#sanguine truth

[dustedmagazine]

Casual Dots — Sanguine Truth (Ixor Stix)

Sanguine Truth by The Casual Dots

Although it has its origins in heavyweight indie outfits like Bikini Kill, Slant 6, Autoclave and Thurston Moore's band among others, there's an invitingly informal quality to the Casual Dot's Sanguine Truth that speaks more to its appeal than any gestures toward supergroup status.  

There’s no getting around the outsize influence Kathi Wilcox and Christina Billotte have had on the underground of the late-twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Wilcox, as a member of Bikini Kill and later the Frumpies and Julie Ruin, seized the righteous fury of DIY hardcore's initial confrontations with mainstream authority and conformity and mapped it onto a post–second wave feminism in the form of the riot grrrl movement. Though currently subject to a necessary critical reevaluation, that movement's impact has been undeniable. Billotte, as a member of Autoclave and Slant 6, brought an exacting power and unflappable coolness to the DC scene that would arguably eclipse most of what was being made by Dischord's boys club during the same time. 

Thirty-plus years from those salad days (no pun intended), and nearly two decades since their first collaboration, Wilcox and Billotte, joined again by drummer Steve Dore, have created an album that speaks to the commitment and pure love of playing music that can turn a pair of aspiring punks into rock 'n' roll lifers.  

Sanguine Truth is rooted in the mathematic post-punk groove that came to define a certain sector of the indie underground circa 1993. And Billotte's powerfully cool vocals on tracks such as "The Frequency of Fear" and "Setting Sunrise" remind the listener of how formidable of a presence she has been in certain corridors of punk over the years. Yet tracks such as "Descending" and "High Speed Chase" weave in a playful surfy twang that recalls the early roots of rock 'n' roll far more than revolutions summer and/or girl style now. While the simple, interlocking, reverb-drenched guitars on the album-closing instrumental "Velvet Fields" deliver a melancholy, almost pastoral timelessness and one of the album's most delicate moments. It’s the soul revamp "You've Got to Live for Yourself," however, that offers the album's most whimsically nostalgic moment in the form of a "Ruler of My Heart" for rebel girls the years over. 

Give the origins of those involved here, including coproducer Guy Picciotto, it's understandable to want to project all sorts of importance and weight onto this album, but that would come at the expense of what is so special about Sanguine Truth. This isn't some total break from the past, and there's an unshakable urgency and grit here that comes from decades battling it out in the indie rock trenches. But there's also a familial warmth and a nonchalance that function almost like rewards for those involved. Relax and have fun with it, ya know? And if you the listener have hung in there long enough with these folks, or are even just discovering them now, you should have fun with it too. 

Nate Knaebel

[hunklet]

Descending The Casual Dots - Sanguine Truth (2022)

[sanguinesinners]

I got some new lingerie today. Wanna come over and see it?

"Fucking waste of time"

Roman scoffed, rolling his eyes and wavering his hand out

"Why the fuck would I wanna see it - Use your god damn head, you know me by now"

[hoarah-babylon]

Thinking about this post again so I want to compile some thoughts. There's definitely something to it, I like the idea that the horned nobles and Albinaurics are horned because they are able to 'commune' with The Formless Mother's blood. I wonder if because Albinaurics are man-made creatures, they have a certain ability to adapt to or take on aspects of outer gods, like they are malleable in a way.

When we progress in Varré's quest, after deciding we are worthy enough to become a Pureblood Knight for Mohg, he transfers some of Mohg's blood into us through our finger. I assume this ritual is the same for all that wish to join Mohg, but not everyone can withstand his blood, which has interacted with The Formless Mother in some way. We know this because of what we know of Varré from his armour which says, 'Of the surgeons that were abducted by the Lord of Blood none were able to tame the accursed blood. None but Varré, that is; though he was an exception.' So we know it is possible to 'tame' Mohg's blood, but it is a rare occurrence, it seems few have been able to. Given our Tarnished is able to become Elden Lord, it makes sense they can handle it.

He definitely looks different to Morgott, he's darker and his horns seem more gnarly and concentrated than his twins' horns. It's also interesting thinking about the implications of characters in ER having one or both eyes closed, and his horns pierce through one of his eyes. There is speculation Morgott was also visitied by The Formless Mother because his blood is also set aflame, but he would have rejected her given his loyalty to the Golden Order, so it probably wouldn't have affected his appearance all that much. Given her influence on those who interact with her blood making them sprout horns, I wonder what relation The Formless Mother has to the crucible. Given she has followers even in the Land of Shadows, which holds a lot of reverence to the crucible, I think there is definitely a link there in one way or another.

Small little detail but the hanged bodies in the Mohgwyn palace are all wearing the exact same clothes as the Sanguine Nobels

Like Mohg, you're not gonna have much of a Dynasty if you keep murdering all your citizens

[slowd1ving]

INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

“Think of what it could have been, Think of all the suffering,  Nights of crying, wondering,  Tell me what awe you’re in?” Deception comes second-nature to incubi; twisting serpents lay dormant in their flesh. This is truth. It is also true that for a wayward incubus, it is particularly hard to disguise one's demonic nature in the presence of an angel and an irritatingly sharp human. You don't recommend it at all, actually. I MADE IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT!! halloween babyyy!!! anyways I promised to deliver a halloween fic and I did :3 this idea lowkey came to me in a dream and I think it's singlehandedly the freakiest shit i've ever written edit: see I knew I was rushing to post when I forgot art creds Moze drawing by @ma_mori74 and sunday is by @nai_pizx pairings: angel sunday, human moze + incubus m reader (+ some foxian jiaoqiu) warnings: nsfw, male reader, voyeurism, lowkey stalkerish moze, mentions of death/hell etc, religious imagery wc: 16.1k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

Tinny music crackles in your earphones that knot haphazardly at your chest, almost in sync with the subdued spark from your lighter. The song isn’t particularly good (neither is the weather: a drizzle that always seems to drip from a perpetually ultramarine sky), but any shitty song would do to liven up the ambience of the smoking area in this particularly bleak corner of the campus. 

It’s blue, you note boredly. The smoke, that is, mingling with the vapour wisps of condensed breathing. There’s a certain meaning to be found in standing outside in subzero temperatures, finding peak entertainment in the clouds produced from your mouth as if you were some child. You just haven’t quite found it. Meaning, that is. 

You’re sure there’s one or two bad songs about it, if you scroll through the playlist enough. 

Inhale. Bitter menthol washes over your tongue–you’ve long gotten used to the flavour. Of course, the glaringly red car that slows down on the road in front of you also helps in forgetting to appreciate any new notes of the stick between your lips, but you digress. 

A window rolls down. The street-lamp glowing a frigid lazuline flickers precariously. You exhale, watching the smoke trace shapes over the bloody car—some boxy shape that could totally be used as a muscle car. These things happen simultaneously. These things also wash the murky taints of calculus from your mind and instil some form of amusement into your week. 

If you don’t count maintaining your cover at a human university as being thrilling enough to regale anyone with. 

Brusquely, a hand sticks out into the drizzle to wave at you—self-consciously, you wave back with a question clouding your mind. Though, it is almost immediately answered when street-lamp strains a bit more and you finally see the outline of an acquaintance you met while hauling boxes into your new dorm room at the beginning of the semester. 

A tentative alliance, more like, with the both of you sniffing something off about the other. 

“Yo, Jiaoqiu,” you greet back after he beckons you closer. His glasses are slipping off his face, and your hand itches to push them back up. 

Of course, it perhaps doesn’t hurt in establishing closeness by being guts deep in him just a week ago. 

“You’ll be there for the Film Fair, right?” he murmurs. You can’t possibly miss how his eyes flick to your lips briefly: how his pretty throat is wrapped tight with a scarf tonight to protect from both the boreal chill and prying eyes, how his glasses can’t seem to hide his incandescent gaze on the marks on your body, barely hidden by the loose shirt draped over you today. 

He was on the culinary course, he’d told you a week ago, but you could’ve figured out that much from the exquisite breakfast he’d cooked for you in the morning: one you didn’t need to eat. Instead, the sanguine flesh of berries had ended up being smeared on his skin alongside the mellow cream—you could’ve surmised his degree from the divine taste of his body, easily. That, in your opinion, had been your best meal for a good while yet. 

“You want me there?” You take another drag of your cigarette, watching him watch you. In his eagerness, your keen eyes pick up on the glamour disguising his fluffy ears starting to wane; and unbidden, a memory rises to mind of a night much like this. Those same ears, pressed flat to his head, with that lilt of his voice sounding far less confident. 

A friendship is forged with a good fuck, you wisely conclude. 

“Yeah, duh,” he breathes, and the vapour coming out of his mouth mingles with the smoke pouring from your own. 

Or two. 

“Send me the details,” you smile, a slanted one that mirrors your lax attitude. “You still have my number, right?”

Of course he does. 

“Yeah, I do,” he clears his throat, almost shaking himself out of a stupor that he never noticed he was in. There’s a tense dance occurring between both of you constantly, and unfortunately for him, he can never quite outpace you. It’s present in the regretful line of his mouth as he glances at the time on his phone, the lingering gaze that traces your being, and the downturned mirage of his ears—as if he forgets that you can see through his glamour. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” you return, savouring the rich scent of energy that exudes from him—one he can never mask, for he cannot himself tell that it even exists. 

As the cherry-red Mustang—or whatever car it is—rolls away, you stroll back to the smoking area to appreciate the remnants of your cigarette: something you hadn’t been able to due to all the distractions, as you’d like to put it. 

But all is not well. 

Instead, you resume your road-and-cigarette-smoke watching only to discover another pair of eyes meeting your own from the shadows cast by the lamplight across the street. With the prussic overcast to the sky, you once more don’t recognise the figure afore you initially; until a car drives past and its glaring headlights reveal him for all but three seconds. 

Moze. 

You think you’ve seen him around Jiaoqiu several times—perhaps enough to rationalise that they are indeed friends, forged with something a bit more innocuous than a one-night stand. 

But regardless of how you stand tangentially with your mutual buddy (or fuck-buddy in your case), the common threads that bind you also included that as of this year, he is your roommate. And classmate, too, in perhaps one of the most obscure classes to ever be known to man. If you had less of a spine, you might’ve waved—but as it stands, the wintry chill between the two of you suits you just fine. If anything, the fact that he hasn’t beaten you up for sleeping with his friend leaves a positively amicable aftertaste in your mouth. 

Absent-mindedly, you stub the cigarette into the already-bleak wall, leaving a rather abstract trail of ash behind. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but you ignore it.  

Is it a sin for an incubus to be any more addicted to human creation? Wow. You really should’ve been a philosopher. 

Well, any more than it is being an abomination, you muse one final time, almost ruefully. 

Almost. 

. *࿐

This ill-fated relationship begins as it does ordinarily—by the two of you both taking an elective nobody else takes. 

Well, more accurately, it begins the morning you see a poster for the strangest night class you’d ever seen. 

Humans and their machinations. 

This is truly a special version of hell. 

Fragile wisps of breath condense in the autumn chill as you carefully read the poster pasted on the bulletin—formal black and white typeset, so painfully tasteless amongst the vibrant leaflets nestled around it. Though, the size eight lettering and bland format soon becomes the least of your irritations as your eyes wander down. 

“What a joke,” you scoff incredulously, a bit too invested in your human persona to truly grasp that you’re losing the plot. Just a bit.  

Really? ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ was granted approval to be introduced as a new class, whereas the Cryptology course had been defunded and subsequently discontinued? The thought burns your mind, your soul, your very being. 

“How stupid,” you mutter, swiping open your phone. 

The irritation surges, until it gnaws and bites at the cartilage of your sternum in a desperate attempt to free itself from the confines of your chest. 

“Really, are they crazy?” you shake your head, typing your name right onto the form that finally materialises. 

You may be loyal to your Cryptology elective, but it’s not like it ultimately makes a difference. 

A class is a class, and your tenure in the human world relies on your ability to assimilate into this stupid place.

. *࿐

You lied earlier, by the way. The piddling number of students in ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ is not two, but three. Your moody roommate (whom you barely saw yesterday), you (who, as an incubus, really shouldn’t be here) and the distinguished Sunday (who is also weirdly out of place but in the opposite way). Honestly, he probably knows this too—glancing at the way your clothes are never weather-appropriate and always tousled as though you were wrestling in bed for a nap (given your nature, you probably were doing some form of wrestling), whereas his own shirts and slacks are always immaculately pressed and ironed. He’s even got a damn overcoat for every day of the week, for fuck’s sake. Honestly, you’re half convinced the guy’s running some cult. 

Regardless of how mismatched the Professor’s three students are, the bigger problem is how awkward the lecture hall is when the damn chairs outnumber the students. You can barely concentrate on Professor Hopkins’ droning on selkie characteristics when you, Sunday and Moze are arranged artfully in an equidistant triangle from one another. Any more civil person would perhaps sit next to one of them to make the air a tad bit warmer, but you’re not even a person. 

You’re a demon. 

You think you can afford to be uncivil. 

Or at least, it’s the very bare minimum of rudeness you should maintain. You’ve suffered enough askance looks from both of them (which they never seem to level at each other) to comfortably assume that they have some sort of problem with you that they’ve formed a business partnership over. Shaking hands, all for the pursuit of disliking you more efficiently. 

During the next lecture on kelpies, it’s the same story. Even the damned coordinates of the triangle are the same, thus when you stride in a minute before the Professor, you make the creative decision to shift one chair to the left to ruin whatever coordination they’ve got going on. It doesn’t deign a glare, but you can feel the air grow even frostier. Amused, you stop paying attention to the information you could probably recite in your sleep, and instead decide to just people-watch the three sad individuals before you. 

There’s Professor Hopkins—perhaps one of the most insane people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s human through and through: reeking of such a scent that would put most madmen to shame. Alas, this madman is perhaps one of the most unrecognised in the realm of mortality—considering only three people are taking his class, and a solid third is the very thing he is lecturing the dangers of. You’ve met your fair share of people who believe in monsters, but you’re amazed every time you walk into the elective: both by his zealousness and by the fact this class even got approved. 

What a strange world the human world is. 

There’s Moze. Over to your far left, and one row up—the perfect place to observe the whole hall, but also the perfect place to look like a weirdo considering there are only three students and one stout little teacher yelling his wee lungs out at the front. You don’t actually know why he’s taking this class, considering his other class is something on forensics. Or something. You’re not exactly on amicable enough terms to interact with him, but you’d hoped that you had a somewhat sane roommate. 

It’s somewhat hard to hold onto that hope when he shoots you that look whenever Hopkins starts speaking. Actually, you can’t exactly see the look considering he’s behind you, but you can feel the white-hot stare pierce your back: rolling energy tainted with suspicion. 

Perhaps it was stupid to disguise yourself in an institute of higher learning where one would hope its students had an ounce of critical thinking. 

But you’re choosing to ignore his glare to protect your own peace. The only person who’d ever believe his deductions would be the madman lecturing now. Or not even him, since you’ve been such a model student—already knowing so much about these creatures of the night. 

Then there’s Sunday. You’ve perhaps had half an interaction with the man, earning a polite, utterly distant ‘thank you’ as you arrived before him for once and held the door open behind you. Impeccable manners, straight-A student, and perhaps the most confounding. Your suspicions of him running a cult are only confirmed when you overhear he also studies Theology. 

He’s polite. Very polite. A bit too polite, so much that it honestly creeps you out more than any eldritch stuck in hell does. Because, why be that courteous to someone if you’re not planning on sacrificing them? However, you’re half convinced that behind those eyes, he’s planning some elaborate exorcism that nobody apart from himself knows about. And maybe you now. 

It’s unnerving. 

Up close, the flow of his energy is human—too perfectly so. There’s never any malice, or anger, or even boredom that taints the low thrum running through his vessels. Yes, the base is undoubtedly mortal, but with none of the complexities that make up the average human experience. 

He regards you with a similar look to Moze’s—fixing you with a stare that appears to be figuring you out and picking you apart. A scrutiny that should fall under its very own brand of suspicion, one that makes the heat under flesh and sinew only increase—for you don’t think you’ll be able to predict his next move, not if you can’t ever read how he truly feels. 

Or maybe that is how he feels—and you don’t know if that’s more terrifying. 

Unfortunately, these three profiles suggest your lunastic of a professor is the safest to be around, since the ebb and flow of zealousness pretty much remains consistent for each lecture (seriously, they approved this guy?). He poses a far lesser danger to you (the one who took this elective for fun) than the two other students (who took this elective for nefarious purposes, you’re sure). And he actually likes you; despite him conservatively eyeing the attire you wear in subzero temperatures, you’re a pro at his essays! 

Alas, your propensity for avoiding your classmates has not worked out for you, you miserably conclude. 

. *࿐

You should’ve stuck with your regular dinner of passively absorbing peoples’ horny thoughts like some weird fucking sponge. 

You really should’ve, and now you’re cursing yourself as you morosely shovel what appears to be some inscrutable form of soggy college food past your stony lips. The food isn’t the problem, though any self-respecting college student would probably be wincing and picking at it rather than dispassionately taking bite after bite like you are. It’s a bit disheartening to know your cover could be blown from how you seem to truly appreciate the cooking, but in another life you’d argue your soullessness befits the statistics analysis you’re half-reading, half-doom scrolling past. 

But the differential equations aren’t the fucking problem either. 

The problem is the man sitting across from you. Or more accurately, across and one seat to the left, because apparently he’s gracious like that. 

You thought nothing of the flash of soft, dove-grey that you saw from your peripherals at first—nor the fluttering scarf that brushed ever so slightly by your bare shoulder. You were, after all, too preoccupied with clicking and unclicking your pen in irritation at the thick stack of paper by your tray. A bit too preoccupied, but you look up and suddenly you’ve got a cult member all up in your face with way too many slices of raspberry cheesecake on his plate. 

That’s what you notice at first, then you look up and it’s fucking Sunday of all people, resembling a word problem a bit too much with how many pieces are on his plate. 

You disguise your shock. You hope it’s successful, but judging by his soft cough of surprise, you don’t think you are. Mind racing, you turn back to your own plate and equations, connecting some dots far better than others (judging by the mindless scribbles on the sheet). Just to check, you observe his energy fluctuations a little longer—they’re still as incomprehensible as ever. 

Inordinate amount of food. Emotions you can’t read. A penchant for ignoring the finer points of human assimilation, such as staring at others a bit too fucking much. 

“Do you need something?” 

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet. 

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all. 

Well, opposite and a seat away. 

When you finally look back up, his usually cold gaze is even colder—you wish you never said anything, even if it’s making your concentration in statistics flounder. With bated breath, you pray it’s simply because he doesn’t like you, not because he’s about to possibly exsanguinate you—then you laugh at yourself because you’re a demon, therefore no god will listen to your prayers. No matter how earnestly you try, nobody will hear your plea. 

No demon would knowingly provoke an angel like this, or at least you hope they wouldn’t. But you’re not most demons—you don’t actually want to be sent back down to hell. 

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has. 

“No,” he finally replies. His voice is strangely soothing, but you know that angels are never depicted as the temptation your kind are painted as. And as your eyes flick to your surroundings, you notice that some of the people sitting nearby are glaring daggers at you for even breathing in his presence. You half wonder if he’s recruited them into his cult already. “Professor Hopkins told me to notify you that we’ll have a group project briefing for the next lecture.”

“Right.” And he couldn’t send an email? And this was important enough to break your silence for? And this merits your staring? The words, though poignant, die down on your tongue, but you’re sure he can feel the vexation contributing to global warming, just a little. Angels are unable to discern the rich nuance of lust and love, but even a plant would wilt from the shockwaves bursting from your tension headache. “Message duly noted.”

He does not leave like you’d hoped. His fork instead cuts deep into the raspberry cheesecake, and you watch it bleed out on his plate. 

He’s no longer staring at you, but you know he is just as keenly aware of you as you are of him.

. *࿐

It’s not like you can avoid your damn roommate either, because that would probably raise more questions than you’re comfortable answering. 

You’re thankful Moze’s quiet, though that gratitude is somewhat abated by him in general. He’s too quiet, and in contrast anything you say will be far more incriminating. And while he stays in his room most of the time, you can’t help but notice he seems to hang around on the living room couch a little too often whenever you stumble home late at night: reeking of a perfume not your own with kiss-bitten lips and a satisfied smile on your face. Like some fat cat licking its chops after a particularly gratifying meal. 

Except you’re avaricious, and you come to the dorm often enough to recognise the pattern. 

Not tonight though. Devil forbid you whore yourself out on a respectable Sunday evening (it’s totally not because the angel named thusly will know somehow, spotting the faint shimmer of tattoos, horns and a tail materialising in a brief mirage). Somehow. 

On Sunday you rest. Or more accurately, you study from home—glasses carefully perched on your nose, pen substituting a cigarette as you teeth at it with canines a little too sharp to be comfortable. You can’t be expected to be biblical about it—for good measure, you crack open a bottle of red wine with it, drinking straight from the bottle as you stare down the thick pack of proofs that are due tomorrow morning. 

It’s not hard to imagine why so many humans in hell become overseers, rather than good, hard-working demons. 

Humans can simply be more evil and still convince themselves that this is for the better. 

It may be foolish to display your vices sprawled in the living room armchair, but you blame both the wine, the record player you brought, and the sensuous ambience you’ve carefully curated in the space. Is it a sin to do work in an environment that makes your heart pump just a beat faster?

Well, the seriousness of your crime is weighed against the salient fact of the matter: that you’re trying to avoid your roommate, not maximise your chances of encountering him. 

What a pickle.

You, like the hard-working demon you are, would prefer to not fail your degree and thus decide prudently to remain where you can wallow in both languor and academia. With cherry wine staining your lips, and the flicker of a warm cedarwood candle perched on the coffee table, it’s no wonder you’ve settled into a strange rhythm. Or maybe it’s something in the air, like the doleful sounds of old records you’ve collected throughout the years—ones you’ll always regretfully dismiss as replicas, but who knows?

What a pickle indeed. 

Tonight, the roles have switched. At around ten, you hear the almost-silent glide of keys in your lock, and you brace yourself for the maelstrom that Moze’s presence will inevitably bring. Like clockwork, you scrutinise the flow of energy that you can dimly feel—only to be completely blindsided when you feel a distinctly familiar one beside it. Two presences that are much too observant, but one that’s withdrawn and almost curling in on itself, whereas the other flows with ease. 

Brusquely, the door is shouldered open. You lock eyes with the Moze who prowls in, the Moze who is uncharacteristically gazing right back at you, the Moze who still for the life of him can’t soften that guarded expression that casts deep shadows onto his eyes. Then, despite yourself, your focus shifts to the one behind him—Jiaoqiu. 

The waves radiating from the Foxian seem to expand on seeing you, and almost immediately the taste feels warmer as you absorb it—a perfect consistency you know he’s feeling as an embarrassed prickle beneath his skin. Even if you weren’t an incubus, you could put two and two together from his slightly parted lips, the peony gently brushing over his features like watercolour, and his tentative steps into the dorm. 

He murmurs your name in surprise, and perhaps that’s the most conversation these walls have ever heard since you and Moze became roommates. 

“I didn’t know you and Moze were rooming together,” he begins with that soft cadence of his. Subconsciously, you sit a little straighter—keenly aware of him, after learning the signs of his body so well. 

But before you can reply, Moze answers for you—the most you’ve ever heard him speak. 

“Didn’t get round to telling you.” Each word is heavier than you can comprehend, tainted with a bluntness that suits him. It makes your gaze snap back to his face, and you swear the corner of his lip twitches upwards before he turns to you to talk. “Hope you don’t mind me having him over for a bit.”

“It’s fine. I like him,” you shrug, and the corner resumes its neutrality once more. Not like you see it—you’ve turned back to your work as if there isn’t a gnawing hunger slowly uncoiling under fragile dermis, as if you can’t smell every speck of desire and bashfulness slowly undulating within Jiaoqiu. You do like him, and not just as a meal. His tongue cuts sharp, beneath his fumbling, clumsy touches that seem so graceful when not encumbered by sheets. 

You just hope you won’t die of starvation before you wrap up the calculus. That would be an embarrassment for the ages. 

Alas, you don’t actually end up finishing your work. The sanguine liquid pooling into your mouth may not be enough to intoxicate you, but you can feel a pleasant warmth buzz through your veins. Of course, there’s warmth from that and warmth coming from sitting close to two heated bodies in a tipsy screening of some horror movie you’ve never seen. 

Calculus can wait another day. When Jiaoqiu stumbled from Moze’s room with a sweetness on his breath and a tight grip around your wrist, you gladly let yourself be rescued by the surprisingly strong Foxian. He led you right back in, and you were practically floored at how easily you just… stepped into the space, with Moze simply eyeing you rather than that cautious glare he so often wore. 

The Foxian pushed you into soft carpet, and you could feel Moze’s body tense up as your side collided with his own—the floor space was just about large enough for three guys to sit, but he made no move to move, thus you attributed it to the buzz he felt. 

It’s dark. 

It’s dark, and you’ve got your reticent classmate on one side of you, and the acquaintance-or-not on your other, practically curled up into your body with how he’s draped himself.

Naturally, you don’t end up paying attention to any of the movie—some flick you think you saw a century ago. Sure, the screams are totally realistic, but who can blame you for being distracted? You’ve got the object of your avoidance on one side, and then someone you think is deliberately pushing himself into your ‘hungry’ radar.

You would be quite partial to imploding, but unfortunately that is not a power you possess. 

But despite all your gripes, this is nice in its own, painfully ironic sort of way. 

. *࿐.

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out. 

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others. 

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably. 

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—” 

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks. 

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue. 

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair. 

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further. 

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own. 

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself. 

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body. 

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do. 

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact. 

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer. 

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too.

*࿐.

Film - demons, seduction, succubi and incubi, you scrawl in your notebook, already feeling a healthy dose of apprehension, amusement and mild horror at Professor Hopkins’ chosen group project. 

“...due a week from now. Since there are only three of you, why don’t you boys work together?” Clearly, he is impervious to the chill that still lingers between you and your fellow classmates—the triangle is still at its maximum area, and you don’t envision it changing any time soon. Horror upon horrors, he then adds something that makes you shiver in your seat. “I’ll play it as our department’s submission for the Film Festival.”

Once more, you wonder how the department was approved in the first place. 

Then, the thought slips your mind as you first lock eyes with Sunday, then Moze only a minute later. I’m screwed. You don’t think you’ve ever been on such a tightrope before: wildly cartwheeling your arms back-and-forth while dangling over a fatal precipice. You will not survive this—not the research on incubi, nor the actual group project. 

You can only pray your two intelligent classmates do not put two and two together for once. After all, you’re the mathematician out of this mismatched trio. Any semblance of hope you had at making it through the year is slowly dissipating. 

*࿐.

“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged. 

It does not work. 

Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment. 

But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain. 

Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important. 

“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”

His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?

Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel. 

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”

You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.

“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect. 

“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.

Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm. 

Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”

“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”

You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well. 

“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little. 

“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little. 

Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”

If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence. 

“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”

“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me. 

But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal. 

Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago. 

Oh shit. 

*࿐.

The most abject misfortune in your long life, it should be duly noted, does not in fact occur that particular night. 

It occurs the next night. Perhaps it was too much to ask for when you pleaded for just this year: uninterrupted, normal, uninterrupted. It might’ve stemmed from you spamming omg on social media too much, but it’s not like you could realistically use any other alternative without getting flagged as suspicious. Call it a habit caused by humans, or whatever. 

Disregarding the blasphemy, the day starts normally, and gives you hope (ill-founded, you know).  Like all mornings, you begin with breakfast, a coffee and a cigarette outside—and a quick dose of Moze’s early-morning glare. As with all days, you ignore it—but there seems to be something underlying beneath its surface. Something deeper, as if he’s trying to figure you out; as though his eyes are meticulously stripping away your dermis with forensic precision, paring away sinew from your bones and finding the interweaved remnants of your blackened soul. 

It’s a Friday, with exactly one morning lecture on probability—then a project research session with Hostile and Hostiler in the comically empty lecture hall. 

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile. 

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork. 

The bowl of cereal from this morning does nothing to suppress the ravenous feeling that’s slowly taking over your mind. It would be fine if you didn’t have a morning class, but alas nobody ever seems to hear your prayers as you sit through two hours of quite possibly the most onerous yammering you’ve ever heard—and you’ve heard the Avatar of Pride yap. 

Every day your hypothesis seems to be proved right—humans would do a fine job running hell. 

But no one will ever listen to the humble incubus, you muse as you sling your books onto your bed and pick up the folder you’ve compiled on incubi, succubi and demons of seduction. It’s detailed, but everything is neatly cited and completely untraceable to your brains specifically. If you rang up your friends and falsified a few sources along the way, who could possibly be able to tell?

Strewn within the sheets is some inaccurate information. If they correct you on it, it’s all well and good, but perhaps even better if they gain some misconceptions along the way. 

You don’t mind cheating a little in academia, if the subject is idiotic enough. 

And if your perfectly perfect human life stays intact because of it, you don’t mind being a little unethical with your information practices. 

Just a little. 

Irregardless of your questionable academic ethics, you’re beginning to feel light-headed by the early afternoon. Some would say it’s karma for defiling the sanctity of this fine learning establishment, but you know full well it was the measly kiss you’ve had as a proper meal—something insubstantial and far too light to count as a true dinner. Jiaoqiu was more of a snack, and already you’re reminiscing over the flavour of his lips. 

Really, you should be a gourmet. 

…It’s also becoming increasingly clear that your thoughts are veering substantially off-track, though who can blame you when your head is beginning to throb and your mouth is becoming more parched by the minute. 

You don’t think it’s ever been this bad before, but then again you’re one of the oldest of your species—your full maturation is only moons away. Or more. Or less. It’s hard to conceptualise the time of the underworld when you’re on the surface. 

Tonight, your skin will likely burn like molten rock, reshaping and rekindling you into a form better than yesterday’s. Hunger will only intensify the process, making it far more painful. And you are hungry, with a body practically screaming at you to absorb some emotion. Anger. Hatred. Misery. All of these are copious in this highly pressurised environment, but these are fleeting on your tongue—bitter and grainy and not worth the effort of satiating yourself with. 

The clock is only ticking forward. You can’t not make it to your project meeting—that would for sure rouse the angel’s suspicion, and you cannot afford that. Not tonight. Not any night, actually, if you can help it. 

You don’t want your time here to end.  

With each step towards the door, your ribcage feels like it’s about to swallow you whole—so insatiable it might’ve been easier for you to be labelled as an Avatar of Gluttony instead. Not a lot of sand remains in your hourglass, though you’re not stupid. 

There are contingencies for times like these.

Jiaoqiu has class, you wrack your brains. If there’s anyone…

It would probably be the Avatar of Lust who’d be able to help you—you think you’ve seen her several times around before, feeling the familiar ‘fingerprint’ of demons amidst a crowd of human energy. 

The walls are far too grey as you roam the halls. At some point, you think you start seeing the people you pass morph into a singular identity, filled with the same struggles, crises and misery as everyone else. 

It’s barely enough to sate the throbbing that beats in tandem with the seconds—a dull ache that only grows more poignant with time. If you tried, you could probably manually take your mind and crack it like a pomegranate to quell the pain, but alas you haven’t quite figured that one out yet. 

There. 

“Wow, you look a mess.” Bleary-eyed, you watch as the colours coalesce into a faint figure, but it may just be delirium. Her cold hands brush across your face and tilt it from side to side, and you hear her whistle lowly at the heat from your skin. 

You think you’re delirious. 

“Most definitely are,” the woman shrouded in purple replies. Can she read minds? “Poor little incubus, babbling his little heart out. So, what will it be? I can bring you the finest strains of human joy and wreckage, or I can send you straight back from whence you came for your metamorphosis. Pretty boy, I could even get you set up for the night with a few humans.”

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

“Got a meeting for a group project right now,” you slur. Your sluggish register of your surroundings makes it impossible to sense the faint, familiar energy so far off in the distance. It’s a soft dove-grey, and utterly neutral—so removed from the filth of the human realm that you’d stop and admire it any other day. “Could you make this go away for a bit? I’m screwed if I don’t.”

“Oh?” Lust bursts out in a too-loud peal of laughter, slamming her hand on the wall behind her to stabilise herself. You wish someone would do the same to your head. “I see. I’ve heard the rumours, but I didn’t think you’d be this deprived.”

She doesn’t make any sense, you note wonderingly, but strangely her giggles make you slightly more reassured. 

“I make all the sense,” Lust informs you. “What a rude little demon you are. But don’t worry—” 

Her nails dig into your skin, and you feel the air grow slightly colder, as if some equilibrium has finally been disrupted. Or maybe you’re stupid, and you’re finally succumbing to whatever this process will require. 

But she glances behind you, and brings your face closer to hers a brief second later. “—I just found somebody very interesting to help you out, and I barely need to do anything to help you.”

“What?” you mumble. The strange feeling you’re getting from the distance is growing stronger. Just a bit, but you don’t really think it matters. 

What truly matters is that your group project meeting is only twenty minutes away, and you’re barely holding on to the wisps of your sanity that still linger.

“You haven’t been very helpful,” you add, but then her eyes roll exasperatedly and Lust kisses you with all the weight of a butterfly. You don’t think you’ve ever kissed anyone this casually, as though it’s the absent-minded brush of powder across one’s nose, or the faint tap of blotting lipstick. She tastes like the rich last bite of cake, and she pulls away with the speed it typically gets eaten with. 

“Uh, thanks?” you mutter perplexedly, for the emotion of other demons simply doesn’t satiate incubi the same way other species’ do, but it is appreciated nonetheless. At least, it temporarily soothes the faint pounding of hands against your cranium like an Ibuprofen does a head-splitting migraine. She’s still close to your face, and you can see a self-satisfied smirk slowly unfolding under that maraschino gloss—all pink and conniving. 

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

“I think you’ll be fine,” she whispers one last time, before traces of bergamot and vanilla seep into the candy-tinged air. She really doesn’t make any sense, you drowsily reaffirm, but before you can ask her to elaborate on her cryptic message, something vice-like tightens around your wrist and wrenches you from Lust’s clutches. 

You’re being dragged, practically, by something attached to a soft pearl-hued glove. A hand. No, a person. No, an angel whom you were so careful to not touch—who is now gripping onto your arm as if you could possibly run away. 

It takes you precious few sand grains to realise the true gravity of the situation. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. To make matters worse, your lucid thoughts are limited to only one section of your brain—the rest are all struggling to keep up with his fast pace. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask the wall of grey before you, and for a brief moment you think you see the flash of a halo in the dim hallway. You think you can feel the impenetrably icy wall of his composure crack, just a little. 

But that’s impossible. 

Angels aren’t subjected to the sorrows of human experience. 

“Sunday.” You say his name for the first time, tainting the angel’s identity with a tongue that has been coated by filth and sweetened with the most saccharic honey. “Sunday.”

He casts a long look over his shoulder, one that reflects his usual disapproving stare. Without looking, he easily fits the key into the  ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ lecture theatre, and you must remind yourself once more that this is the most simple of child’s play to a being like him. 

“It is time to work on our project, is it not?” 

Can he feel your fever? Can he feel the tense energy that you’re struggling to control?

Your eyes slip past him onto the clock, which still indicates a good ten minutes remain until the pencilled slot. “Almost. Moze’s not here, either.”

His grip tightens, minutely. “He’ll join us later. I’ve asked him to purchase some film and get a better camera from the Media department.”

Then, he lets you go abruptly as though burnt—you’re left clutching your folder and with a profoundly confused expression on your face. 

“Right,” you mention awkwardly, rubbing at your wrist and wincing at the painful feverish heat you’ve been emitting. There’s still that awful dry feeling in your mouth, but you’d rather keel over and die rather than give yourself away in front of an angel. “No time like the present, am I right?”

“That truly is the principle we should strive to embody.” Sunday’s voice grows muffled as he carefully rummages around in the cupboard at the front of the auditorium—you take the opportunity to both pat your back for diffusing the tension, and place your folder neatly on the large table that also loiters at the front. You’d normally take your seat at the back of the lecture hall, but tonight the eve grows dark and the only light is the harsh fluorescent one that shines from above and casts only the table in a clinical ambience. 

“We can start slightly earlier,” he murmurs, closer than you anticipated, standing right behind you as you sink into the swivel chair by your research. You fight back a scream at his sudden appearance—the unexpected pop-up of an angel never bodes well, after all. 

“That’s… not a problem,” you smile, ignoring the pounding headache that seems to have decided to make itself known once more. “Do you want to compare research first to make sure we’re on the same page?”

“Naturally.” His voice is slightly lower than it normally is, and you attribute it to the lull of the lecture hall and its secluded location within the building. Even on the most busy of days, you never actually see anyone walk past the glass windows that panel a strip in the door—you swallow nervously at the thought of being sequestered here with an angel. “Is it alright if I record the behind-the-scenes process of our progress?”

“Like to bolster the found footage feeling, or using it to bolster the mockumentary?” you probe, trying to conceptualise his earlier ramblings of sending Moze off for a better camera. He appears to notice the puzzling expression you sport.

“There was a rather grainy camera in the cupboard here. We should record with both to compare the texture,” he explains, and you accept it with relative ease. 

After all, angels can’t lie. “Alright.” 

He murmurs something under his breath, a low ‘perfect’ before he’s setting the camera up to capture both of you.

Perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect. 

The word lingers in your mind. You don’t quite know why.

*࿐.

“....incubi are thought to feed on the life force and emotions of their victims, and may also cause sleep paralysis. They are male demons who seduce their victims, particularly women, and have sexual intercourse with them,” Sunday pauses. You’re acutely aware of his knee brushed up against yours, how he monitors your face and notes between reading out whatever he’s written in neat, looping handwriting. 

He’s warm. He’s warm, but you’re scalding to the touch: feverish and more than somewhat delirious. Sunday’s words fade in and out like the two of you are underwater; you can only curse at Lust for misleading you, as help is nowhere in fucking sight. Instead, she’s doomed you to be stuck with an angel scrutinising every move you make. 

“That’s what I got too,” you mumble, shuffling your sheets to find the relevant information. Your glasses slip down your nose, but before you can push them up, a pale glove gently slides them up your face—and you startle. “Ah, thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiles, yet it doesn’t reach his pale eyes. “Did you get any more information?”

“Not that I can think of…” you trail off, mind going blank at the most critical time. “Sorry, I’m a bit under the weather tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, but there’s something that’s sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. “I’ve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.”

There’s a slight sheen on your face—half nerves, half the fever that’s consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod. 

“Poor thing,” he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be. 

Something’s wrong. 

The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon. 

“Didn’t get enough emotions lately?” he asks condescendingly, and you freeze. 

“What?” you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it off—but really, you’re attempting to process what he said. 

“I’m joking,” he smiles once more, but there’s something awfully false in the curl of his lips—something wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago. 

��Right,” you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. It’s no longer the fluorescent lighting that’s hurting your eyes—but rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway. 

You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vessels—there is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally. 

Too close. He’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, as though you aren’t a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins. 

Hell is filled with humans like these. 

“It must be so hard…” he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, you’re honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, you’re wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body. 

Your tongue is leaden. 

There is nothing you can say to save yourself. 

“It must be so hard being a demon,” he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his. 

A feather brushes past your cheek; the angel’s wings have now unfurled.

An Archangel. 

You pray your end is quick. 

His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didn’t even notice had appeared. 

Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line. 

“Now, now, you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head. 

This only feels more cruel—a disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed. 

“I…” the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing it’s futile. 

“You,” Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with him—large, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. They’ve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebody’s soul. But not tonight. 

Tonight, they’re the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood. 

“Please kill me quickly,” you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy that’s never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely long—grain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, you’re not sure you’ll even regenerate back in hell. 

His hand pauses—it’s settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. He’s not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldn’t know for it’s impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically. 

Your breath catches in your throat.

Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that you’re forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, you’re a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.

You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands. 

There’s a painful sort of irony in this situation. 

You can’t even beg for your life. 

“Poor little lamb,” he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what you’re finally feeling rolling off him in waves isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe you’re truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad. 

He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutter—nestled in dove-grey hair—brush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by, 

Bitterly, you smile at him—a wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone. 

“There’s no point in dragging this out,” you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer. 

There’s a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and you’re starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasn’t a hallucination. 

You glance up finally, and the expression on Sunday’s face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like he’s the one besieged by a fever and not you. 

“I could help you, you know,” he breathes, and it’s then you’re able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves. 

Lust. 

There’s also something so painfully ironic about this—the emotions you’re absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformation—he’s aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet. 

“You won’t survive even if I don’t kill you, demon.” His gaze is cold, but he’s entrancing.

You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chair—the pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. They’re soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scent—not quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight. 

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

“Go on,” he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, who’s currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands. 

“Sunday,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detect—the tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. “You really wanna make a mess of these?”

His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesn’t waver at the implication.

“They can be cleaned, can they not?” He’s pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted. 

You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. He’s watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression you’re about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.

(“Will your creator see this?” you want to ask.)

(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?) 

You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.

He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscle—as evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you would’ve thought. 

Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know this—you see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall. 

Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man. 

Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and mired—an ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets out—something halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp. 

Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration. 

“Incubus,” he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. “You’re doing this on purpose—ah—”

You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. There’s an Archangel whom you’re scraping your knees for—whose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrous—only spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this. 

His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, you’d keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation. 

But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls. 

“You’re evil,” he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile. 

“You think?” You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb. 

His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest you’ve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back. 

“Taking advantage of a defenceless demon,” you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. “How shameful, Archangel.”

“Mmh–” Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shoulders—fuck. There’s heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants. 

You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you can’t help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat. 

“You were born for this, weren’t you,” he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but it’s not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, you’re the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut. 

He notices. 

Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose. 

“How shameful,” he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick. 

Fuck. 

He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you can’t help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouth—amplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state. 

You’re gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste. 

“You want to get off too, huh?” he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you. 

“Ah,” you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdoll—sitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that much—and you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility. 

It’s also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor. 

You shiver. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “Since you so clearly can’t focus, why not entertain me?”

Why not entertain me?

“What?” you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything you’ve faced before. You’re not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demons—but rather a damn Archangel that’s making you feel more exposed than ever. 

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, though he’s got his dick in his own hand now—keeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You can’t help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change. 

Angels, too, can be deceptive. 

“Go on,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Here’s your opportunity.”

Damn it.

Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock that’s slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you can’t help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to. 

The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur who’s watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, it’s apparent you won’t last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.

“Sunday,” you bite out—the fist he’s making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches. 

He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. “But you can hold on a little longer, right?”

Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sunday’s expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail. 

“What—ngh,” you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. He’s cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt. 

So close. 

You can feel his breathing fan across your face; it’s shallow and reeks of lust, the kind that’s always the most dangerous. 

“Keep going,” he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until it’s almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribable—you can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when he’s so close like this, when he’s pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience. 

In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that he’s setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly. 

The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions he’s doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.

 “Sunday, please,” you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register what’s going on until he opens his mouth—and his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest. 

“I won’t do it all for you,” he croons, but he’s setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you don’t think you’ll ever forget. 

But he’s not done.

His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt you’re wearing until it’s at your neck. “Open wide.”

Blearily, you do as you’re told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you can’t help but moan loudly. 

“So sensitive,” he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. He’s callous with his motions; it’s slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest. 

It’s not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then. 

“Mmph–” you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other. 

With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.

You think that makes it worse. 

Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though it’ll claw out by itself if you don’t let go.

You move your tail just a whisper—it’s growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sunday’s teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but it’s growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.

You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it.  

“Please,” you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. “Sunday.”

His gaze meets your despairing one. 

“Poor little thing,” he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. “Go on.”

He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wail—a choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face. 

“What a mess,” he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force. 

“Ah—” you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and you’re sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths you’re taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk. 

“There, there,” he coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now?”

He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your face—you’re still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure. 

What the fuck?

He handles you like a proper lover—an absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangel—settling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway. 

He’s not your lover. 

He’s not even his own person.

You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely. 

“Is it my turn now?” he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze. 

The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?

The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has. 

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well. 

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido. 

In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip that’s practically begging for attention.

“Not like that,” he says lowly, and it’s not until he’s lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what he’s doing. “You’re nice and stretched out now, right?”

Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response. 

This can’t be Sunday’s first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago. 

“Need something?” He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago. 

You scowl. “Shut up.”

“I think—” he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. “—you have a problem with being honest with yourself.”

“Stick to your theology degree, angel,” you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. There’s something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sunday’s movements, just as he anticipates yours.

“Which psychology is studied in,” he returns, goading you. He’s got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. “What, no please?”

“You can’t seriously be lecturing me about manners right—ah—”

Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain that’s beginning to sting across his shoulders. 

You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad. 

“You have a damn problem in not listening—hng–to others,” you pant. He’s tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other. 

“And you think you’re any better?” he counters. If you were more lucid, you’d be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you. 

You shiver. 

“Yes,” you hiss indignantly. “I actually—fuck—

You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hilt—stuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat. 

Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motion—his chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression you’ve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own. 

He looks like sin itself.

Sunday’s losing his composure, fast (you are too).  

“Fuck—oh, shit, Sunday.” Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.

Like this, with his face mere inches away, you can’t help but stare a little at his face—honed in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure. 

You wonder what they taste like. 

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but you’re too lost in the way he’s rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yours–as he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none. 

“The fuck are you planning?” you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, you’re staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, he’s capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but he’s fucking divine.

He’s languorous with his motions—to any outsider, it would look like he’s done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so you’re finally flush with his chest. 

You’ve never kissed an angel before. 

You may not even be alive right now. 

It’s only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. He’s biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure. 

You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isn’t looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you. 

Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against wood—someone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place. 

Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck. 

The person behind you doesn’t leave like you expected. 

“Ignore him,” Sunday breathes against your neck, and it’s then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. He’s holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the room—judging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face. 

What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants. 

“What the fuck?” you attempt to sit up, but Sunday’s next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. “Moze?”

“Did you enjoy the show?”

The question is quiet, but Sunday’s soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardless—and despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you might’ve thought, but exasperation. 

“What are you talking about?” you mutter, but it’s hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sunday’s busy thumbing your slit. 

“He’s been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when he’d reveal himself,” he sighs, less bothered than you would’ve thought—what with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body. 

Moze is human. 

He’s human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body. 

Lust. 

You swallow. Despite the new information, you’re not a mind reader. You can’t tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera he’s holding. 

“You’re early,” Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well you’re taking him—and the angel doesn’t miss how you tighten around him. 

“Did you plan this?” Moze’s voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesn’t miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him. 

“So what if I did?” the angel replies boredly. “It’s not like you haven’t figured out who I am. And it’s not like you weren’t eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.”

Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommate’s teeth grind as he shifts in place—and this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesn’t hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sunday’s ear; the angel’s eyes turn to you, each and every pair. 

“What a slut,” he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut. 

“You’re lucky he’s all hard at the thought of someone watching,” Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if he’s talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the head—which makes you almost fucking writhe—before you flop onto his shoulder in a daze. 

Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems he’s said all he’s needed to say to the man, and you really don’t mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sunday’s moving his pelvis beneath you—only to find that he’s already staring at you.

He’s pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; there’s hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and he’s almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore him—with hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body. 

His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out. 

Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; he’s hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply in—and you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder. 

“Perfect,” he breathes. 

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

“Fuck,” you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Moze’s getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs ‘just like that’ and ‘beautiful’—syllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face. 

Any train of thought is cut off when the angel’s lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold. 

“Sunday—ah,” you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. “Please.”

You don’t quite know, in the end, why you’re begging. 

You don’t, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think you’ve got it figured out.

Snap.

Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangel’s. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate. 

Snap.

With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside you—inch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey. 

Snap. 

You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like he’s parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. It’s quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust. 

Snap. 

“Right— there,” you choke out. Moze’s still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him. 

Snap. 

“Perfect,” he repeats, and it’s this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice. 

You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sunday’s chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves out—uncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps he’s not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you. 

He shudders. By the god you don’t pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comes—that fact alone has you twitching around him. 

More. 

He still hasn’t softened, but that isn’t enough. 

By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate again—his eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera. 

Snap. 

“Moze,” you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out. 

“What?” your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you. 

What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. There’s a buzz in his veins tonight—some from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmed—but most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by. 

Maybe he’s the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish. 

Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move. 

What will you do?

He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against his—impatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation he’s been building within, fly to cradle your face. 

Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.

He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really. 

“He’s not enough?” he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against you—how he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth. 

“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips. 

“Shit,” he hisses. Moze’s self-control is normally iron-hard, but it’s been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he can’t help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lips—letting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it. 

“Ah—Moze,” you groan, and it really doesn’t help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.

He can’t help it. He really can’t. 

He can’t help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than his—he can’t help stealing your lips away from the angel you’re still fucking riding. He can’t help it, either, when you gaze at him like that—he just has to press his tip against your ass. You’ve been complaining about it not being enough, haven’t you? What’s the problem?

There’s a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.

Thus, Moze doesn’t baulk at the thought of sharing this night—not when you’re sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck. 

That’s all his brain is clinging to. 

How fucking good you feel—how warm your back feels pressed to his chest. He’s desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too. 

This is far better than any stupid porno—astronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his hand’s place.

Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your body—supple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what he’s heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself. 

On the other side, Sunday’s grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, he’s grown accustomed to you—all the small tells of your body. It’s why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace. 

They do not know better. 

It’s just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. That’s why he’s helped you out, nothing else. 

Angels cannot lie to others. 

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves. 

Despite Sunday’s heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesn’t acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as he’s sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of this—of your sin—he reminds himself that he’s doing you a favour. 

He’s doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them. 

Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control. 

Good job, Sunday.

A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into you—when one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full—not by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.

This counts for your mind too—stretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. You’ve forgotten the name of your project, the class you’re in, and why you’re here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state. 

“Please.”

It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still don’t know what you’re asking for. No, you do know—more.

More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times you’ve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness. 

You’re barely lucid—having gone through a metamorphosis safely—but they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high you’re getting off this. 

It’s well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legs—Moze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead. 

Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon. 

And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar: 

The Catching of the Incubus. 

*********

There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, it’s not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement that’s never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back. 

It’s used today, when Jiaoqiu’s looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but there’s something about coming to Moze’s dorm that he looks forward to each time—and if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent man’s, he wouldn’t be lying. 

In any case, nobody’s home. 

Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the space—one that’s only gotten stronger, it seems. 

Moze’s room it is. 

The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Moze’s dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. They’re just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiu’s curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on. 

These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and he’s immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary he’s ever seen—clips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when you’re speaking. 

This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class. 

He’s about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus. 

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

The Foxian’s face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face. 

Oh.

Oh.

*࿐.

[fadingdaggerr]

masterlist

updated: nov 10, 2024

!! all works should be considered 18+, minors please dni !!

!! individual warnings at beginning of each fic !!

agatha harkness

effuso sanguine: secret love hidden in forests is a reprieve that time and hate can steal, a love that defies order and law (MOST RECENT)

melissa schemmenti

fluff

from miles away: melissa's ex-husband pays a visit to abbott after hearing about you moving in

crystal clear: five times others realized melissa loved you and the one time she did

are you mine?: melissa takes things into her own hands after watching an addington teacher flirt with you at pecsa-geddon

simmer: a sweet morning between melissa and her firefighting partner

wishful thinking: months of flirting with a clueless r has melissa switching her tactics

would that i: melissa grew up seeing what love was supposed to be, she just needed to find it

amaranthine: melissa schemmenti is easy to adore

as you ever were: mutual feelings, mutual fears, mutually nosy friends

know i'm alive: (nsfw, minors dni) a new teacher with a new motorcycle, and melissa wants to take both for a ride

angst

picking petals: you want melissa to marry you. melissa's mother wants melissa to marry you. but what of melissa?

just how we feel: eight months at abbott had you convinced melissa hated you, until jacob pairs you together for janine's birthday celebrations

tease and unease: mutual secrets can bring mutual pain, a hidden love can break the dam

and now?: (nsfw, minors dni) melissa craved you, you craved melissa. what you crave from each other seems to differ depending on the season. based on red wine supernova and casual by chappell roan

truth be told: melissa loves you, in what way, she doesn't want to know. based on good luck, babe! by chappell roan

part 2: truth be lived

hurt/comfort

delphinium blooms: a morning of unfortunate events proves that development day is just as unlucky for you as it is for janine, so melissa tries to help

blush to ruby: a four-square accident brings out a new side of melissa

frosted hymnal: grief makes the holidays less cheerful, but not a girlfriend less loving

by the sun, by the moon: melissa is plagued by nightmares, ones only you can soothe, but different sleeping arrangements interfere

brienne of tarth

a piece of home: when traveling to king's landing with jaime lannister, brienne finds she's much less alone that she had originally thought

part 2: close to home | part 3: home bound | part 4: home

beckon me back: two months apart is more like two centuries

larissa weems

fluff

an altar of peace: a morning with larissa weems

wine and ember: where red is drank and a spark is lit

all bark, some bite: the bitter reminder of her past returns, and r will not let her wife face it alone

rose infusion: college!larissa smokes weed for the first time with a familiar face

heaven's gate: (nsfw, minors dni) locking eyes with a woman at a bar and finding purpose in her kiss

part 2: pearlescent

angst

one hundred and seventeen: from the second she left, your world stopped spinning on its axis

[hyunverse]

lucky number five ☆ hwang hyunjin.

pairing: hyunjin x fem! reader. tags: fluff, drabble. words: 3k words. warnings: reader is referred to with she/her, called as wife. about: the five most memorable memories you share with hyunjin. note: i haven't written in a while, so my writing's definitely a little rusty. i hope you'll like it! please reblog, and feedback is very much appreciated <3 disclaimer — © 2023 hyunverse on tumblr. all rights reserved. authors works are protected under the copyright law. do not plagiarize or translate my works. tumblr is my only platform.

𝐨𝐧𝐞.

Five is Hyunjin's lucky number.

Hyunjin first met you when he was five. He had pointed out that you were wearing the same shirt as he was — and you've been attached to the hips ever since.

His first tooth fell out on the fifth day of Summer. He could recall holding the baby tooth on a tissue in one hand, looking up at his mother with puppy eyes. His mother patted him on the head and told him he had grown up. The tooth fairy gave him a single gold coin chocolate, too. Tucked it under his pillow where he placed his baby tooth. He remembers having a lisp until the tooth grew back — remembers how jealous you were that he had "grown up."

The first feeling of victory Hyunjin had ever experienced was when he won fifth place in a colouring contest. Truth be told, he could've easily won first place — but he wanted you to win over him just to see you smile, so he coloured messily. Though the trophy for first place looked glorious, he thought that the smile plastered on your face as you held a medal beat the shine on the trophy.

It was the fifth of May when you two started dating. Hyunjin remembers everything about the fated day, bit by bit. He could play each scene, each dialogue in his head like an overplayed radio song. He was merely sixteen, studying in an all boys school with little to no knowledge about dating. Boys his age didn't care about dating. They only cared about soccer and video games. While he cared about all of that too, a lot of the space in his heart was overtaken by you. Figuring out how to ask you out was tough, he had spent a lot of time pondering. He even gathered up the courage to seek advice from his friends, yet to no avail. They were barely any help. In the end, he observed television dramas and prayed for the best.

Under a cherry blossom tree, you sat on a bench. Your eyes were fixated on the sky as your legs dangled over the wooden bench. The clouds on the sky were huge, luminous — enveloping the sky the way lovers do.

"Jinnie!" Hyunjin heard you cheer as he approached you. The nonchalant look on his face immediately turned into a bright smile, his footsteps becoming more hurried.

Standing in front of you, Hyunjin was the perfect depiction of nervous. Both his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, front teeth nibbling onto the inside of his cheeks and the little rocks underneath his foot tumbled as he kicks on them.

Hyunjin gulped, "Hi."

You tilted your head with concern, "are you okay, Jinnie?"

The concern laced in your tone reminded him of all the reasons why he liked you so much. You cared like no other — loved as though nothing could hurt you in this world.

"I am," he replied, rubbing on the back of his neck, "I just —"

"You don't have to rush it," you tapped on the seat beside you, "sit with me. You can take your time to tell me whatever that's on your mind."

So, Hyunjin sat. His legs reached the ground unlike yours, and his eyes fixated on the stain on his sneakers. He was painfully aware of the rapid beating of his heart. The urge to tell you his feelings were bottling up quickly.

Then, it spilled.

"I like you a lot," the words were muttered before Hyunjin could stop them.

"Hm?"

"I like you," he repeated. This time, he sounded more sure, looked more sure. The raven was looking at you, blinking sanguinely.

It took a while for you to process the words, for your jaw to relax and finally respond.

The first response came in a way where you slowly turned your head towards him, blinking profusely.

You stuttered, "like me? Like like, or just friends like?"

He sighed, "like like. I like like you."

"Oh."

There it goes, the rejection. Hyunjin had expected it, but it hurt nonetheless. You were the only person Hyunjin had ever liked, his best friend since kindergarten. His feelings for you ran deep. He was merely sixteen, yes, but he was well aware of how strongly he felt for you.

You didn't expect it, but he tapped on your shoulder comfortingly, as if to say, "I know you don't like me, it's okay."

You were right.

"I know you don't like me, it's okay," he comforted, "I just wanted you to know."

"No, I do like you," you confessed.

"What?"

"Yeah," you replied, breathlessly, "was just shocked, that's all."

"Oh."

Silence blanketed the two of you as the conversation exchanged slowly seeped into your brains. Hyunjin looked like he was simply admiring the view in front of him but really, his brain was going haywire.

"No, I do like you," the words repeated in his brain over, and over. They filled his brain with dopamine, the kind of rush that even his favourite football team winning could not replicate.

The five words which will be engrained in Hyunjin's mind forever.

"I like you a lot."

The five words which will be engrained in yours.

"So..." you broke the silence, "what now?"

Hyunjin's pointer circled against the wood of the bench, itching to hold your hand, "we... you know. Date."

"Yeah. Okay."

For best friends who have known each other for years, it was abnormally quiet for the two of you.

But it was okay. Hyunjin was content with the small smile lingering on your pretty face, and your hand in his — finally in his.

𝐭𝐰𝐨.

The sound of a pan sizzling and a kettle crackling seeped into the guest bedroom, though the sound of Hyunjin and his mother's voice caught your attention the most.

You were spending the weekend at the Hwangs'. Your parents were on a company trip that weekend and didn't trust you alone so naturally, they dropped you off there. You were about to take your morning shower, a towel slung over your shoulder when their voices stopped you in your tracks.

"You really like her, Hyunjin?" his mother asked, her voice the epitome of motherly.

She truly is the stereotypical loving mother — soft, and nurturing. Lunchbox ready on the table every morning, not a single football match of Hyunjin's missed. Treated you like the daughter she never had, braided your hair by the porch as Hyunjin ran around with his beloved dog.

"Um," Hyunjin muttered, silverware clinking against plate as he cut through a sausage.

You clasped your ear against the door, eager to hear more.

"You don't have to be shy with me, Hyunjin."

"I do like her," you heard him say, "a lot."

Crimson crept up your face, and you could picture his face doing the same. You could imagine the tips of his ears going red, and his mother looking at him with a grin.

"You want to marry her?" she asked jokingly.

"I do," he answered. Confidently. Surely. Absolutely no hesitation. As though it was the one sole thing he was sure of in his life.

"Oh, my Hyunjin," his mother cooed, "you're all grown up now!"

You didn't know what happened next, how their conversation continued because you were too busy stifling yourself from giggling giddily. Your back was pressed up against the door, replaying the eavesdropped dialogues in your head over and over. Overcame by excitement, you failed to notice the footsteps approaching the door.

Before you knew it, your head came in contact with the wall as the door swung open. Hyunjin stood in front of you, confused as you rubbed your forehead.

"So aggressive, and for what?" you grunted, looking up at him with a pout.

"Who told you to stand by the door like an idiot?" Hyunjin huffed. Nevertheless, he reached towards your forehead, checking for any bruises.

"You'll be okay. Next time, don't stand by the door like an idi—" he paused, "wait. Did you hear anything?"

You batted your eyelashes innocently, playing dumb.

"Hear what?"

Hyunjin sighed out of relief, ruffling your hair, "nothing you need to worry your pretty self about. Just go shower. I saved you some pancakes."

"Aw," you pecked his lips, "you're so sweet, and so caring. You must want to marry me."

He smiled, but the face soon contorted into one of annoyance.

"So you heard!"

"Heard what? The fact that you're obsessed with me and want to marry me so bad?"

"You're so annoying, y/n."

"You still want to marry me though."

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, "shut up, or I'll take it back."

He wouldn't.

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞.

Exhaustion lugged on Hyunjin as he exited the entertainment building. He's been a trainee for a couple of months now, and the burn-out was no joke. A day with you was exactly what he needed. A couple of days spent with his home, his solace — and he refused to come empty-handed.

Thus, he roamed around the park, in search of wildflowers. Anything he could get his hands on, just as long as he could form a bouquet from them. Hyunjin ducked and moved around, pulling out any flower he deemed beautiful enough. A black hair tie tied together the ensemble of florals. He wished he had managed to get his hands on some ribbons but alas, he couldn't. For now, the black hair tie on his wrist would suffice.

You arrived right when you promised you would. Clad in a pretty yellow sundress, Hyunjin swore that you came right out of a daydream. He watched you wander around in the park for a while, admiring from afar. Even with a confused expression plastered across your face, he still found you gorgeous. A part of him wished that he was simply your secret admirer, so that he could keep watching you from afar for hours. Not being able to be around you would suck though, so perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

“Y/n!” Hyunjin finally called you out, waving his hand to catch your attention, “here!” 

You whipped your head towards his direction, lips twitching into the cutest smile once you caught a glimpse of your boyfriend. 

An arrangement of colourful flowers was handed to you once you were in front of him.  You vividly remember how beautiful it was — petals of yellow, pink, and white which coincidentally matched your dress. Hyunjin on the other hand remember how you looked, the pupils of your eyes practically shining at the ensemble. 

“For me?” you asked, looking at him with big, bright, eyes.

Hyunjin nodded, “for you, of course. Flowers for a flower.”

“Oh,” was all that you could utter, overwhelmed by appreciation. You gently pet the petals, “they’re so pretty.”

“Really?” Hyunjin queried, “I don’t have any money. I wish I could buy you pretty roses and tulips, but I really cannot afford them right now. This is the best that I could do, and I’m sorry my love.”

“Don’t you dare say sorry, Hwang Hyunjin. The fact that you spent time to find these flowers means a lot to me, and makes them even more special. I love them, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

He nodded, smiling sheepishly. All the worries he previously harboured immediately disappeared at your words. 

“Okay, love. Let’s go then, find more flowers and I’ll make a wreath out of them for you.”

Years later, and the flowers had long wilted away — pressed and put in a frame for display, resting on a table with vases of flowers accompanying it. 

Hyunjin never stopped gifting you flowers. 

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫.

A yellow bus drove away, leaving two figures at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. 

The outskirts of Seoul — only ever acknowledged as a place vehicles pass by. No stores, no houses in sight, just a lonesome bus stop surrounded by greens. 

Hyunjin would’ve never stepped foot in this place if it wasn’t for you. If it wasn’t for you climbing into his window and hysterically crying, he wouldn’t have purchased tickets to the middle of nowhere. He would probably be in bed and wake up at noon. 

“I want to run away,” you told him, hours before.

“Okay,” he replied, “I’ll go with you.” 

Normally, Hyunjin wouldn’t support your attempts at rebelling against your parents. Honestly, the words, “don’t be dumb and just say sorry,” sat at the top of his tongue, but they dissolved at the sight of your mascara running down your cheeks. He knew that even if he was to disagree, you would’ve packed your bags and left anyway. He would rather follow to keep you safe.

Plus, the boy knew that the rebellion would only last a couple of hours.

“Let’s sail off without a map. Just walk and see what we’ll discover.”

“Okay.”

God knows how many of those he already said to you that day. 

You walked, hand in hand, him siding with the highway. You looked far too relaxed for someone who was running away. Hyunjin, on the other hand, was terrified. If anything were to happen to the two of you there, nobody would be there to help. His free hand dug into his pocket, tightly clutching onto a butterfly knife. 

Minutes soon turned into an hour. Two people walking soon turned into one — Hyunjin ended up carrying you on his back after seeing that you’ve blistered your feet. He nagged about your choice of footwear, but amidst the nags, he still opted to carry you anyway. Your hands rested around his neck, chin on his head as he walked aimlessly, just waiting for you to finally cave in and ask to go home. 

“Hyunjin, look!”

“Hm?”

The boy turned around, gasping at the sight which greeted his eyes. A field of flowers stretched as far as his eyes could see, green plains decorated with splotches of colourful flowers. 

Before he could say anything, you were already running towards the field, screaming in glee. He followed in pursuit, taking in the breeze and letting blades of grass sway against his legs. 

“Hurry!” 

Hurry, Hyunjin did, running towards you and lifting you off the ground. Hyunjin took advantage of the seemingly infinite space to twirl you around, and run around until the two of you turned breathless, lying on the grass to look at the sky. 

“I love this place,” you mumbled between heavy breaths, “feels like something you only see in your dreams.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up with his elbow. 

Quietly, he admired you. The tranquil expression your face held matched that of the sky. He couldn’t stop the hand reaching towards your face, calloused thumb caressing your face with the same softness of a feather. Each stroke of his thumb whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

“Thank you,” your words reeled Hyunjin out of his daze, “for coming here with me.”

His eyes on you softened. 

“You don’t have to thank me. Just be around forever,” sat at the top of Hyunjin’s tongue and dissolved. 

Instead, he pressed a kiss onto your lips.

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞.

Hyunjin asked you to marry him five years after you started dating.

It was the peak of his career. He was everywhere around the world, collecting awards and breaking records. The little boy who loved football slowly turned into a superstar. He had to bid goodbye to his quiet life, making space for all the glory the world had to offer to him. His name sat at the tip of everyone’s tongues, talk of the town — Achilles reincarnate. 

That was when he decided that he would have to marry you. For amidst all that glory, you were the only stagnant thing in his life. You continued to annoy and nag him as you always do. You continued to be the first person he thinks of when he wakes, and the last person he thinks of as he shuts his eyes. You’re always the person he has in mind as he looks for souvenirs, and when he watches old couples sitting on benches in different cities.

You, you, you. 

Always you. 

Boxes scatter around the living room, some opened and some not. It’s been a few hours since the moving truck unloaded all of the boxes. Honestly, you could’ve gotten so many things done if it weren’t for the two of you constantly procrastinating. 

“Just a five-minute break, babe,” Hyunjin whines, landing on a (still wrapped in plastic) sofa. 

You roll your eyes, “you’ve taken breaks like three times just this hour, Jinnie.”

He whines again, making grabby hands, “need my wife here right now or I’ll die.” 

The sigh which leaves your lips cannot fool him, because the slight grin on your lips gives away that you like his clinginess. You seat yourself in his arms, burying yourself in his neck. The familiar scent of fresh laundry and cologne fills your nostrils, washing away the exhaustion from the day. 

“Me, my wife, and a new house,” you hear Hyunjin mumble, “feels like a dream.”

You voice your agreement by humming. It’s when you stare at the boxes surrounding you that the reality finally sinks in. You’re married to the boy you met in kindergarten. His toothbrush will be in a cup next to yours, his mug will be in the dishwasher with yours, and your dirty laundry will be in the same machine. You’ll wake up next to him every day for what you hope will be your entire life. 

You smile at the thought, sinking yourself into Hyunjin even more. He’s holding you with one hand, the other rummaging through a box when he takes out a Polaroid, showing you it with glee.

A Polaroid of you and him under a cherry blossom tree, five years ago. 

“Isn’t this from the first day we started dating?” Hyunjin asks, blinking his eyes at you.

You tilt your head to observe the polaroid, “oh… Yes, it is, babe!”

He’s laughing, particularly at how red his face looks in the picture. 

“Oh my god, we have to recreate this picture soon, love.”

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disclaimer — © 2023 hyunverse on tumblr. all rights reserved. authors works are protected under the copyright law. do not plagiarize or translate my works. tumblr is my only platform.

[kabootarandishaan]

Mask

Title: Mask

Pairing: Astarion x female reader

A/N: Just something short and sweet I am now obsessed with this pale-ass man as many of us are and I just want some love! Also thank you to @thedreamlessnights for inspiring me to write again (this is my writing blog I interact with you via my main one @bigdesi) I love you bby<<<33

Warnings: Tiny bit of angst

To say he was intrigued by you would have been quite an understatement. From the moment you met his cold cynicism with a warm smile, he could not help but think about you often. You were the first one to open up to the company about your tumultuous past beyond the mindflayer experience. However, not once did your kind eyes waiver as you recalled your suffering.

It was not just the fact you were nice to him, your compassion extended to anyone and everyone even when he thought it to be naive of you. You were gentle and pensive, had you been an eager busybody alongside your kindness he likely would have detested you. But the solemness that existed in your temperament only heightened his interest in you.

You listened too, he was especially fond of that aspect of you. You would not push or pry while others lamented to you. Your reactions always fell into the realm of silent acknowledgment, never pity. Soon, he found himself craving your company often even if it was just being in your presence.

He found himself frequenting your tent late at night, especially after a particularly arduous day. He would walk in often to find you reading, or taking down your hair. You always greeted him with a smile and asked “A cup of tea tonight?” He would make a sensual joke or remark prompting you to let out a soft chuckle before starting on the tea. 

You would motion for him to sit on the cot while you prepared the tea. It became a little routine for the two of you. It did not take long for the others to notice and it did not take long for a bit of teasing to start. One night as a few of you gathered at the fire, Astarion placing himself next to you, Shadowheart made a remark.

“With all the time you spend alone with each other in that tent, you would think maybe both his sanguine and lustful tendencies would be satiated.” She smirked as she saw the proximity between the two of you. You simply explained that her insinuations were the farthest from the truth and shrugged it off. You could not help but chuckle though when you saw Astarion scowl at her.

“Jealous are we? I would be careful now darling, green with envy looks awfully terrible on you.” He smirked as he saw her scoff in response. You simply gave an amused smile and shook your head at the childish antics. As you sat though, you could not help but ponder over Shadowheart’s words.

Although you grew to enjoy your nightly visits from Astarion, you could not help but wonder if he had any underlying motives. He never tried anything, at least not without asking you. The night would often pass with his head eventually in your lap as he recalled his trauma at the hands of Cazador.

It took all your might not to grimace at the name and the recollections of pain and torment Astarion revealed to you. You would let him speak and listen to him occasionally offering apologies at hearing what he had to go through. You felt your heart break when he would brush any intense moment off with a quick quip or innuendo knowing he had yet to heal.

You would not dare admit it but you knew the nightly meetings, the lingering touches, the way he talked to you with so much endearment, were having an effect on you. You found yourself lost sometimes, thoughts of him clouding your mind. Despite the reluctance to acknowledge it, you knew you were falling for him.

It scared you, never had you let your mask fall, not once. You had to bear the responsibilities of other's well-being since you were a child. Whether it was facing your drunken father, providing for your younger siblings, or caring for your ailing mother, you faced it with a smile. The one thing you could control was the expression on your face.

But at his question on this night you felt yourself slipping, the gentle and calm demeanor you had so calculatingly created was almost shattered from his simple words. It started like any other night between the two of you. You made the tea and he rested his head on your lap. He spoke a bit before pausing, his raised a brow and gazed at you steadily.

This was new, and it prompted you to ask him. “Is something wrong?” The tone of your voice maintained the softness you had procured for this persona. He let out a small huff as if amused by your question. “I feel like I should be the one asking that, darling.” He says as you look at him with a confused smile.

He sighs and sits up facing you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Every day for as long as I have seen you on this camp, you have listened to the endless sorrows of anyone who would make your acquaintance. Not once have I ever seen you do the same. In fact, I don’t even think I have ever seen you without that smile plastered on your face.” He pauses before continuing

“Not that I don’t love the radiance that it brings to your already lovely visage, but never a complaint, a grimace, even when we’ve been through hell you hold a smile albeit weary. I can’t help but wonder, is that really you, darling? Behind that smile how much is it that you're suffering?” He brings a hand up to gently push a strand of hair behind your ear.

You stare at him in shock. Never had anyone picked apart your facade so easily, at least never explicitly. You aren’t sure why but you can feel the dam you had built around your core begin to crack. Your lips trembled as you felt an onset of tears prick at the corners of your eyes. He gave you a sad smile before slowly wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against him.

It is at that moment the dam breaks and you let out a whimpered sob as you cling to him. The waterworks continued to seemingly no end as he rubbed soft circles on your back and gave you hushed reassurances. “That’s it, love. You’re okay. I’m right here for you.” He whispers gently against your ear.

You choke out a few words between your bawling, trying to express the long-suppressed feelings you worked so hard to lock away. “I…I thought if I pretended no…no one would see how broken I was. I…I was scared, Astarion.” You let out your sobs unabashedly allowing yourself to feel comfort in his arms.

He continues his attempts to soothe you while gently rubbing your back. “I know, dear. But know that you are the strongest person I have ever had the fortune to meet. You have no idea how your presence alone soothes the soul of those who lament to you.” You continue to cry, your sobs lessening to whimpers.

Eventually, your cries die down to the occasional sniffle as you still rest your head on Astarion’s shoulder. He continues to have his arms wrapped around you silently whispering sweet words into your ears. You slowly pull back and look at him with a tear-stained smile and give him a weak chuckle.

You look at his ruined tunic and gently run your hand over the fabric. “I suppose I owe you a new tunic.” You say to him, your voice slightly hoarse from your earlier bout. He smiles at your attempt to joke and runs his thumbs over your cheeks to wipe any remnants of tears. “You could always repay me in other ways.” He suggests with a smirk before leaning in to place a soft kiss on your forehead.

You let out an amused huff at his words but close your eyes and briefly revel at the feeling of his lips on your skin. As he pulls back and places your hands in his, you cannot help but look at the lips that grazed your forehead just moments ago. He raises a brow at you curious if he interpreted your thoughts correctly.

Your warm smile turns into a somewhat mischievous grin as you lean in further, slowly lessening the already small gap between you. “I actually think that’s a great idea. How about I give you an advance on that payment now.” You whisper to him. He mirrors your expression before gently placing his hand on your cheek.

“I think that would be the most appropriate course of action, my dear.” He grins and you quickly close the distance between the two of you. The kiss is innocent, he takes his time moving his lips against yours, enjoying the softness of your skin. He pulls back with a sigh and leans his head against yours as he places his free hand at your waist.

You look at him, your heart beating rapidly against your chest as you feel the flush spread across your skin. “Will you stay with me tonight?” You ask nervously biting your lip in anticipation of his answer. He gives your waist a light squeeze before answering. “Of course, darling.” He pulls you down onto the cot and you settle your head onto his chest.

He runs his hand through your hair and looks down when he feels your small giggles reverberating off his chest. You look at him, “Pretty soon Shadowheart’s remark won’t be such a far-off notion.” You chuckle. He smirks before pulling you up and capturing your lips in a similarly brief yet passionate kiss.

“Well, let’s hope then you can satiate my sanguine and lustful appetite.” He teasingly bares his fangs as he grins. You only smile and settle yourself next to him once again. You dare not admit the arousal that shot down to your core hearing his words but you worried if your blush would give you away.

Astarion chuckled, finding your flustered state cute and refreshing compared to your guarded persona. He placed his hands around you and pulled the sheet over the two of you. You snuggled closer to him and whispered. “Goodnight, Astarion.” He planted one last kiss on your head before returning the words. “Goodnight, my love.”

[rosemorningstar]

Alright so

Boethiah “the font of inspiration” who calls upon mortals to leave their mark upon the world no matter the form.

Hircine “who is half the conscience of men” meaning the half of mortal minds that follows instinct and the drive for survival.

Malacath “who speaks all languages sideways” meaning he is a universal entity whose name and purpose has become distorted over time. Alternatively, he twists words to inspire rage.

Mehrunes Dagon “whose mistress is the blazing sun” meaning he was created by and serves the will of the Magna Ge who brought him forth.

Sheogorath “the comforter of men” meaning he who facilitates dissociation or a break from reality; taking mortals away from the pains of the world via madness. It’s a comfort to be free of reality but the side effects vary.

Molag Bal “whose breath is most foul” meaning the commands he speaks upon the mortal realm are palpable yet undesirable; a domineering root of suffering.

Namira “whose works works endure forever” meaning her design for existence is inescapable and inevitable aka entropy and decay.

Mephala “who threads the needle with the hair of wives” meaning she manipulates the bonds of loyalty to her ends.

Clavicus Vile “who always answers” meaning he’ll make a deal with anyone but the terms won’t necessarily be fair.

Nocturnal “whose touch is mink” meaning her blessing is soft, concealing, and expensive to attain.

Peryite “who’s foundation is falling rock” meaning his power is based in the same forces that move erosion and the passage of time. Incremental but nonetheless potent.

Azura “the rim of all holes” meaning her power is what facilitates transformation and dramatic change on a singular level. The movement of an object or being to dramatically different circumstances. A goddess of exodus and transmutation.

Meridia “who contains the plenum” meaning her sphere is one of wholeness and abundance. Something she offers at a high price.

Hermaeus Mora “who holds the paper to the light” meaning he reveals the hidden truths beneath the surface.

Sanguine “who tastes the shaven fruit” meaning he consumes mortals at their most vulnerable; when they’re inebriated or at the height of their pleasure.

Vaermina “weaver of the panoply” meaning she designs mortal delusions; the fantastical fears we react upon in reality.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Shadow and Sin: Chapter 7

Elijah Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Having just recently moved to New Orleans, you get intimately acquainted with both Mikaelson brothers, but don't find out who they truly are until it's too late.

This Chapter: Elijah comes to your rescue after you and your brother get attacked.

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Compulsion, Brushes With Death, Blood Drinking, Kissing, Loving Touches, More Phantom of the Opera References

Word Count: 2.1k+

Read the rest of the story HERE

“Drink.” Elijah orders you, cradling the back of your head as he presses his open wrist against your lips. The hot viscous fluid pours around your mouth as your weakened body slumps against the alleyway, barely able to register what he’s saying, let alone what he’s trying to do.

You manage to squint up at him in response, feeling your heart beating so fast that it nearly rattles your ribcage.

“Please drink, little Lotte, it’ll heal you.” His words are laced with an unmistakable urgency as his breath becomes more erratic, his concern for you more evident than ever. He tilts your head forward again and practically forces your mouth to open against his skin, the salty metallic liquid flooding your taste buds until you have no other choice but to swallow it. “That’s it, take a little bit more.”

Allowing it to fill your mouth completely, you begrudgingly down another bitter gulp as the rest of it spills down onto your chin and chest, mixing with the coagulated blood from the bite on your neck. His morbid cure oozes down your esophagus and settles into the pit of your stomach, allowing his features to slowly come more into focus; his eyes wet with sorrow as he waits for the sanguine solution to work its magic on you. Once a pillar of self control, now a nervous wreck riddled with regret as he strokes your hair, his jaw clenching in anticipation.

The blood he gave you suddenly steadies the deafening sound of your rapid heart rate, the panic quaking its way through your nervous system eventually following suit. It quiets the alarm bells in your head, gradually easing the sharp yet throbbing pain in your neck and the crippling fear that widens your eyes.

Holy shit, he was right. It healed you, somehow. HE healed you.

“Look at me.” He whispers, taking his wrist away before grabbing onto your chin, inspecting your wound as it miraculously seals itself up. “I need to get you off the street, somewhere safe.”

“Is Austin okay?” You try to turn your head to look over at your brother, but Elijah’s grip on your face forces you to keep your eyes only on him.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. Your brother’s going to be just fine, trust me.” He stares into your eyes, stroking your chin with his thumb as he instills that truth into your psyche. “Now let’s get you home.”

“Alright, but...” You keep staring at him, still too shocked to ask him any more specific questions that race through your mind as your body recovers from the attack. “Shouldn’t you be taking me to the hospital? Or the police station? Somewhere, anywhere else?”

He swallows hard and picks you up off the ground without a word, tucking his elbow beneath your knees to carry you like a bride across the threshold. The hot Louisiana air rushes past you in a soothing breeze as you cling to his neck and shoulders, taking in that dark scent of his as it mixes in with the blood splattered across his suit. He continues to carry you through the quarter at lightning speed, blurring past some of your favorite spots until you practically float up the stairs and reach your apartment’s doorstep much quicker than you thought humanly possible.

Only you know now that he’s not human, no matter what he may look like on the outside.

“There’s no need for a hospital.” He turns his head toward you, his lips grazing over your cheek as he lowers your feet onto the ground. “My blood should have healed you completely.”

“Your blood,” you repeat back to him, not stepping away from his embrace as you try to accept the gruesome truth that stains his pristine white shirt a deep burgundy. “Thank you for saving me, but umm…” You look down at his ruined sleeve. “What about you? Your wrist, it was bleeding, wasn’t it? At least, I could have sworn it was.”

“I’ll be fine,” he smiles, almost amused by your concern for his well being. “I promise. One of the perks of being a vampire is that I heal almost instantly, which is why my blood could heal you. Now, let’s get you inside.”

“Right,” you nod, hoping that if you repeat what he said to you in your head a thousand times or so, it might make it easier for you to accept.

You turn and pull your keychain out of your pocket, fumbling through them until you finally find your house key, noticing that your hands and arms are still caked in blood. Trying to compartmentalize the issue, you focus solely on sliding the key into the slot, shakily turning the handle before opening the door to your home away from the monsters that had attacked you. Still holding onto his hand, you attempt to bring him inside until you feel him forcefully tug backward, stopping as if there were some sort of invisible barrier between him and your doorway.

“You have to invite me in.” He states solemnly, as if it’s some piece of common knowledge that you just haven’t been privy to until now.

Right. Blood, healing, vampires, invitations. This is all becoming a little too real, no matter how excited your inner thirteen year-old self is right now.

“Please come in, Elijah,” you say out loud.

And just like that, the invisible barrier between you disappears as he walks into your apartment, still holding onto your hand.

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

“So who were those guys, anyways? Part of some rival vampire gang?” You run a washcloth under the kitchen sink as you try to collect yourself, to make sense of everything that’s happened tonight as the water slowly begins to heat up. You take your time wringing it out as you wait for him to answer until you suddenly feel him behind you, his chest gently pressing against your shoulder blades as he whispers into your hair.

“Something like that, but they won’t ever harm you again.” His bloody hands graze over your arms, encasing your hands as the water falls down your knuckles, saturating the dried blood before he smears it away, sending a wave of warmth up your spine. “Here, allow me.”

His stern tone wavers a little as he takes the cloth from you, his hands nearly dwarfing yours as he begins to rub your skin in slow circular motions until it’s no longer stained that shade of muddy red. You can’t be sure whose blood covers more of the cloth now as he squeezes it out before starting again on your other arm, both of you watching it disappear down the drain.

Once your arms are clean, he takes your hand and turns you around toward him as if the two of you were back on the dance floor of that bar, watching you with a desire that has a whole new meaning to it now that you know the truth about what he is. His eyes seem to darken, but don’t burn that infernal red like the man who’d bitten you earlier tonight, instead only warming you from the inside out as they quietly take in the sight of your face and neck.

Oh no, your neck!

“Are you okay with this? You’re not tempted to… bite me, or anything, are you?” You refuse to relinquish the washcloth he tries to tug away from you as your thoughts of caution come a little too late. You realize now that you’ve let your romantic ease with him override your new knowledge of his potential for violence, putting you both in a compromising position as the space between you closes.

“If I wanted to drink from you, I would have done so already.” He states in that firm, cold tone that you secretly love as he pulls the cloth from your fingers. “But I’ve already fed tonight, and my interest in you lies elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” You smile, unable to stop the twinkle in your eye as his words make you feel a little bit safer. You assume that he wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to save your life if he wanted to take it the very second you invited him in, but you had to ask, just to be sure.

“To answer your question, those men are part of the underbelly of New Orleans, part of a world that the city likes to cover up with extravagant tourism and ghost tours.” He explains, wiping the bulk of the clotted blood off your neck as his other hand keeps your shoulder steady. “For centuries now, it’s been the reason that so many souls flock to the quarter, to experience the magic and danger of it, all while blaming it on the spirits inside the bottles that they drink.” He wets the cloth again, wringing it out one-handed before bringing it up to your chin, a small smirk crossing his lips at the image of your mouth drenched in blood. His blood. “But then people like you often get caught in the crosshairs, and that’s not what I ever wanted for you.”

“What you ‘wanted for me’?” Your brows knit together as you try to make sense of it all, wanting a bit more clarity than his stoic generalizations are giving you. Was he involved with Klaus, or this… Marcel Gerard that the other man had mentioned before? Or was he simply just in the right place at the right time for him to save you?

Elijah purses his lips together and washes behind your ear, the warmth of the washcloth soothing your previously broken skin as he holds you close, making you forget the rest of your prying questions for the moment. You close your eyes and let him clean you, getting lost in the pleasant feeling of the fabric washing away the horrors of the night and the sensation of his hands on your body.

You can’t help but think back to the other night when you were covered in paint with Klaus in his studio, and now you’re here covered in blood with Elijah. Both of these men are caught up in something much more maudlin than you can even begin to grasp. You get the feeling that choosing either of them would put you in a highly dangerous position, but Elijah had just saved you, no questions asked, while Klaus seemed intent on corrupting you to the core. The images of the Emperor and the King of Swords come up in the forefront of your mind before you open your eyes to take in his handsome features by the light of the moon shining in through your kitchen window.

“It was naïve of me to think that I could have you and not get you caught up in my mess.” His hand switches from squeezing your shoulder to cupping your cheek, having wiped all of the blood off of your skin. “I warned you that the phantom kills despite Christine, not just for her. What I forgot to do was remind myself of that fact. I wanted to be your Raoul, Little Lotte, but…”

“But what? You can’t see me anymore just because you’re a vampire?” Goddamnit, you’d just decided to stop seeing Klaus, and now Elijah’s backing out, too? You can barely wrap your head around dealing with the loss of one, let alone both of them at the same time. “I don’t want Raoul, Elijah, it’s never been that for me, okay? I want Erik, The Phantom, I want you!”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You know not what you ask, but if that’s true I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of them, make sure that you’re protected. You have my word.”

“Take care of who, exactly?” You raise your eyebrows at him, hating not knowing the whole story, especially when it’s putting your life at risk. You understand that it takes time to open up to people about certain details of your life, but you’re way past all that now.

Elijah sighs and weaves his fingers into your hair, pulling on it just hard enough to make you look at him again. “Those men that attacked you were random criminals looking for a bite to eat, nothing more. They weren’t connected to any other vampire. In fact, you don’t even remember what they said to you or your brother. All that you can remember is that you were bitten, and that I saved you.”

“Right, you saved me.” You repeat back to him numbly, a docile smile spreading across your face.

“You won’t go out into the quarter after midnight again unless I’m with you, is that understood?” That ice cold timbre returns, quickly chilling you to the bone as he delivers his last hypnotic order of the night.

“I understand.” You nod into a kiss on your forehead as he drops the blood-soaked washcloth into the sink, wrapping his arms around you in a tight yet affectionate embrace.

“Good, now let’s get you out of these clothes.”

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

Tags: @hcqwxrtss123 @hayleym1234 @derangedangel

[craftyjesting]

"We've stated already. We were wrong to ridicule your help. It's as simple as that," he sighed in annoyance. "What do you mean by try? We succeeded. You've just not accepted," he retorts. The wit didn't falter despite their lording over them. "Chemicals nor pollutants affect us like humans or...people like you," he clarified on their earlier statement. They stretch their arms overhead until several cracks could be heard as air slipped out of joints. "I let Helios get to me and that affected everything I perceived. It shouldn't matter if intent was to show off to him. Still offered to help me when you didn't have to do so."

There's barely any sign of a wince at the fresh infliction to his neck. His tail flicks irritably behind him as he tries to resist the urge of pulling away. When it seemed they were done, the jester's gaze craned upward to meet Joseph's and promptly scowled at such a disgusted reaction. How rude! And then...they drooled on the spot they bit.... He's perplexed, grossed out, disturbed, and unsure what else to feel at that exact moment. "We've eaten nothing of the sort! But we work with metals and a forge. We sell a variety of armors and artworks," he explained. "Could be cause we inhaled the smog at times while we work..." he shrugged. There's a sudden shift of a smirk. "You're fortunate it wasn't paint thinner or black licorice." Weird views of 'turn offs' the imp certainly had. One was edible, the other most certainly not. Most the thinner would do is make the vampire high.

[ariiadnes]

ㅤ╭ ⿻ ･ PSYCHO HOLE

tomorrow / either i will murder you / or you will rinse the knife in water.

-ˋ ♡ ◞ arlecchino. genshin impact. cw : angst (?) ; mention of blood. quote cr : garous abdolmalekian. ashwarya. tagging @pixelcafe-network. repost.

act one : BUT THE STAIN OF A CURSED EXISTENCE IS A TREACHEROUS BEING : HIDEOUS , HORRIFYING , HUMANIZING.

the first time you witness the black that adorns her skin is the first time your heart beats in vast terror. a battle gone wrong, tattered clothes and gloves, and then the reveal of the truest & highest self of a harbinger.

you do not know what to do, what to think. you are unsure if it is the adrenaline of survival that makes the life in your chest ache violently so, or if it is the fear and wanting of the unknown.

arlecchino stands before you, yet you do not dare cast your gaze upon her. you swallow hard, eyes following the drips of sanguine that fall from wretched claws. oh, dearest, how they sink into the hollows of the world, forever fragmented into existence in remnant of death. the blood is too much. it's too much-- the way it splatters across her skin, nearly drenching all black until it is an ocean of madness and crimsons and massacres.

your hands tremble. your stomach churns. you look elsewhere, searching for refuge, but the blood follows, and somewhere in its meaning is the death of those it once belonged to, and that makes your heart beat faster and faster until you feel your mind on the verge of break.

"stand."

the blood is too much.

you listen, but still, you do not look. you are afraid, but you are unsure of what.

a sharpness digs into your face, sudden. harsh. her claws press into your skin-- not light, but seldom hard enough to draw blood. you know very well that she could harm you if she desired, yet she doesn't. she jerks your chin up, forces you to meet her gaze.

"it's ill-mannered to not look your savior in the eye."

your mouth runs dry. something unfamiliar gnaws at your humanity.

"i... am thankful that the blood on your hands is not mine."

and in the abyss of black and red, there's just the faintest trace of amusement in the echoes of apathy.

"a simple thank you would have sufficed."

act two : BUT THE STAIN OF A CURSED EXISTENCE IS A TREACHEROUS BEING : FRIGHTENING , FOREIGN , FATED.

you do not know what draws you to her, this harbinger. it has been a long while since your first encounter, and still, you have remained by her side. you do not know why. you do not know why she agrees to your companionship. you question it more often than you'd like.

she is a complexity of things you have yet to unravel, and truth be told, you doubt you will ever understand her, her past, or who she truly is, and maybe it's better that way. that's what you'll tell yourself, anyway, even if it might hurt.

because she is both safety and danger to you, and you wish that frightened you, but it doesn't. you wish that it would drive you away, but it doesn't. she is no sanctuary, no haven, and though she is lined with cruelty, there is not always a coldness in her heart. you know this.

"i did not save you with the intention of keeping your presence." she tells you one day, and you cannot help but smile.

she washes the crimson off her hands. an all too common sight you have grown to adore. you watch in fascination every time, searching the bright red that fades into an everlasting black.

"yet you do not push me away, arlecchino."

she does not respond. she stares at the bloodied waters, the hazy red a familiarity. in her muddled reflection, there is nothing but vacancy.

"no, i don't."

( she doesn't. she should. you both know this. )

act three : BUT THE STAIN OF A CURSED EXISTENCE IS A TREACHEROUS BEING : ADORED , ADMIRED , ANTAGONIZED.

the world is not meant to be viewed in good and evil, but how it is deeply desired so. it would make things simpler, wouldn't it? the truth would be so easy, the war between logic and emotion dissipated into black and white and seldom gray.

that's what you'd like to imagine, anyway. because even in a world full of good and evil, you do not know where you stand, nor do you know where arlecchino stands. your heart beats dearly for her, but you do not know whether it is with love or infatuation or with warning of the end to come.

perhaps it will be a happy ending. perhaps you will not be in it, whether in death or other means.

you are unsure.

you sit before her, staring at the translucent water in the basin. it has yet to be disturbed by another, pure. your reflection is curious, though you are unable to study it for long. your gaze shifts elsewhere as she grabs your jaw; it is a familiar feeling, the way she forces you to look at her.

it's a dark nostalgia, you think. the blood on her claws, the digging sensation in your face, though much gentler than before. you aren't afraid this time. she stares at you, visage empty. she waits.

your lips curve, subtle. there is a strange exhilaration in the mourning of it all, and one day, you will understand it.

"i wonder," you begin, hand wrapping around her wrist, "when it will be my blood on your hands one day."

something in her expression changes. you barely catch it, but even then, you cannot read it. she leans forward, closes the distance between you, her lips just inches away from yours.

"will you be thankful, even then?"

her grip on your jaw tightens, but still, the claws do not draw blood. you wish it did. you grin.

"of course." you answer, and slowly, you press your lips against hers. "i will always be thankful."

[torchflies]

I was cleaning out my drafts and found this tiny thing about vampires. For you, my beloved 💜 (ahem, middle-aged Val Kilmer).

Tomek Kazansky wakes from a dead sleep when a pair of hands close tightly around his ears, smothering the distant knell of a bell.

His blue eyes fly open to the sight of his ojciec chrzestny — his godfather — bent over him stiffly, stinking of nalewki, with an ax from the barn looped through his belt. 

The old man’s eyes are cold, assessing, as he drinks in the sight of a five-year-old Tomek, the bastard son of a Polish nun who never named a father. His warm skin clings to its golden color, even when winter traps them in their homes and away from the sun. He is ruddy and strong, his little round face always upturned towards the sky and seeking out parts unknown. He is Polish and he holds their secrets in the clicking of his young bones, in the caul he was born with — just like his mother, his Mama. 

“Come, Tomek.” His godfather, Piotr Czajkowski, says. “We must cut off her head by sunrise.”

His Mama’s grave is unquiet, that’s what his godfather says as they walk through the moonlit night and Tomek struggles beneath the weight of the heavy shovel handed to him. She has only been buried a day, dying before she could take The Sacrament.

“She is a vjesci now, lost to us.” His godfather growls — a vampire, as they unearth the pinewood box that houses her now. 

Tomek has heard stories of becoming a vjesci for all his life. Babies born the way he was, the way his Mama was, born en caul — inside their sacs — are destined to wake from death as a vjesci. The only way to prevent the change is to eat the dried remains of the sac on the eve of the seventh year of life. His Mama never did. Tomek knows the rules, the way all the children in his village do, on how to prevent his vjesci mother from rising out of her unquiet grave and killing him. That is the first task of any vjesci, to slaughter their friends and family — ringing the church bell to signify their deaths and harbinging many others. 

His Mama looks like she’s sleeping when they pry open her coffin, her cheeks still ruddy red and her hands flexible when his godfather lifts them: signs of life. 

There are six holes in her white dress, as if she had been eating the fabric away. 

That is the only proof his godfather needs before he — reaches a hand inside and lets her fingers coil around his.

She blinks open eyes of sanguine red and her lips curl in a bloody smile as she looks right at Tomek, her mouthful of sharp fangs reflecting off the light of the moon.

“Hello, Tomek.” She coos, “It’s almost time, little one. You will come home to us.” 

His godfather flashes a mouthful of similar fangs, and Tomek remembers — his godfather died last summer in the barn, his ax slipped while he was splitting wood. 

Tomek’s eyes grow wide and terrified, backing up to nearly trip into an open grave.

Come home, Tomek…

—

Come home, Tomek…

On the final night of Tom Kazansky’s life — he’s tired. His body is older than it should be, ravaged by a disease more nefarious than any of the monsters that haunted his childhood. Nightmares, dreams long forgotten, half-truths buried by a child who moved to America and left Poland behind to rot — not realizing how the tendrils of that life are woven into his very being, holding him fast. 

He dies in his sleep, a peaceful death, his tracheostomy grows clogged with secretions as he sleeps and he passes without a struggle.

The man he loves is miles away, protecting their child, as Tom Kazansky breathes his last. 

He just never expected to wake up again — or to wake up hungry. 

—

[ask-the-pale-elf]

what about tav giving astarion the true loves embrace ring and constantly using the warding bond without telling him. Eventually after noticing how he seems to never get hurt in battle while tav the careful one is always in pain does. Getting suspicious he asks gale about the ring tav gave and learns they have Brent a king the damage for him.

we love hurt comfort angst and all that ❤️

Despite the precision of his footwork, the vampire spawn couldn't avoid the holy mace of his opponent. Astarion clenched his eyelids shut as he braced for the pain, but none ever came. Instead, he heard a scream of pain... coming from you.

Astarion looked down at the ring you had gifted him and narrowed his eyes, something wasn't right... Despite his reservations and disagreements with the wizard, he went to consult with Gale regarding the matter. His brows furrowed when he learned the truth, his stomach twisted with learning the implications of what you had done.

After learning the truth, the pale elf marched towards you tending your wounds. His sanguine eyes locked onto the matching ring of yours. He crossed his arms and looked pointedly at you, "So darling, care to explain why you decided to gave me this?"

Astarion pointed to the ring on his finger, "You already get enough injuries as it is! Why are you taking the brunt of mine?! Is it because you want something for protecting me? Or do you just get your kicks from playing the hero? Or- Or- Why?! Why are you... putting yourself in harm's way for me?"

Some tears well up in Astarion's eyes, "Why would you get hurt for someone like me?"

(You can reply to this btw, I hope you enjoy the hurt in the hurt/comfort haha)

[intuitivealchemy]

Zodiac (Sun) Sign: Aries | Taurus | Gemini | Cancer | Leo | Virgo | Libra | Scorpio | Sagittarius | Capricorn | Aquarius | Pisces |

Moon Sign: Aries | Taurus | Gemini | Cancer | Leo | Virgo | Libra | Scorpio | Sagittarius | Capricorn | Aquarius | Pisces |

Rising Sign: Aries | Taurus | Gemini | Cancer | Leo | Virgo | Libra | Scorpio | Sagittarius | Capricorn | Aquarius | Pisces |

Myers-Briggs: ESFP | ISFP | ESTP | ISTP | ESTJ | ISTJ | ESFJ | ISFJ | ENFJ | INFJ | ENFP | INFP | ENTP | INTP | ENTJ | INTJ |

Life Path Number: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 11 | 22 | 33

Four Temperaments: Sanguine | Melancholic | Choleric | Phlegmatic

Enneagram (5w4): The Reformer (Type 1) | The Helper (Type 2) | The Achiever (Type 3) | The Individualist (Type 4) | The Thinker (Type 5) | The Loyalist (Type 6) | The Enthusiast (Type 7) | The Leader (Type 8) | The Peacemaker (Type 9) |

Tritype: 125, 152, 215, 251, 512, 521-The Mentor, 126, 162, 216, 261, 612, 621-The Supporter, 127, 172, 217, 271, 712, 721-The Teacher, 135, 153, 315, 351, 513, 531-The Technical Expert, 136, 163, 316, 361, 613, 631-The Taskmaster, 137, 173, 317, 371, 713, 731-The Systems Builder, 145, 154, 415, 451, 514, 541-The Researcher, 146, 164, 416, 461, 614, 641-The Philosopher, 147, 174, 417, 471, 714, 741-The Visionary, 258, 285, 528, 582, 825, 852-The Strategist, 259, 295, 529, 592, 925, 952-The Problem Solver, 268, 286, 628, 682, 826, 862-The Rescuer, 269, 296, 629, 692, 926, 962-The Good Samaritan, 278, 287, 728, 782, 827, 872-The Free Spirit, 279, 297, 729, 792, 927, 972-The Peacemaker, 358, 385, 538, 583, 835, 853-The Solution Master, 359, 395, 539, 593, 935, 953-The Thinker, 368, 386, 638, 683, 836, 863-The Justice Fighter, 369, 396, 639, 693, 936, 963-The Mediator, 378, 387, 738, 783, 837, 873-The Mover Shaker, 379, 397, 739, 793, 937, 973-The Ambassador, 458, 485, 548, 584, 845, 854-The Scholar, 459, 495, 549, 594, 945, 954-The Contemplative, 468, 486, 648, 684, 846, 864-The Truth Teller, 469, 496, 649, 694, 946, 964-The Seeker, 478, 487, 748, 784, 847, 874-The Messenger, 479, 497, 749, 794, 947, 974-The Gentle Spirit

Celtic Zodiac: Birch (The Achiever) | Rowan (The Thinker) | Ash (The Enchanter) | Alder (The Trailblazer) | Willow (The Observer) | Hawthrone (The Illusionist) | Oak (The Stabilizer) | Holly (The Ruler) | Hazel (The Knower) | Vine (The Equalizer) | Ivy (The Survivor) | Reed (The Inquisitor) | Elder (The Seeker) |

Celtic Animal Sign: Stag/Deer | Cat | Cow/Bull | Horse | Butterfly | Adder/Snake | Seahorse | Fish/Salmon | Wolf/Hound | Fox | Wren | Swan | Falcon/Hawk |

Soul Type (one test): I Hunter | Caregiver | Creator| Thinker | Helper | Educator | Performer | Leader | Spiritualist |

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor | Hufflepuff | Ravenclaw | Slytherin | Gryffinpuff/Huffledor | Gryffinclaw/Ravendor | Ravenpuff | Slytherclaw | Slytherdor | Slytherpuff

The Animal in You: Lion | Tiger | Dolphin| Bear | Wild Cat | Fox | Weasel | Badger | Dog | Otter | Wolf | Sea Lion | Wild Dog | Walrus | Gorilla | Deer | Rhinoceros | Hippo | Sable | Horse | Sheep | Mountain Goat | Warthog | Zebra | Baboon | Elephant | Bison | Giraffe | Cottontail | Mole | Bat | Porcupine | Beaver | Prairie Dog | Shrew | Mouse | Eagle | Rooster | Owl | Swan | Peacock | Vulture | Penguin | Crocodile | Snake |

Archetypes: Creative | Athlete | Rebel | Caregiver | Visionary | Royal | Performer | Spiritual | Tastemaker | Explorer | Advocate | Intellectual |

Brain Lateralisation Test: Left | Right|

Cerebral Personality Test: 1-10% | 11-20% | 21-30% | 31-40% | 41-50% | 51-60% | 61-70% | 71-80% | 81-90% | 91-100% |

Multiple Intelligences Test: Kinaesthetic | Linguistic | Logical | Interpersonal | Intrapersonal | Musical | Visual/Spatial | Naturalistic |

Levenson Self-Report Psychopathy Scale (Primary Psychopathy): 1 | 1.5 | 2 | 2.5 | 3 | 3.5 | 4 | 4.5 | 5

Levenson Self-Report Psychopathy Scale (Secondary Psychopathy): 1 | 1.5 | 2 | 2.5 | 3 | 3.5 | 4 | 4.5 | 5 |

Instinctual variant: sp/so | sp/sx | so/sp | so/sx | sx/sp | sx/so |

DISC Profile: D | I | S | C |

Alignment: Lawful Good | Neutral Good | Chaotic Good | Lawful Neutral | True Neutral | Chaotic Neutral | Lawful Evil | Neutral Evil | Chaotic Evil |

Aura Color: Red | Orange | Magenta | Yellow | Logical Tan | Environmental Tan | Sensitive Tan | Abstract Tan | Green | Blue | Violet | Crystal | Lavender | Indigo|

[7] Soul Types: Server | Artisan | Warrior | Scholar | Sage | Priest | King |

Deadly Sin: Wrath | Envy | Gluttony | Greed | Sloth | Lust | Pride |

Nerdy Personality Attribute Scale: 30 | 40 | 50 | 60 | 70 |

Empathy Quotient Test: 0 | 10 | 20 | 30 | 40 | 50 | 60 | 70 | 80 | 100 | 110 | 120 | 130 | 140 | 150 | 160 | 170 | 180 | 190 | 200 |

Helen Fisher’s Personality Test: Explorer | Builder | Director | Negotiator |

MOTIV: Materialistic | Ascetic | Offbeat | Conventional | Thinking | Haphazard | Interpersonal | Withholding | Vital | Depressed | Easygoing | Rigid |

Holland Code: Realistic | Investigative | Artistic | Social | Enterprising | Conventional |

Defense Mechanism: Regression | Displacement | Denial | Repression | Intellectualization | Reaction Formation | Projection | Compensation |

R-Drive Personality Test: Narcissism | Unconventionality | Empiricism | Vitality | Othercentricism | Independence | Integrity | Intellect | Stoicism | Orderliness | Dynamism | Activity | Romanticism | Hedonism |

[shadowshrike]

I just realized I'm missing a fun detail in my post about Halsin's treatment of Astarion's Ascension - his reaction to asking a story of the player in the Epilogue if the player is Ascended Astarion.

For those who don't know, the stories you can give Halsin in the Epilogue change depending on what character you play and the circumstances of your character at endgame. There are almost 30 different possible lines.

It always starts the same way:

Halsin: Please, spare no details. I shall not lie - I have an ulterior motive in wishing to hear all. It is the children, you see. My charges. Halsin: Their appetite for bedtime tales is greater than I could ever have anticipated: 'Another story, Daddy Halsin, another!' is the chorus that greets me each nightfall. Halsin:  They have all but exhausted my repertoire in but a few short months - no mean feat, given the lifetime I have lived. I desperately need new material, please. My reputation is at stake. Player: All right, let me see what I have... Halsin: I am all ears. Though I never cared for that phrase. A rather unsettling image...

When playing Ascended Origin Astarion, this is the exchange afterward:

Astarion: My tales are a little heavy on murder and sex. But if the children want to hear them... Halsin: Hmm. Perhaps I can substitute the bloodlust and... eh, general lust for cuddles and animals in the retelling. The children may be confused, but no matter - they will soon be asleep. Halsin: Even with a few little white lies, rest assured that they shall be engrossed. Thank you.

The audio of Halsin's initial reaction for your listening pleasure:

Halsin's awkward fumbling for a way to somehow make use of Astarion's tales about murder and sex in bedtime stories for the children is the funniest thing to me. He could just say "You know what? I appreciate the stories, but maybe your flavor of adventure would be better for the kids once they're older." That's what he does with his own raunchy stories, after all.

Player:  I expect you'll have a few tales that will need to wait until they are older. Halsin: More than a few, I should think. At least I shall be equipped to explain the birds and the bees when the time comes, but I hope that time is quite a while off yet.

He even does it to Dark Justiciar Shadowheart:

Shadowheart: Tell Halsin of how you consolidated your power over Lady Shar's church, purging the disloyal with bloody vigor. Halsin: My. Perhaps a tale for the older children, once I trim off a few of the... less savoury details. But thank you, all the same.

But no, Halsin is going to somehow force Lord Astarion's stories to be safe for the little kiddos. It's hilarious to imagine him feeling the need to make big, bad Astarion and his life of debauchery feel included in Halsin's own more bucolic existence. He may accept Astarion's wild stories into his repertoire, but Halsin is internally making note that Lord Astarion is absolutely not a good fit to ever become "Uncle Astarion". Some friends (or lovers) are only for adults to meet.

And, because I know some will be curious about how this compares to his other ends, Halsin's need to censor Astarion's stories is actually true for every version of Astarion. I just find his Ascended version is just the most blatant about it, though he's amusingly almost equally uncomfortable with a Spawn Astarion who has killed Cazador:

(Spawn, Cazador dead) Astarion: I've been revelling in my freedom, rediscovering the joys of the night. Halsin: Sanguine joys, no doubt? Perhaps I shall smoothen out some of those details - the children do not need to know the full truth of your diet. But they shall be rapt all the same, thank you.

The version where you've chosen not to kill Cazador before finishing the game is censored in a much different way, essentially turning Astarion's depressing story into one of perseverance.

(Spawn, Cazador alive) Astarion: Halsin, I've been hiding in sewers and eating rats. It's not a glorious tale. Halsin: Ah, but the glory can be found in the telling. The children love tales of underdogs, facing odds most unlikely. They shall appreciate your story, trust me.

You could dive into a huge analysis about this particular response regarding the morality of shielding children from unhappy endings and the enticing nature of stories about 'nobility in poverty', but that's a heavy philosophical debate I don't feel is suited for this silly little post. I just find these bonus endcaps really fun for the few who have persevered through an entire Origin run, and it's an extra crumb for the few who enjoy Ascended Astarion's odd chemistry with Halsin.