more and more time with Colin’s sister-in-law. He doesn’t exactly know why ─ there’s just something very different about her and it had nothing to do with her being a werewolf. Perhaps it was her quirky nature in general. He was never accustomed to being around anyone other than those like himself and Colin. She was able to express herself in ways he’d never dreamed of being able to. It drew him to her without him even realizing it was happening.

Today she had asked to tag along with him on a hunt. He didn’t give it much thought considering she had handled herself pretty damn well when he first came to Santa Carla. This should have been a walk in the park considering it was nothing like The Rose Institute. This was just the aftermath of that mess. Cleaning up the stragglers that managed to escape and tuck themselves away in hopes their savior Stephanie would locate their whereabouts.

After using his razor wire whip to remove the head of the last remaining vampire in the building his head lifted, nose to the air as he took in the scent of blood. Blood was spilled all around them, but this scent was different ─ his nose turning his head to look Zoey straight in the eyes. He gives her a questioning look just as he realizes she shifted her body in a way to shield her side from his line of sight. Eyes narrowed at her for a moment.

“ Are you hurt? “ He quickly questions before slowly making his way over to her. If she got hurt on his watch he would never hear the end of it after giving Zoe and Colin such a hard time about allowing the women to come along when facing such threats. “ I can smell the blood, Zoey. How bad is it? Let me see … “ He almost insists and yet he manages to keep an almost stoic appearance … almost being the keyword. For the first time in his life, there is the smallest hint of worry breaking its way to the surface. It’s not something he knows how to process so it’s equally as frustrating as it is confusing to him.

Zoey's bright and cheerful expression replaced that slight hint of worry Logan might've seen before she offered a casual wave of her hand.

"It's not that bad at all!" she insisted, though she now hid her left arm behind her back. "Trust me, I thought it was one of those 'oh crap!' moments, but it's only superficial."

She kicked herself mentally for allowing this slip-up to happen in the first place. Known for her exceptional control over her wolf nature, she was also a slippy girl whose quick movements didn't allow many people to land a blow on her, let alone touch her. But she, Logan, her twin, and brother-in-law learned firsthand that these creatures from the Institute weren't your ordinary vampires. Those who remained in the aftermath of their raid proved persistently troublesome, but nothing that couldn't be taken out after several sweeps.

There'd been a moment where she and Logan separated from one another, and that was when the surprise attack happened. While one of Zoey's main abilities was to hide her aura (essentially hide the fact that she was a werewolf), this attack was just that - an absolute surprise. Both she and her vampire attacker accidentally bumped into one another, and that was when the grappling began. This vampire had its throat ripped out from some unknown assault earlier, but it was still dangerous and hostile, to where it tried to choke out Zoey, preventing her from screaming out for help. They fell to the ground, and Zoey desperately fought to pry the steel grip this monster had over her. One firmly placed kick to the groin gave her that moment of ease, but that swiftly resulted in the vampire biting down on her forearm. Her bones cracked under the fierce pressure of the bite, and she almost passed out from the pain.

In an instant, her eyes flashed yellow, and she nearly lost control of her humanity to the wolf within. Instead of doing just that, however, she threw all of her weight into her free arm, her fist itself, where she smashed her knuckles through the vampire's skull. Brain matter flew from the other side of its head, and its body went slack due to the loss of its muscles. The pull forced her to topple over the body, and she instantly freed herself from its grip. Even after she wiped her other fist clean, using the vampire's clothes as a towel of sorts, the wound on her forearm was deep. Blood oozed to the surface of her skin, and her muscles pulsated with a fiery ache. As of that moment, the dried blood had crusted over the still-opened wounds.

Now feeling guilty after thinking back to how she got injured, Zoey relented.

"I'll be fine," she insisted, like a teenager getting caught sneaking out, as she reluctantly took her arm out to show Logan the aftermath. "But we're not going back until this heals up. I don't want Zoe freaking out on me, not after she was worried to death about Colin."

 Logan’s head craned to the side when she attempted to play off the extent of her injury. His sense of smell couldn’t be matched when it came to blood and what he sensed was a lot more than just a superficial wound.

“ It’s not that bad? Then why are you hiding your arm behind you? “ Logan looked eyes with hers as if calling her out on her bluff.

Something they learned early on in training was that it didn’t matter how well you were trained or how skillful of a fighter you were, there was always a chance for the unexpected to happen. It was better to go into battle and expect the unexpected to happen. Even with his many years of training, he wasn’t untouchable. That had been made clear the first time they went into battle with these supercharged monsters.

He once believed the only reason he was still alive was because he had a promise to fulfill to Colin, but Ravenna was dead. Logan kept his promise, so what was keeping him in Santa Carla? Maybe it was the idea that he still had all these stragglers to clean up, or maybe something else. Despite the years he and Colin spent training together and hunting together, they weren’t exactly the socializing type. Admittedly Colin was different these days, even more so after Ravenna’s death. Logan on the other hand didn’t have the experiences that Colin had over the last few years. He didn’t know how to properly express himself, or how to show worry or concern for another. There was more of a brashness and coldness to his actions.

The great battle was won, and the wicked witch was defeated. But imagine him having to go back now and explain to Colin that something happened to his sister-in-law. Forget Colin, her sister would undoubtedly end him on the spot.

“ I know when people are lying just because of the way the words feel when they press into me, uncomfortable and wrong. It is more important for you to be safe than right, for the time being. “ With that, he reached out taking her arm in his hands. His grip was perhaps a little tighter than he intended it to be. “ You’re not going back. I’ll take care of the rest of them once I get you out of here and somewhere you can heal up. “ He wasn’t going to have any agreements about this. Thankfully her wolf genes were kicking in and starting to heal the damage that had been done, but not at a quick enough rate. Grabbing the bottom of his jacket he ripped off a long enough piece that he could wrap the wound. “ We’ll get this cleaned up and let your body take care of the rest. “

Zoey's round eyes grew even wider when Logan used his own jacket to dress the wound. She chewed on the inside of her lip as guilt settled in. He didn't have to do all this for her! It was such a nice jacket, too, although she was positive he wasn't concerned about fashion - just like Colin. The two of them were alike in so many ways that they could've been brothers, had she not known that humans trained the dhampirs they kidnapped to turn out the same way: emotionless killing machines for vampires and anyone who stood in their way.

She watched as Logan tended to her wounds, noticing the hard lines on his hands, and feeling the coarseness of his skin compared to hers. A part of her was compelled to take his hand into her own and give it a squeeze of comfort. Instead, she refrained from acting out, in case he took it as some kind of surprise attack.

"I can't remember the last time I was caught off guard like that," Zoey admitted sheepishly as her eyes lifted from Logan's handiwork to his face. He was quite the looker, and while she noticed this when they first met, there hadn't been time to dwell on such superficial matters. There was a witch to stake and Colin's honor to reclaim. But now that everything was calm, and Colin was in a better place, Zoey was able to get a good look at his old companion, and notice he was pretty... well... hot!

Trying hard to hold back her smile, she forced her attention back onto her hand that was getting bandaged up. "As you've probably noticed by now, I'm more of the support person. The friend, the ally, the... last resort muscles of the group, but nobody that's like... I guess, not like Zoe or Colin. Main players of the game. I didn't go through the nightmares they did - together or even before they hooked up. In a way, I was lucky compared to them, and maybe that's why they're so close. Shoot, even Zoe and our little sister are closer than me and Zoe, and we're twins. Twins are supposed to have this connection, but since we grew apart, we kinda don't."

She wasn't sure why she was revealing all of this to Logan. They were allies, yes, but not close, but here they were, alone, and her heart decided this was the place to spill her emotions. Zoe and her were fraternal twins. Marie and she had a lot of similarities when it came to clothing style and even some aspects of their personalities. Yet Zoe and Marie were super close, like mother and daughter, due to the dangers they faced years ago at the hands of Sonya and DJ X. And while she wouldn't admit it, she felt like a third wheel who simply didn't fit in with her sisters.

Now, her wound didn't even register in terms of pain, as opposed to the sobering loneliness that crept into its place. But instead of revealing any of that on the outside, she simply beamed at Logan.

“You’re good at patching up people!”

Her skin was incredibly soft against his hands. Logan was used to patching himself up but not so much when it came to others. From time to time he would notice himself glancing up to look at her, eyes lingering for a moment before returning to her arm. He didn’t have the right words for how she looked ─ but there was something very striking about her, something he’d not seen before. Whatever he was feeling in that moment he couldn’t explain it nor did he fully understand it.

With a clear of his throat, he continued to wrap her hand, bandaging it tight enough to stop the bleeding but not tightly enough to cut off her circulation. Sure he knew she would heal up on her own, but at the same time, he didn’t want the smell of her blood lingering in the air any longer than needed. With a little luck, she would heal up before he had to explain to Colin that he allowed his sister-in-law to get injured on his watch.

“ Rule number one, never let your guard down. Expect the unexpected. When you become comfortable in a situation, that’s when things go astray. “ This time when he glanced up at her he noticed the way she was looking at him and that also made him feel something he couldn’t explain. Clearing his throat once more he finally pulled his hands away from her arm.

He wasn’t sure why she decided to disclose the information about her family to him that she did, but even he could sense a sort of inessential feeling coming from her. Logan was sure that wasn’t the case when it came to her family. His earlier remarks to her about not hunting with him were harsh but that was the way he was trained to be. This is the only way he knows how to be. However, a thought did come to his mind.

“ Being a strong fighter doesn’t mean you’ve lived through something tragic. You’re the one who has to live with your choice. Everyone else will get over it, and move on, no matter what you decide. But you never will. If being a big hitter is what you want then I can train you. “ This wasn’t something Logan would just offer to anyone. “ Life is only dictated by the paths you take. If something is unpleasing to you then do something to change it, but you change it for yourself and not because of anyone else. “ Logan wouldn’t lie, she was a good fighter and a strong one, but with his help, she could be even better.

“ As far as being a main player in their eyes,  intentions are the only thing they care about. Your intentions are in the right place no matter what assistance you give. You shouldn’t want to be like any of them because then you wouldn’t be you. In the end, it’s you they care about. “ Reaching up he scratched the back of his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually talked this much to any one person. If she wanted his help then he would give it. Since Ravenna was gone for good he had free time on his hands. There wasn’t anywhere else he needed to be for a while. Hell from the way Colin spoke there was enough shit going on around Santa Carla to keep him busy for some time.

“ I’ve patched up enough wounds over the years that I could do it blindfolded. “

Zoey admired the handiwork done on her wound. Beneath the wrappings, the broken skin was gradually fusing itself back together. The wonders of werewolf healing factors. This drew a smile from her.

“Blindfolded work is really impressive, I say,” she pleasantly remarked to Logan’s statement. A lot of actions he did in front of her reminded her of Colin. Then again, they were not only the same species but also brothers-in-arms. They probably knew each other like the back of their hands. Only now, Zoe knew more about Colin than Logan did.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she continued smiling at Logan. “Listen, forget about the stuff I said earlier. I know my self-worth, and I know what I’m capable of doing. Sometimes I just kind of rattle off about things that I should keep to myself. I’m fine, really! But… thank you for offering your advice. I didn’t know I needed to hear it until you said it.”

Her heart raced just now when she stared at him. He didn’t have to go out of his way to make her feel better or even offer her his assistance, but he did. He made her feel like a team player. It made her think about the good ol’ days of being a teenage monster slayer alongside the Frogs, Sam, and Bridget. It even made her think about Edgar, and how much closer they’d gotten… until she messed up by telling the truth. She vowed to never do that again, overshare like that, yet she did it with Logan. Thankfully, he didn’t violently reject her like Edgar had, but she couldn’t risk ever doing that again.

Now looking about their surroundings, Zoey sniffed the air a few times, before announcing, “I can’t smell any more of those things. I think they went back into hiding for now.”

“ You should be good as new in a day or so. “ Logan remarked before finally releasing her arm back to her. Honestly, he didn’t even realize he was still hanging on to it until she spoke up.

“ That’s an example I gave about expecting the unexpected. Never know when you could be bleeding out in the dark somewhere. “ Smooth, yeah that was just smooth on his behalf. Here she was giving him what he thought to be a compliment and he still managed to somehow make it about the job. Reaching up he awkwardly scratched the back of his head. Here he had gone and made a big deal out of her arm knowing it would heal, then gave her this long lecture-like speech about self-worth. What the hell was he thinking?

But then she thanked him for that advice and just maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing for him to have done after all. He honestly was trying to help .. his people skills just weren’t the greatest. He could understand her saying about keeping things to herself because he didn’t openly share much of his own life with anyone either. “ Listen, the offer still stands anytime. “ He gestured with what looked like an attempt to smile. “ I’ve got two ears and time on my hands should you ever feel that need rise again. “

He caught himself almost reaching up to tuck the other side of her hair behind her ear to match the other but resisted that temptation. He didn’t know what it was about the woman in front of him but she made his insides stir, and in ways he’s never really felt before ─ at least in a very long time. Logan was so out of touch with the way things worked nowadays. He never really allowed himself any kind of true pleasure. It was all about the job and achieving the end goal. From a very early age, he was taught to stow away anything that didn’t pertain to killing, training, and fighting. He desperately didn’t want his cold front to put her off in any way.

Logan turned and did the same, using his sense of smell to pick up on anything that might be close to them. “ Think you’re right. This means we’ve got some time for that arm to heal up before I relocate them and WE go back after them. “ Now he knew he said earlier that he wasn’t taking her on another mission with him, but after her confession about not feeling like a team player   ─   despite what she told him about being fine, he wasn’t going to leave her hanging like that. Not while there was work that still needed to be done. “Can I take you back to wherever you’re staying? “

Zoey couldn’t recall the last time she was with a guy like this who wasn’t family: that was, completely relaxed around them. She had plenty of short-term relationships back in college, but none of those guys ever made her feel as needed as Logan did. She could’ve sworn she noted gestures and movements that might have been out of his normal range of emotions, and that alone made her happy. It couldn’t be easy - look at Colin. Zoey’s older twin was beyond a saint, being patient with him as he struggled to break through the rigorous training and torture he’d gone through as a child to allow himself to be close to someone. Was Logan trying to do the same thing? With her?

And when he mentioned returning to where the rest of the nest was with her added to the equation, she was thrilled. She could admit her faults and weaknesses, but she could be of use, and Logan took that seriously. Now, she couldn’t wait to return to the thick of things with him.

“Sure, that’d be great!” Zoey replied, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic about him taking her home. “If you don’t mind, you can take me back home. I know we were supposed to go back to Colin and Zoe’s, but I’ll shoot them a text, and let them know we’re good. I live kinda far out, right before you leave Santa Carla entirely. Actually, I live in the same area as Alan."

On their way out, Zoey explained how years ago, Alan stumbled upon a wealthy estate occupied with million-dollar homes, half of which were left unfinished, that were abandoned after the last economic crash.  Zoey had her own house, and couldn’t be happier, though at times she felt lonely having an enormous place to herself. None of the estate homes were suited for merely one person, so she filled her house with her fandom merchandise, which included cosplay outfits, comic books, and gaming accessories. She even had a room dedicated to her hunting equipment, but for the most part, it was her own sweet home.

 Logan nodded his head after she told him where she lived. The address would be simple enough to find once they made it back to his SVU and placed it into his computer system. It was much more advanced than your normal GPS systems. It was so advanced he could zoom into a location and practically see through the windows of a house or building. Not that he was some creeper, but it helped him to locate a target with one hundred percent certainty. Reaching down not only did he grab his bag but hers as well. One was tossed over his shoulder and the other carried in hand as he led them out of the large warehouse and out into the wooded area where they parked.

Taking a look at the SUV he started to head for the back but caught himself stopping first to unlock the passenger side door and open it for Zoey. From there he headed to the back, stowed away their bags, and rounded to the driver’s side. Once inside he pulled up his computer and punched in the address. Logan didn’t care how far out she lived, his concern was getting her back to her place safe and sound and in one piece.

The drive started out quiet as he was struggling to find something to say. However, now and then he caught himself glancing over to steal a glance at her. Logan couldn’t help but feel like his body was trying to tell him something, he just couldn’t figure out what that was. There was so much confusion inside him and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He never felt like this until he started spending more time with Zoey and that confused him even more. He needed to go to someone who could understand all of this and that was Colin. But how to approach the subject was another story all on its own.

That awkward silence finally broke when he pulled into the driveway of their destination. “ Alive and still in one piece. “ He remarked before looking over to her again. How stupid did he feel that the entire drive back to her place had been spent in silence because his head was going a mile a minute? He thought about jumping out to go open her door for her, but the idea made him feel silly. Would she want someone opening doors for her like she couldn’t do it for herself? She already made it clear earlier on that she didn’t like people making a fuss over her. So he settled for the next best thing. “ I’ll grab your bag and get it inside for you. “

While the ride home proved quiet, Zoey found it rather enjoyable. Logan proved to be quite the capable driver, considering how this part of California was often listed as having some of the worst traffic in the state, if not the country. For the first time in a while, she was able to admire the beauty that Santa Carla had to offer. One of these days, she vowed to take a nice bike ride through the redwoods, or even take a ride on the famous coastal train tracks. Being alone with Logan wasn’t bad at all. It was... nice.

Every once in a while, when she dared to take a chance, she threw a glance at Logan, before focusing back at the scenery once more. He really had a handsome profile. Really, everything about him was good-looking, just like Colin. From what she read, dhampirs were supposed to be ugly, but so far, she had yet to meet any that were described as such. Then again, not everything written in the books was true.

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ she admonished herself as the familiar view of the estates came into view, followed by Logan’s arrival announcement. She couldn’t help but smile when he offered to take her bag for her. Well, that was awfully courteous of him. Even with his strict upbringing, she thought he was very much a gentleman.

“Well, thank you. That’s sweet. I’ll unlock the front door for us, then,” she said, as she climbed out of the car, and skipped ahead to the cobblestone walkway of her home. Her shoulder-length hair bounced off her shoulders with each step she took. She even twirled once, a cheerful expression visible on her face, by the time she reached the front door. No key was produced, as she had a fingerprint reader beside the doorknob. Upon analyzing her fingerprint, a small beep was heard, followed by a loud click, then the door opened.

“C’mon in!” Zoey announced as she stepped into her home. “Just take your shoes off by the mat!”

The home was spacious, but also occupied with numerous fandom merchandise. Star Wars and Star Trek model ships hung in the corners of the ceilings and hallways. Standing by her closet, where her AI virtual assistant hung on the wall, she said, “Computer! Notifications!”

As the AI rattled off the various deliveries that arrived at the post office in town that awaited pick-up, she turned to Logan. “Thanks again. Hey, do you wanna stay for dinner? Something to drink? How about a tour of the house or the estate?”

Once she was out of the SUV he closed the door behind her. Logan couldn’t help but stand there and just watch her for a few moments as she so cheerfully bounced her way up to the front door of the house to unlock the door. When he managed to pull his eyes away from her he scanned the neighborhood they were in. For the most part, it seemed PEACEFUL enough. He could understand why she would pick a location like this to stay at. Honestly, both this place and Colin’s home beat the hell out of the warehouse he was staying at.

Soon enough he was following behind her with her weapons bag over his shoulder. Just because he had a strict upbringing didn’t mean he had no MANNERS. He found himself rather impressed by the fingerprint reader attached to her door. It was the same kind of device he used in the warehouse. But when it came to a house with windows it really only helped to keep the honest ones out. If someone really wanted inside a window would be the EASIEST route.

“ Might want to think about getting some bars installed on the windows. “ Logan remarked as he stepped inside and placed her bag down on the floor beside the door. Then it dawned on him what he actually said. “ Sorry about that. It’s just out of habit for me to examine the security of any place I enter. “ Was that the right thing to say? Hopefully, he hadn’t come off as rude with the suggestion.

Logan looked down at his shoes and then back to her. While EXTREMELY confused by the request his face remained stoic. He wasn’t sure if this was some strange custom or what the meaning behind it was but he respected her wishes and removed both his shoes and placed them down on the mat.

He walked inside following a little distance behind her. His hands were tucked away inside the pockets of his duster. It seemed like such a spacious place for one single person to reside. Then again when it came to storing weapons and things of that nature one could NEVER have enough room. More confusion hit him because he couldn’t understand why someone needed so many trinkets hanging from their ceilings. She really did seem to enjoy her job. Not that he didn’t enjoy his. There was nothing he loved more than wiping evil bastards from the planet.

“ Don’t mention it. “ He spoke with a nod of his head. Giving her a ride home was the least he could do after being CARELESS enough to allow her to get bitten. Even more, confusion bubbled inside his head when she asked him several different questions all at once. “ Is it dinner, drinks, or a tour? “ Maybe she was asking if he would like all three? “ If you don’t mind I could use a drink. “ It was unusual for his throat to become this dry so quickly. It normally only happened when he had to do a feeding but it was still long before that time was due.

Zoey couldn't help but agree with his security suggestion. Since the housing economy tanked, the property was abandoned - still, the occasional wanderers did come about every so often. Regardless, she would keep the window bars in mind.

"Duly noted!" she told him. "Lemme grab that drink for you."

She ventured into the kitchen and the sensor lights turned on instantly. High school photos of herself, along with the Frog Brothers, and Sam Emerson, were plastered on the refrigerator door. Those were certainly the good old days.

She paused briefly to stare at one photo in particular, of just herself and Edgar, once again reflecting on days gone by. Her mind wandered a bit, which then led her to think about what awaited her at the post office, before she snapped back to reality, remembering that Logan was waiting for her. She fetched a glass cup from the cabinet and then got the water.

Perhaps Logan wanted some blood? After all, he was part vampire. Shoot, she should've asked him. Oh, wait! She had some emergency blood in the back of the fridge for the kids in case of emergencies for the likes of Luke, Chanel, and Molly.

"Just a sec!" she hollered, as she set the glass of water on the counter. She reached into the back of the fridge and rummaged past the steaks and pork chops she'd planned on eating later that night until she grabbed a hold of the blood flasks. They were sealed containers, extra blood for whenever the kiddos needed nourishment. With that in hand, she closed the fridge, and with the container in one hand, and the glass of water in the other, she hurried back to Logan. She couldn't help but look him up and down. Even with a stern face, he was such a hunk. She wondered what he looked like when he relaxed, but could he ever let his guard down? Probably not, if he was like Colin. What a shame.

"Here ya go," she announced happily. "You got water and blood! Wasn't sure which one you wanted, sooo, you have both. We look out for each other in this neighborhood. And if you want, feel free to have a seat at the counter or in the living room. Don't worry about making a mess. The kids like to hang out here from time to time, so you might see stains on the floors or on the couches. You know, blood's a tricky stain to remove."

Logan remained where he was standing but couldn't help but take a look around him. Knowing everything about his surroundings was a habit instilled in him. He was constantly assessing the people and objects around him, taking note of any potential threats or opportunities. It had become instinctive for him, and he relied on it to protect himself and others and to make sure he was always one step ahead. Right now he was trying diligently to bury that side of himself, especially after suggesting bars on the windows.

When Zoey disappeared out of sight he moved across the room and took a seat on one of the chairs. He sat forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of him. He waited nervously, his eyes darting around the room as he listened for any sound of Zoey's return. He was unsure of what to expect, and his mind raced with questions and possibilities.

Something had come over him and he was determined to figure it out. Whatever was transpiring inside of him was throwing him off his game. He had felt a shift in his perspective, and he was curious to explore why he had been feeling this way ─ he wanted to find the root cause and investigate his own motivations to gain a better understanding of himself. Eager to find out how his innermost thoughts and emotions were influencing his behavior he knew he would have to seek out Colin for help.

Being a well-trained dhampir made it difficult to ask anyone for help. He knew Colin must have felt the same way. The two of them shared a long history together so he hoped that would make things easier for himself.

He snapped himself out of thought when he heard her voice calling out to him. " You need help with anything? " Was that what he should have asked? A hand scratched the back of his neck. This was her house. The place she was more than comfortable in. Of course, she didn't need his help. Maybe he was still thinking about her arm and the sensation he felt when he first smelled her blood from the injury she received. Was he bewitched ─ was he under some kind of spell, captivated by her presence and warmth? He quickly shook these thoughts away and tried to focus on the present moment.

Logan's eyes rose to hers when she presented him with two glasses instead of one. He stood and took both glasses from her. " Thank you, either would have been fine. " Her remarks about sitting at the counter or in the living room caused him to shift from the spot he currently had been seated. The living room was just around the corner and seemed the most suitable option. Once inside he found himself another spot to sit and placed his glasses on the coffee table in front of him. " Hydrogen Peroxide. " He commented before he could catch himself. " Best to catch it while it's still fresh though. "

Great time for a subject change. " So tell me more about you and your family. Have you been here as long as the others? I know Colin and his family left for a while before returning. "

Zoey wanted to talk about how she enjoyed the many times she ripped out the carpets and shopped online for new flooring and interior decoration, but then Logan shifted to the next subject: family. She didn't want to make things awkward, so she went along with the change of subject.

"No, I actually came back to Santa Carla only a few years ago." She settled next to Logan, but didn't sit too close, not wanting to make him uncomfortable in case boundaries were an issue for him like it once was for Colin. When she was comfortable, she folded her hands on her knees and went on to say, "I was adopted by a nice family who happened to be werewolves, and they knew what I was. We traveled around the country for a while, and as a teenager, we wound up living here. That's when I met the Frog Brothers and Sam Emerson, their best friend. We all hung out for a year or two, then I moved again."

She shrugged casually, glossing over much of her history with the boys, because that wasn't the focus of Logan's question, even though a lot of life-changing events happened.

"A few years after I graduated from college, I got in touch with my biological sisters through the internet, and that's when I came back here, where I discovered I had more family. But even before I came back to Santa Carla, I'd been living nearby in San Cazador, where I'd been also working, helping out Edgar and Alan with stuff - not to mention fighting vampires, selling books, picking up supernatural goodies…"

Zoey grinned sheepishly. "I've been around here and there, yeah, but it's only been within the past few years that I've permanently settled. Alan came upon this abandoned estate that developers dropped, due to a major housing market crash. That's why you see half of the mansions just sitting here looking pretty but empty, and the others  half finished."

She flashed him a curious look. No matter how many times she stared at him, she couldn't believe what a handsome man he was. It should be a crime to look so good as he did. "If you're ever feeling lonely, there's plenty of room for you here to move into the neighborhood. Right now, it's only me, Alan, Jesse, and Molly."

Logan took a few sips from the glass of blood before sitting it on the table in front of them. He had to lower his head a moment because he could feel his eyes shifting in color. It was as if they were reflecting his ever-changing emotions, a kaleidoscope of colors that mirrored his inner turmoil. He had always been aware of his unique ability to perceive the world differently, but this sudden shift in eye color was something entirely new. As he stared into the depths of his glass, he pondered the implications of this transformation. Could it be a sign of some hidden power awakening within him? Or perhaps it was merely a manifestation of his heightened sensitivity to the woman beside him. Whatever the reason, Logan knew he had to embrace this change and explore its potential.

" San Cazador? Isn't there where that whole mess went down with the vampire raves? " Logan questioned. He was well-informed about the matter and would have personally tackled it if he hadn't been fully engrossed in his search for Ravenna. The online world was abuzz at that time with talk of the ultimate rave. If only he had been aware back then that DJ X was responsible for the torment inflicted upon Zoe and Colin, he would have unquestionably been present, no doubt about it.

" Family tends to do that to people. " Perhaps that was the reason why after all these years Logan had never settled or even had the desire to do so. Colin was the closest thing he ever had when it came to family. Somehow the woman sitting beside him made him not want to leave Santa Carla anytime soon. The way she looked at him with understanding eyes and the warmth of her presence made him realize that home wasn't a place, but maybe a feeling.

He pondered deeply over the offer she had just presented. He desired to closely monitor her safety, ensuring that no harm befell her. By taking up residence in one of the unoccupied houses, he could accomplish that without giving himself away. " I might take you up on that. " He replied and eventually glanced back at her. By this time his eyes had returned to their usual color. Logan extended his hand to grab his beverage again, but this time he opted for the water.

" If we going to be doing more clean up together and some sparing training, it might be easier if I was staying a little closer. "

Zoey was content watching Logan think all day. He was one of those mysteries wrapped in an enigma type of guy, someone whose layers she wanted to slowly peel back, so she could learn more about him. There weren't too many guys she wanted to stare at, especially ones who made her heart flutter, and not stare in a creepy possessive way, but simply to find a sense of peace in that person--comfortable, just being in their presence. Being near him made her feel good, period.

So when he decided to take her up on her offer of moving into one of the houses, Zoey beamed with delight that she exploded.

"Ohh, I agree, one hundred percent!"

Joyfully she clapped her hands and exclaimed, "Welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor!"

Almost immediately, she quieted down and offered him a toothy smile. "Sorry," she apologized rather sheepishly. "I'm just so excited to have another friend come live with us! It won't be as lonely around here! And as much as I love Alan, his time in the sunlight is limited, and at night, he buries himself with work and stuff, so… it'll be nice to have another adult to talk to."

Loneliness. There was that ugly word again. Not just within her family, but her friends, too. Edgar practically disappeared after he left Santa Carla with Dean, and Alan isolated himself from his work. As much as she adored having the kids come around, it wasn't the same as, well, what she was doing right here with Logan. No, he wasn't a chatterbox, but at least he acknowledged her presence and made her feel alive.

Now placing a hand on his arm, Zoey scooted closer, and with her round, brown eyes peering at him, she said, "You have no idea how much it means to me to have you closer, Logan. Thank you."

Logan had always been a reserved and introverted individual, preferring the solace of his own thoughts over the complexities of romantic relationships. He was content with his solitary existence, finding comfort in the predictable patterns of his daily routine. But all that seemed to change when he was near Zoey. She possessed an enchanting combination of confidence, intelligence, and a captivating smile that could light up even the darkest corners of Logan's world. Her gaze held a warmth and curiosity that he had never experienced before. It was as if she saw through his guarded exterior, effortlessly unraveling the layers he had spent years carefully constructing.

This newfound attention both thrilled and unnerved Logan. He couldn't help but question why someone like Zoey would be interested in him. Insecurities began to creep into his mind, whispering doubts about his worthiness and ability to reciprocate her affection.

The mention of Alan made him remember the others who lived in the neighborhood as well. His training as a vampire hunter had instilled in him a deep-rooted belief that all vampires were evil, bloodthirsty beings that needed to be eradicated. But some vampires possessed an unusual sense of compassion and empathy, traits that seemed incompatible with the monstrous reputation vampires carried. Not all vampires were equal nor did they all deserve to be eradicated. The same could be said for half-vampires. " Don't mention it. It just seems to make sense. I think it would make things a little easier. "

As her fingertips made contact with his arm, a surge of electricity seemed to pass through him. It was as if an invisible connection had been established, transcending the boundaries of mere physical touch. The moment their eyes met, a remarkable transformation occurred. His once ordinary brown eyes, which had always blended seamlessly into the background, now shimmered with an enchanting shade of blue. It was a hue that held within it a captivating depth, like the vast expanse of an ocean on a cloudless day. Again something that only seemed to happen when he was with her. In that instant, it became clear that there was something extraordinary about their connection. Something inexplicable and otherworldly. It was as if she possessed the power to unlock hidden facets of his being, revealing a side of him he never knew existed.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his eyes to soften and tried to redirect his focus elsewhere. But no matter how hard he tried, Logan couldn't shake off the overwhelming rush of emotions that had consumed him in that moment. His mind replayed their conversation, dissecting every word and gesture, searching for clues as to why he had reacted so strongly. He couldn't deny the undeniable connection he felt with her, but it  - scared - him having all these strange and unusual feelings. As Logan continued to avoid her gaze, a whirlwind of thoughts swirled through his mind.

" You thank me now but once I get moved in you might regret it later. " His attempt at trying to change attention from what had just transpired.

The moment Logan's eyes changed color, Zoey was left breathless. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The color was intense and vivid. No photo or portrait could do it justice. Were all dhampirs capable of such a feat? She couldn't recall seeing Colin, her brother-in-law, ever doing that in front of her before. Her sister never mentioned it before - or if she had, Zoey couldn't remember it off the top of her head.

Her fingertips tingled from where she'd last touched him as she slowly took her hand back. Energy hummed between them, and her heart raced in her chest. It'd been a long time since she behaved this way about any one person, and it left her feeling so young again, so… lucky.

Upon hearing Logan's words, Zoey couldn't help but giggle. This broke the tension between them. No longer would the neighborhood feel quite so empty with Logan moving in.

"I doubt that," she said with a smile. She thought about playfully tapping him again, but she didn't want to push another awkward moment so soon. She wanted to take it slow. Having him live among them was a great achievement on its own.

Naturally, she'd have to give Alan a heads-up about the situation. Molly would no doubt be thrilled to have a handsome face so close to them. The girl made no bones about whom she liked in a superficial sense.

"And listen," Zoey added gently. "No matter what, just know that you've got a great support system here. We're all family, and we stick together. You won't have to feel so guarded. We take care of each other in this neighborhood."

[joyfully-queer]

falling down the tumblr aesthetic rabbit hole again, this time it's the clean girl and oh man am i in the mood for spewing my thoughts!

on a superficial note, it's so incredible how appearance-focused some people are?? i know this is the point of aesthetics, but it's somewhat terrifying for me to think that some people truly prioritize looks when it comes to existing by themselves or judging other people. i literally cannot comprehend it, do people start caring about these things when they don't have deeper issues or when they are trying to pretend that they don't? (as if that would fix it??) is this what "normal" people do?

to add to this, maybe my whole argument fails in the face of my struggles; namely, i can't understand caring about these minor things that are socially necessary because of some pretty bad personal mental issues. the fact that this pyramid puts the health of the mind LAST, and not at least second or third, really makes me doubt my perspective on the importance i put on it. in my logic, mental health is the basis for a healthy life- you can't build something pretty (i.e an aesthetic, no matter how well curated) on a foundation (i. e faulty mental health) that fundamentally impedes you from doing so, or that might give out at any time and leave you in shambles. it's like sweeping dirt under the rug, except this dirt is a ticking time bomb.

but then again, this is my extremely subjective and strong personal opinion. i don't have access to the interior lives of others, and i wonder if maybe they have the overall peace necessary to create elaborate routines for their bodies (not talking about basic hygiene that all people benefit from, but rather higher levels of grooming) in order to establish a base for mental development? to further that idea, maybe the concept of mental development means something fundamentally different for others. for me, it's one of those frustrating, really difficult to achieve, yet unfortunately absolutely necessary things that i need in my life to at least function/survive- thriving/living would require effort on top of that. it might be that for stable people, mental development is not necessarily a debilitating struggle, but rather something frustrating that only needs some consistency to flourish; in short, it's a goal that is definitely achievable with effort. for me, it's rather a question- i am always unsure if i will be able to conquer it and how hard it will be to constantly keep it at bay.

BUT maybe these people are just trying to hide behind appearances and truly don't realize how societal standards can harm them, so they choose to uphold them thinking they are the ultimate truth. BUT AGAIN, just because i haven't experienced mental peace (and i am "abnormal") it doesn't mean it's not real.

this could go in millions of directions really; it's an argument that can be flipped over infinitely. for now, my initial thoughts remain the same- do people really think appearances will save them before their brain does? i would sure hope not. i thought we moved past that.

wanted to post this on it's own because i spent so much time on it...

[shamrockchimneyus]

Chimney Damage in Massachusetts? When Repairs Won’t Cut It

You depend on your chimney for your home to be warm, but what if it’s failing? Cracks, smoke backups, or funny smells aren’t just nuisances — they’re red flags. To dismiss them could put your family at risk. Let’s get into when a quick fix just isn’t enough and a rebuild is the only safe way forward.

When Cracks Turn Dangerous

Chimneys endure extreme weather conditions all year long. Connecticut’s freezing winters and humid summers can take a toll on even the most resilient masonry. Small fissures may seem innocuous, but moisture, over the years, finds its way in. This weakens the structure, leading to bigger gaps or even leaning. If the damage extends through bricks or the chimney crown, patching it would be futile.

Just keep in mind: chimney repair Massachusetts pros can determine if those cracks are superficial or some bigger issue. If its flue liner is damaged as well, smoke and gases can seep into your home —endangering your family's health.

The Cost of Skipping Maintenance

A regular sweep by chimney cleaning services in Massachusetts prevents creosote buildup and blockages. But if you have gone years without cleanings, corrosion can dine on the interior. This is bad news: rusted dampers, crumbling mortar, or cracked tiles within the flue. In some cases, the damage is so widespread that cleaning alone cannot restore function.

It’s sort of like a car engine. And if you never change the oil, at some point the machine fails. Same for chimneys: neglect results in larger, more expensive issues.

Leaning Chimneys Mean Business

A tilt may seem subtle at first, but it’s a huge red flag. Shifting soil, water damage, or shoddy construction may cause your chimney to pull away from your house. Even a slight lean brings stress to the roof and nearby walls. You may notice doors jamming up or cracks appearing around windows — evidence that the problem’s spreading.

In cases like these, temporary fixes are a waste of money. Rebuilding the foundation and structure is the only way to protect your home.

Why Rebuild Instead of Repair?

It’s tempting to go for cheaper fixes, but there’s a point where repairs become a band-aid. If over 30% of the chimney is damaged—like missing bricks, spalling (flaking concrete), or a crumbling smoke chamber—rebuilding is smarter long-term. A new chimney boosts safety, improves efficiency, and adds value to your home. Plus, modern materials last longer and withstand New England’s moody climate better.

Don’t Gamble With Safety

A shaky chimney isn’t just an eyesore. It’s a fire hazard and a threat during storms. High winds could topple a weakened structure, damaging your roof or injuring someone below. Carbon monoxide leaks are another silent danger if the flue is compromised.

Working with pros matters. They’ll spot hidden issues and ensure the rebuild meets local codes. Cutting corners might save cash upfront but could cost way more down the road.

Wrapping Up

If your chimney’s showing any of these signs, stop hoping for the best. Get it inspected ASAP. Rebuilding might sound overwhelming, but it’s a solid investment in your home’s safety and your peace of mind.

For Massachusetts homeowners, Shamrock Chimney offers the expertise to handle rebuilds right. Their team knows how to tackle tough jobs, using quality materials that stand the test of time. Don’t wait for a small problem to become a disaster—visit their site today to schedule an inspection. Your chimney’s not just part of your house; it’s part of what keeps your family safe.

[kaoarika]

Finished Rooftop Prince and I'm 50/50 on it.

Like, I would understand why it was so liked back in the day (especially because of the appeal of the main cast)... but like I mentioned in another post, I feel like it hasn't aged too well compared to others contemporaries from that time. And, perhaps first watching it in 2024 is an entire different experience than, well, around 10 o 12 years ago. Maybe my opinion would be different if I saw it in 2017?

Point that I still sustain is that: it shouldn't have been too long. There were plot points that were dragging and tertiary characters that could have been cut completely because they didn't give much to the story (like the younger sister of the president of the tele-shopping company, or Ha's foreign neighbors), or were there simply wasting space and time to keep dragging others. I, personally, would have loved these neighbors to be more of a friendly support for Ha, because I LOATHE when k-drama FLs like her are loners and don't have any other friends and they SUFFER, SUFFER a lot to not have a better support system than the other MCs (or the ML and such; this is what I think it's too obvious in Boys Over Flowers, because I felt like the FL's best friend was sometimes very on the background, and while she had her own storyline with one of the F4 guys, I mean, I mean...). For contrast, you have Miss Night and Day (from this year!)'s FL's best friend that was always for her (except that one time that was the "obligatory ad sponsor" for the drama, lmao), despite everything else... you get me?

And it kinda hurts because Ha was friendly with them, we are told about these girls... but they are only used for IMPORTANT plot story purposes a couple of times.

I still complain of the good heart that Ha had and how she always, for some reason, never seemed to doubt Sena and her intentions against her when everything was ALREADY BAD between them??? Girl, this snake isn't going to change from one moment to another. Not even a "sorry" would have saved her, she ABANDONED YOU when you were 8/9 years old??? The one that basically robbed you 15 years of your precious life to live with your dad and/or adoptive family?? The one that treated you like nothing when she saw you again? The one that claimed she wanted to "rob you EVERYTHING you had"??? The one whom treated your adoptive mother as GARBAGE REGARDLESS OF... WELL, EVERYTHING??? And w/o zero doubt she was going to HONG KONG with your real mother while sweeping EVERYTHING ELSE under the carpet???

And, MAN, I wouldn't have redeemed Sena. Her ONE good action at the end doesn't forgive/erase everything she DID to everyone. ESPECIALLY Ha. Heck, if president Jand was QUITE disappointed that she did everything she did to trick her in being "I'm your (other) daughter... she wouldn't have... rewarded her in taking her to another country with her. It's a reward that she didn't deserve, no matter how "but she is my daughter! she said a man told him to act that way (which she did, but, let's be real...)". No, no, no... AGHHH.

Lee Gak... is complicated. I understand he comes from another era and hence his manners and his machismo REFLECT that. Did Ha deserved being treated like that as he did? No, but I seriously wish she would have made him learn more manners than just "well, can't do anything because he is a prince". Although him being obsessed with his wife/the crowned princess showed that he was always very superficial, to say the least. I feel like, Ha confessing to him was such a shock because, him being a royalty figure from Joseon and receiving a confession from another woman (unknown to them that she was Buyong's reincarnation at the time) who had a marriage arrangement when he was just a kid, could have been rare to happen (even if the princes/kings could have concubines - I'm talking about concrete feelings w/o interests attached).

I still feel that some things or concepts about fate or reincarnation could have worked better about him and Taeyong, if they focused a bit about them. I feel they are implied, but if only they could have focused on them instead... of whatever the fuck happened in the whole "Taemoo is such a coward and greedy ass" and "ffs, Sena". Hence the open ending would have been less bittersweet, I feel. Like, maybe if Taeyong and Lee Gak had a conversation that time the latter was going to die. An "You are me, and I am you" kind of thing- enocunter, to understand his role in that era. Taeyong being in coma for months could have been explained that his "soul" was "glitching" since his original was in the present era. I wish Taeyong had a "didn't we... meet before?" which as cliche as it is, it would made clear he still remembered Ha from NYC before his accident... and not implying that he remembered EVERYTHING about Lee Gak's past, especially since neither Ha nor Sena remembered their past lives. Of course, this is implied with his last lines... although it could still imply to be about the NYC encounter that fate was being nasty in not letting happen. Very open to interpretation, I suppose. "I guess we could start anew." or something similar, more than "I waited too long to meet you again".

The only thing that made me lose immersion at the end that they truly fumbled was the use of an mp3 player and the facemasks these guys used in their omurice restaurant. There's no electricity in Joseon, that mp3 player is destined to die, yes or yes, lmao. In less of a couple of hours, even.

I don't feel like I could watch it again if given a chance. Like I said, I feel like 20 eps was too long, and the cliche tropes (especially because Ha did make me lose my patience many times, esp. everything regarding Sena and her lack of giving a damn about Ha until the last minute, ffs). Sure, it was entertaining, but MAN... it was a whiplash when coming out from more recent ones... and I feel I will start a newer one (like Love Next Door) next week.