#smog veil

[weneverlearn]

Aaron Lange, Peter Laughner, and the Terminal Town of Cleveland, Ohio

Cleveland-based artist, Aaron Lange, tackles his first graphic novel, Ain't It Fun -- a deep dive into the oily depths of the Rust Belt's most influential music town, it's most mythological misfit, it's oft-forgotten artistic and political streaks, and beyond...

Aaron Lange and his book, 2023 (Photo by Jake Kelly)

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There’s a recurring line in Aaron Lange’s remarkable new graphic novel, Ain’t It Fun (Stone Church Press, 2023), that states, “Say the words out loud. The River isn’t real.” The river Lange was speaking of is the Cuyahoga, that infamously flammable mass of muck that dumps out into Lake Erie.

Peter Laughner (the ostensible topic of Lange’s book) was an amazing artist who probably could’ve ditched the banks of the Cuyahoga for more amenably artistic areas back in his early 1970s heyday. Aside from his frequent pilgrimages to the burgeoning NYC Lower East Side scene (where he nearly joined Television) and a quickly ditched attempt to live in California though, he mostly stuck around northeast Ohio.

While desperately trying to find his sound and a workable band, Laughner smelted a post-hippie, pre-punk amoebic folk rock, and formed the influential embryonic punk band, Rocket from the Tombs, which later morphed into Pere Ubu. All of which – lumped up with other rust-belted oddballs like electric eels, Mirrors, DEVO, the Numbers Band, Chi-Pig, Tin Huey, Rubber City Rebels, and more – essentially helped formed the “proto-punk” template.

Laughner was also a rock writer of some regional renown, and contributed numerous amphetamine-fueled articles to regional mags like The Scene and Creem -- mostly concerning where Rock'n'Roll was going, colored as he was by the Velvet Underground, the Stooges, David Bowie, and Roxy Music playing in Cleveland a bunch of times around his formative years.

Sadly, in June 1977, Laughner died of acute pancreatitis at age 24. Aside from the first two seminal Pere Ubu 7-inch singles, the rest of Laughner’s recorded output was just one very limited self-released EP and, posthumously, a great double-LP comp of demo and live tracks, Take the Guitar Player for a Ride (1993, Tim Kerr Records). A surprisingly large batch of unreleased lost demos, radio shows, and live tapes appeared on the beautiful and essential box set, Peter Laughner (Smog Veil Records, 2019), that brought Laughner’s legend just a few blocks outside of Fringeville, as it received universally great reviews….

The Dead Boys became the most well-known act of that mid-70s Cleveland scene, though that only happened once they high-tailed it to NYC. Aside from DEVO, Chrissie Hynde, and the Waitresses (all of whom did their own versions of high-tailing it), nearly every other act in that fertile Cle-Akron proto-punk vortex soon dissipated, eventually getting the cult treatment at best.

Cleveland is indeed right there with NYC and London as punk ground zero, but Americans tend to equate buyable products as proof of import, so shockingly, the Pagans and The Styrenes just aren’t the household name they should be.

Decades of tape-trading stories, sub-indie label limited releases, and fanzine debates kept the mythology of those acts barely breathing underneath the end of the milennium’s increasingly loud R'n'R death knell. And as that mythology slowly grew, the fans and even the musicians of the scene itself still wonder what it all meant.     

Which, as you dig deeper into Ain’t It Fun, becomes the theme not just about the legendary rocker ghost of Peter Laughner, but of Cleveland itself. Ala Greil Marcus’ classic “hidden history” tome, Lipstick Traces, Lange interweaves Laughner’s self-immolating attempts at Beatnik-art-punk transcendence with a very detailed history of Cleveland, with its insane anti-legends and foot-shooting civic development.

Like much of the dank, rusted, and mysterious edges of the one-time “Sixth City,” the Cuyahoga has been cleaned up since, though I still wouldn’t suggest slurping up a swallow if you’re hanging on the banks of the Flats. I grew up in Cleveland and visit as often as I can because it’s an awesome place, no matter what they tell you. Or maybe, because of what they tell you.

If you are keen to swim down through the muck and mire of Cleveland’s charms, you don’t just get used to it, you like it. As for the “Cleveland” that the City Fathers have always tried so vainly to hype, us hopelessly romantic proto-punk fanatics say to those who would erase Cleveland’s fucked-up past and replace it with that weird fake greenspace underneath the Terminal Tower: “The City isn’t real.”

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Give us a quick bio.

Born in Cleveland, 1981. We moved to the west side suburbs when I was six. My parents didn’t listen to much music, and I don’t have older siblings. So I didn’t really listen to music at all until I was in high school, and I didn’t listen to any of the grunge or ‘90s stuff that was popular. I got real into the Beatles when I was in ninth grade, and at some point I got the Velvet Underground’s first album from the library because I saw Andy Warhol’s name on the cover. I didn’t know anything about them, so that was a real shock. I probably first heard Iggy Pop via the Trainspotting soundtrack, and pretty soon after I started getting into punk and generally more obscure stuff. Now I listen to more electronic stuff, ambient stuff. I also like most anything that falls under the broad “post-punk” umbrella. I really hate “rama-lama ding-dong” rock and roll.

What came first – music or drawing interest?

Drawing. I was always drawing… I’ve been a semi-regular contributor to Mineshaft for many years, which is a small zine/journal that features a lot of underground comix related stuff, but also has a beatnik vibe and includes poetry and writing. I’ve done the odd thing here and there for other zines, but I don’t really fit in anywhere.

Don’t really fit it – I feel that phrase describes a lot of the best / more influential Ohio musicians / bands. Did you feel that kind of feeling about Peter as you researched and wrote the book?

Peter was well liked, and he knew a vast array of people. If anything, he fit in in too many situations. He was spread thin.

When you lived in Philly, did you get a sense of any kind of similar proto-punk scene / era in that town? I sometimes, perhaps jingoistically, think this particular kind of music is almost exclusively confined to the Rust Belt.

I lived in Philly for nearly 11 years. As far as the old scene there, they had Pure Hell. But back then, anybody who really wanted to do something like that would just move to NYC.

So, is there a moment in time that started you on a path towards wanting to dig into Cleveland’s proto-punk past like this?

It was just something I had a vague interest in, going back to when I first heard Pere Ubu. And then later learning about the electric eels, and starting to get a feeling that Cleveland had a lot more to offer than just the Dead Boys. The Rocket from the Tombs reunion got things going, and that’s when I first started to hear Laughner’s name. A few years later, a friend sent me a burned CD of the Take the Guitar Player for a Ride collection, and I started to get more interested in Peter specifically.

Despite any first wave punk fan’s excitement about a Laughner bio, this book is moreso a history of Cleveland, and trying to connect those odd underground, counterculture, or mythological connections that the Chamber of Commerce tends to ignor as the town’s import. Was there a moment where you realized this book needed to go a little wider than only telling the tales of Laughner and the bands of that era? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that!)

Very early on I realized that none of this would make sense or have any true meaning without the appropriate context. The activities of the early Cle punk scene need to be viewed in relation to what was going on in the city. I think this is just as true with NYC or London – these were very specific contexts, all tangled up in politics, crime, rent, television, and also the specifics of the more hippie-ish local countercultures that preceded each region. You’ve got Bowie and Warhol and all that, but in Cleveland you’ve also got Ghoulardi and d.a. levy. Mix that up with deindustrialization and a picture starts to form.

So when did you decide on doing this book? You’ve mentioned this was your first attempt at doing a full graphic novel – and boy, you went epic on it!

I did a short version of Peter’s story back when I was living in Philadelphia. But upon completing that version – which I now think of as a sketch – it became clear that there was a lot more to say and to investigate. I spent about a year just thinking about it, forming contacts with some people, and tracking down various reference materials like records, zines, books, etc. Then my wife got a new job at Cleveland State University, so we left Philly. Once I landed back in Cleveland I started working on the book in earnest.

Page from Ain't It Fun -- all book images courtesy of the author.

By any chance was Greil Marcus’ book, Lipstick Traces (1989), an inspiration, as far as the “hidden history” factor, the trying to connect seemingly unconnected and lost historical footnotes into a path towards the culture’s future?

Yes. I read Lipstick Traces when I was around 19 or 20, and I’d never seen anything like it before. It really blew my mind, all the stuff about the Situationists and Dadaists and all that. Later on, I read Nick Tosches’ Dean Martin biography, Dino, and that was another mind blower. Another major influence is Iain Sinclair.

Ah Dino, another Ohio native. So, Laughner’s one-time partner, Charlotte Pressler’s book is mentioned, and I’ve seen it referenced and talked about for years – any inside word on if/when she might have that published?

Charlotte never wrote a book, though she did co-edit a book that collected the work of local poets. As far as her own writing, she’s done all manner of essays and poetry, and probably some academic writing that I’m not familiar with. As far as her completing “Those Were Different Times”— which was intended as a total of three essays— I’ve got some thoughts on that, but it’s not really my place to comment on it.

Pressler sounds like a very serious person in your book, as you say, she was kind of older than her years. But how was she to talk to?

Charlotte is serious, but she’s not dour. She’s got a sense of humor and she’s very curious about the world, always looking to learn new things. She’s an intellectual, and has a wide array of interests. We get along, we’re friends.

The fact that the town’s namesake, Moses Cleveland, left soon after his “discovery” and never came back – that’s like a template for how people envision a town like Cleveland: nice place to grow up, but you want to get out as soon as you’re legal. Even the musicians of the area might’ve agreed with that sentiment, even if many never left.  Do you think that has changed?

I’m glad I left Cleveland, but I’m also glad I came back. First off, my family is here. Second, the cost of living is still reasonable. I don’t know how people live in New York. I never have any money. I’d make more money if I had a full-time job at McDonald’s. That’s not a joke, or me being self-deprecating. How do artists live in New York? How do they afford rent and 20 dollar packs of cigarettes? I’m just totally confused by the basic mechanics of this. So yeah, I’m in Cleveland. It’s not great, but what are my options? I can’t just go to Paris and fuck around like a bohemian. I would if I could.

In Ain't It Fun, you reveal that one of the seminal Cleveland scene dives, Pirate's Cove, was once a Rockerfeller warehouse  – these kind of enlightening, almost comically perfect metaphors pop up every few pages. Not unlike the mythology that can sometimes arise in musician fandom, I wonder if these are metaphors we can mine, or just an obvious facts that the town drifted down from a center of industry to relative poverty.

“Metaphor” might be at too much of a remove. These facts, these landmarks — they create a complex of semiotics, a map, a framework. The city talks through its symbols and its landscape. If you submit to it and listen, it will tell you secrets. There is nothing metaphorical about this.

Is it a sign of privilege to look on destitution as inspiration? I’m guessing the sick drunks at Pirate’s Cove in 1975 weren’t thinking they were living in a rusty Paris of the ‘30s. Though I will say a thing I really loved about your book was that, for all its yearning and historical weaving, you still stick to facts and don’t seem to over-mythologize or put any gauze on the smog, like “Isn’t that so cool, man.” You capture the quiet and damp desperation of that era and Laughner’s milieu.

Poverty, decline, decay, entropy – these things are real. By aestheticizing them we are able to gain some control over them. And once you have control, you have the power to change things. This is not “slumming.” “Privilege” has nothing to do with it.

Page from Ain't It Fun

Do you know why the Terminal Tower (once the second tallest building in the world when it opened in 1928) was named that? It seems somewhat fatalistic, given the usual futurist positivism of the deco design era.

Terminal as in train terminal. It really pisses me off that there was once a time where you could go there and catch a train to Chicago or New York. It’s infuriating how this country dismantled its rail systems. And the Terminal Tower isn’t deco, but I think it is often confused with that style just by virtue of not being a gigantic rectangle. In that sense it does have more in common with a deco structure like the Chrysler building. Honestly, if you are looking for deco you might find more notable examples in Akron than you would Cleveland.

I notice a kind of – and bear with my lesser abilities to describe illustrative art – swirly style in your work that kind of aligns with art deco curves, maybe some Gustav Klimt…? In general, who were some illustrative inspirations for you early on?

That “swirly” style you describe is art nouveau. Deco came after that, and is more angular and clean. Additionally, a lot of underground comix guys were also poster artists, and there was often a nouveau influence in that psychedelic work – so there’s a bit of a thread there. As far as Klimt, I came to him kinda late, but I love him now.

The music of many northeast Ohio bands of that era has been generally tagged as “industrial” (the pre-dance industrial style, of course), cranky like the machinery of the sputtering factories in the Flats, etc… My guess is maybe the musicians were already finding used R'n'R instruments in thrift stores by that time, which would add a kind of layer of revision, turning old things into new sounds. Did you hear about of any of that? Or were there enough music stores around town? I know DEVO was already taking used instruments and refitting them; or electric eels using sheet metal and such to bang on…

I’m not a musician, so I don’t know anything about gear or stuff like that. I do know that Allen Ravenstine made field recordings in the Flats, and utilized them via his synthesizer. Frankly, I wish more of the Northeast Ohio bands had taken cues from Ubu and early Devo, because an “industrial” subculture definitely could have formed, like it did in England and San Francisco. But that never really happened here.

That kind of music was pretty popular on college radio and in a few clubs in Cleveland, though not many original bands with that sound arrived, aside from Nine Inch Nails who quickly took his act elsewhere… So in the book you mention local newsman, Dick Fealger. My memories of him are as a curmudgeon whose shtick was getting a little old by the time I was seeing him on the news, or his later opinion columns. Kinda your classic “Hey you kids, get off my lawn” style. You rightly paint him as a somewhat prescient reporter of the odd in his earlier days, though. I once had to go to a friend’s mother’s funeral, and in the next room in the funeral home was Dick Feagler’s funeral. I always regret not sneaking over and taking a peak into it to see who was there.

I like Feagler in the same way that I liked Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes. These were people that my grandparents liked. So I suppose my appreciation for Feagler is half nostalgia, half irony. I like cranks, grumps, letter-writers, street prophets. I like black coffee, donuts, diners, and blue plate specials – that’s Feagler’s world, the old newspaper world. Get up at 6 am and put your pants on, that kinda thing.

Yeah, I still found Feagler kinda funny, but like Jane Scott, while respect was always there, by the later ‘80s/’90s, both were set into almost caricatures  who were kind of resting on their laurels. 

Yeah, I remember seeing Jane at some random Grog Shop show back in the ‘90s, and I was kinda impressed. But no, she was never really cool. Jane was pure Cleveland, her career couldn't have happened anywhere else.

I remember seeing her sit right next to a huge house amp at the old Variety Theater for the entire duration of a Dead Kennedys show, taking notes for her review. Pretty impressive given her age at that point.

You also make a point of carving out an important space for The Damnation of Adam Blessing, a band that seems to get forgotten when discussing Cleveland’s pre-punk band gaggle. I find that interesting because in a way, they are the template for the way many Ohio bands don’t fit into any exact genre, and so often people don’t “get” them, or they’re forgotten later.

Damnation worked as a good local example for that whole psychedelic thing. They were very ‘60s. While the James Gang on the other hand, was more ‘70s— the cracks were starting to show with the ‘70s bands, they were harder and less utopian. Damnation feels more “Woodstock,” so they were useful to me in that regard.

I must add – for years I thought it was pronounced Laugh-ner, as in to laugh, ha ha, not knowing the Gaelic roots. Once I learned I was pronouncing it wrong, I still wanted to pronounce it like laughing, as it seemed to fit so darkly correct with how his life went, and Cleveland musicians’ love of bad puns and cheap comedians and such… Of course when I learned that it was an “ethnic” name, it made it that much more Cleveland.

Yeah, everybody says his name wrong. I used to too, and had to really force myself to start saying it as Lochner. But everybody says Pere Ubu wrong as well – it’s Pear Ubu.

I hate any desecration of any artwork, but I always loved the blowing up The Thinker statue story, as it seemed such a powerful metaphor of the strength of art, and Cleveland itself – the fact that The Thinker himself still sits there, right on top of the sliced-up and sweeping shards from the blast. It’s still there, right? And isn’t it true that there are like three more “official” Thinker statues in the world?

Yeah, I don’t condone what happened, but it is kinda cool. As a kid, the mutilated Thinker had a strong effect on me — I couldn’t have put it into words at the time, but I think it gave me a sense of the weight of history. It’s almost like a post-war artifact in Europe, something that is scarred. And yes, it’s still there outside the museum. And it’s a cast. I think there might be five official ones, but I’d have to look that up. If you are ever in Philadelphia, swing by the Rodin museum and check out The Gates of Hell.

I have only become a bigger fan of Laughner’s as the years pass. But there is something to the critique that perhaps he never really found his singular sound; that he was copping bits from Lou Reed and Dylan, and couldn’t keep a band together to save his life. And there was supposedly a feeling among some in the NYC scene that he was a bit of a carpetbagger.

Everybody has their influences, so Peter wasn’t in any way unique in that sense. I know he has a reputation for doing a lot of cover songs — which is true — but he also wrote a lot of originals, and there are some damn good ones which are still unreleased. “Under the Volcano” is just one such unheard song which I mention in my book, but there are others. As far as finding his own singular sound, he probably came closest to that with Friction. That group borrowed heavily from Television and Richard Hell, but also drew upon Richard Thompson and Fairport Convention. And when you think about it, those were really unlikely influences to juxtapose, and it created something original. Frustratingly though, Friction never achieved their full potential, as Peter was already losing it.

Yeah, Friction is kind of way up there with the “What if” bands… It’s interesting that for all his legend as a proto-punk figure, perhaps Laughner’s signature songs – Sylvia Plath” and “Baudelaire” – were gorgeous acoustic numbers. Though of course those early Pere Ubu songs were proto-punk and post-punk templates, somehow...

I honestly don’t know what happened with Ubu, as it is pretty distinct from Peter’s other work. Thomas isn’t really a musician, so we can only give him so much credit with how that sound developed. I honestly don’t know. There just must have been some sort of alchemy between the various players, and Thomas understood it and was able to encourage and guide it in the projects that followed over the years.

Page from Ain't It Fun

You also didn’t really detail Pere Ubu’s initial breakup – was there just not much to say?

Yeah, I think I mentioned it, but no, I didn’t really get into it. Pere Ubu is kind of a story unto themselves. But it might be worth mentioning here that Home and Garden was an interesting project that came out of that Ubu breakup. And Thomas also did some solo albums, but I’m not as familiar with those.

Yeah, I saw Home and Garden a few times way back, good stuff. You’ve mentioned to me that there were some people that didn’t want to talk to you for the book; and that people were very protective of Peter’s legacy and/or their friendship with him. To what do you attribute that?

It has everything to do with Peter’s early death. Some people are very protective of how Peter is remembered. And I think some people weren’t exposed to Peter’s dark side, so when they hear those descriptions of him it strikes them as untrue. I think Peter showed different sides of himself to different people.

I kind of felt as I was reading that you might say more about Harvey Pekar, as not only is he an interesting figure, but the most famous graphic novelist from Ohio, and I assume an inspiration of your’s.

Pekar’s great. Especially the magazine-size issues he was doing in the late ‘70s up through the ‘80s. It was important to me to include him in the book. But Pekar was a jazz guy, and that’s a whole other story, a whole other tangled web.

So, Balloonfest! Hilarious. I almost forgot about that. But I do remember Ted Stepien owning the short-lived Cleveland professional softball team; and for a promotion, they dropped softballs off the Terminal Tower, and if you caught one you won $1,000 or something. Do you recall that? It’s one of my favorite fucked-up Cleveland stories. Balls smashed car roofs, and cops immediately told people to run away.

Yeah, I’m aware of that baseball stunt. I generally try and stay away from anything even remotely related to professional sports teams — it gets talked about more than enough elsewhere. Oddly, I am interested in athletes who work alone, like Olympic skiers. I’m attracted to that solitary focus, where the athlete isn’t competing against other teams or players, but more competing with the limits of the human body, competing with what the physical world will allow and permit, that whole Herzog trip. I’m also interested in the Olympic Village, as this artificial space that mutates and moves across time and across continents.

As far as Balloonfest, I still watch that footage all the time. I use it as a meditation device. I’ll put it on along with Metal Machine Music and go into a trance.

A few years ago, as I am sure you are well aware, noted British punk historian Jon Savage put together a Soul Jazz Records comp of Cleveland proto-punk called Extermination Nights in the Sixth City. I grew up in Cleveland, lived in Columbus for awhile, and I never heard it called “the Sixth City.” Have you? If so, what does it refer to?

Nobody calls it that anymore. It’s an old nickname back from when Cleveland was literally the sixth largest city in the country.

I’d guess Ain’t It Fun was a tiring feat to accomplish. But do you have another book in the works? And if someone wanted to option Peter’s story for a movie, would you sign on? I personally dread rock biopics. They’re almost universally bad.

Yeah, I’ve got an idea for another book, but it’s too early to talk about that. As far as biopics, they are almost always bad, rock or otherwise. Rock documentaries are often pretty lousy too. A recent and major exception would be Todd Haynes’ Velvet Underground documentary, which is just goddamn brilliant. A film about Peter in that vein would be great— but there’s just no footage to work from. He didn’t have Warhol or Factory people following him around with a camera. So unless somebody like Jim Jarmusch comes calling, I won’t be signing off on movie rights any time soon.

Unless there is more you’d like to say, thanks, and good luck with the book and future ventures!

Stone Church Press has a lot of projects planned for 2024 and beyond, and I encourage anyone reading this to support small publishers. There is a lot of very exciting stuff going on, but you have to work a little to find it. Amazon, algorithms, big corporate publishers — they’re like this endless blanket of concrete that smothers and suffocates. But flowers have a way of popping up between the cracks.

Aaron Lange, 2023 (Photo by Jake Kelly)

[witchern]

the smoke smell from the wildfires is finally starting to seep into my bedroom and i've never been more unmotivated to do work in my entire life.

[lurukifennecfox]

The spirit of Amity Park and Lady Gotham

Amity was a strong spirit. stronger than any city her size or age had any right to be, but she was, and she was going to make it matter.

Gotham was old, she was strong but sick and cursed so she couldn't do much but make her shadows that much darker, enough to be unseen, make her sounds that much louder enough to be unheard, guide the debris or a stray bullet a little to the left so that it would only graze not kill. even sick and hurt she was stubborn and she would make it matter.

Amity was younger than Gotham, most were, but Gotham was impressed with her. just like her Protector Amity was way too strong and way too young and very ambitious and protective of Hers.

they had that in common, Gotham was protective, Possesive. Her people were hers and hers only if they weren't Amity's first she couldn't take them, she would.

Amity was like her people, she was adaptive, sceptical but friendly, hard to gain trust from but loyal if you did. Amity was like her Protectors, she was determined and protective, she was fun but serious.

Gotham was like her people, she was a survivor, untrusting and brash, stubborn but flexible. Gotham was like her Bats, she was curious but secretive, protective to the point of possesivnes, calculated but quippy.

Amity was young and her form reflected that, she looked like a pre-teen like most her Protectors, her wheat blonde hair in star clipped twin-tails, a replica of the Ops Centre for a hat, eyes bright green and glowing freckles dusting her cheeks. her clothes were bright like her houses, always having funny accents and accessories and teared holes, her nails were painted but always chipped.

her laughter was loud with explosions and honking of cars and her voice was chipper and cracking.

Gotham was mature and so was her form, her hair black, iridescent and dripping like an oil spill, her face sickly pale(or ashen) and eyes solid yellow with bat shaped pupils (they were blood red before, just like her lips are) she is always dressed in black, blending with her shadows, clothes elegant but ripped and dirty, bloody pearls on her neck, black claws dripping oil like her hair, breath fogging with smog.

her laughter had clanking of weapons and banging of shots, her voice was raspy and strangled.

Amity looked up to Gotham, her determination and stubborn persistence to protect Hers, her funny quips and sarcastic comments.

They weren't too far by city spirit standards, they were on the same continent after all. And Amity could be that much farther, that much closer, just on the other side of the veil. Amity was in the Realms once, she knew the way back.

[flowercrowngods]

something so monstrous pt.2

(in which kas feeds from steve and triggers a bad migraine pt.2)

🤍🌷 read part 1 here this part gets really intense on the migraine. descriptions of immense pain, fever dreams, and vomiting, some body horror imagery bc pain can be fun like that

Time and space lose all meaning as Steve remains on the precipice of something that is too violent to be called sleep, but not harsh enough yet to be unconsciousness. Real sensations evade him as everything turns into pain immediately. Even the twitch of his finger becomes a thundering blaze of blinding pain shooting through his body and settling behind his eye until he is sure he will wake up blind. 

The fear of that is everpresent, the blind spots too real to ignore every time it goes like this, and he imagines how they will grow. He imagines how they get worse every time until one day the pain inside his skull will be so immense it will take his eyesight in exchange for alleviation.

And even though it is unbearable, he opens his eyes whenever he can, just to make sure he can see still. It’s an added veil of terror that covers him whole and consumes him slowly but continually. 

At some point he notices something cold and wet being placed over his eyes, adding another layer of darkness that is welcome, even if it leaves an imprint of pressure and sensation on his forehead that makes his skin tear around it, his skull cracking and caving in beneath the touch. 

And still it helps a little, pulling him further toward consciousness but not further toward the pain itself. But Steve can only whimper weakly in response, six feet under a thick cloud of cotton-filled smog that even turns breathing into a chore, polluting his lungs with fear and horror and agony without compare.

He does fall into a fitful sleep at some point, grateful for the short reprieve, but it does nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. 

It feels like his eyeballs are being pushed into his skull for what must be hours upon hours, and the pain is so unbearable, so horrible, that he's not at all surprised when nausea rises in his chest, his body responding to its current state with confusion and a hard-reset. 

Steve keens, trying to roll onto his side, groaning at the flares of pain shooting up into his skull and down into his limbs. They only worsen the nausea and it's pure instinct that gives him the strength to sit up. 

"Kas?” he whispers, swallowing thickly against another wave. "Bathroom?” 

Instead of giving him directions or pulling him up to drag him there, Kas wastes no time. He gets up off the floor, approaching him with shuffling steps once more, and gently but quickly lifts Steve off the bed in a hold — firm, yet gentle — that brings another sting of tears to Steve's eyes. Pain and vulnerability and the need for everything to be over. That’s what makes him cry.

Still he manages to hold on, his head rolling onto Kas's shoulder, the skin of his neck blissfully cool against Steve’s overheated forehead pressing into him. 

Make it stop, he thinks. Longs. Aches. It’s supposed to be over. It’s all supposed to be over now. 

He whimpers again, and imagines that Kas is the one to softly shush him this time.

The coolness of Kas's neck is gone all too soon as the vampire sets Steve on the hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor. He doesn't go far, though, crouching down beside him and holding him up over the toilet. Steve can't see anything, but still he’s grateful that Kas left the lights off, the bathroom tinged in the same darkness as his bedroom. 

Pathetically, Steve rests his forehead on the toilet seat, chasing the coldness of it as pain and nausea reach their peak. It’s disgusting, but be’s not strong enough to care. A whine breaks from him, and he wishes Kas would leave. Even though the cold hand on his neck feels good, and even though he knows he wouldn't be able to hold himself up right now. 

I'm not weak, he wants to say. And maybe he does. But he can't recognise his own voice right now. 

"Not weak, maybe, but pathetic." 

No. 

"You know you are." 

Shut up. Go away. 

It doesn't make sense for Mr Munson to suddenly be here with them, to stand in the doorway and watch his nephew, who is more monster than human these days, holding up the pathetic form of Steve, who is more pain than human. More smoke than human. More vulnerable weakness than remotely human.

Go away. Eddie? I want him to go away. Tell— Go ‘way. 

The hand wanders, pulling Steve against cool skin again so his forehead rests against the toilet no longer, basking in the cold touch and the warmth of a body to hold him. 

"Safe," Kas says, and Steve wants to badly to believe him. Wants Wayne to leave, wants everyone to leave and just let him suffer in silence and solitude like always. 

Wayne starts talking again, but Steve can't hear him this time as he suddenly heaves and retches, throwing up what little he had to eat today. Over and over and over.

It goes like this for a long time. He has no idea how long. Has no idea where he even is anymore. 

The world tilts a few times when he loses his grip, his arms buckling, his hands spasming and giving out, and still he never falls. Only ever feels the cold, damp skin of Kas’s neck. 

Kas has to carry him to bed when he's done and on the brink of passing out again, and Steve doesn’t mind this time. Kas also hands him a glass of water or two before pushing him back to lie down again. That’s nice. 

The wet cloth returns, and Steve isn't aware of his surroundings for much more after that.

—— 

The next time Steve comes to, he feels like he was freshly dragged through Lover’s Lake until his lungs gave out. His head is pulsing violently, his senses are sluggish and everything feels foggy. He has no idea where he is, the room pitch black around him as he lifts a lukewarm damp cloth from his eyes. 

A soft groan falls from his lips as he stretches his aching, cramped limbs, rubbing his hands over his face and regaining the feeling in his body. Little pinpricks of phantom pain shoot through him, his mouth tastes like ash and his head protests rather violently against his pathetic attempt at sitting up. 

He is disoriented and something about his vision is still messed up, something in the depths of the room not quite right and leaving him with a dizziness he can’t quite shake, followed by a wave of anxiety that something’s wrong with his eyes. 

He blinks. Blinks again, finding more things in the strange room as he does, his sluggish brain slowly catching up and filling in the blanks.

It all comes back to him like a tidal wave when he suddenly finds himself blinking at a pair of red eyes, softly glowing and wide open. 

“Kas,” he croaks, his throat absolutely parched. 

One second he’s wincing at that, the next he finds a cool glass of water pressed into his hands before the eyes and the shadowy form they belong to retreat to the foot of the bed again. 

 “Thanks,” he murmurs, stalling as he takes a sip. Embarrassment rises in him, but he doesn’t want to apologise. The thought of that somehow makes the vulnerability that much worse, so he tries to ignore it. It’ll all be fine if they simply not acknowledge it. 

He wants to ask for the time instead, wants to know how much the migraine took from him this time, but he knows Kas doesn’t really understand the concept of it all, let alone know the numbers. 

A silence settles between them and it’s somewhere between welcome and uncomfortable. Just like everything that happens in Hawkins. It makes Steve feel like a ghost again, but this time he’s a ghost in the room, not just in his own head. He’s the one who’s out of place.

With a little sigh, he places the glass on the makeshift nightstand again and falls over onto his side. His head is mad at him for it, still feeling too fragile for sudden movements, but lying down feels better than sitting.

There’s a huff from Kas that sounds more amused than derisive, so Steve looks at him. Looks at the shimmer in those eyes before closing his own again, not wanting to be looked at right now. Not wanting to face it.

“You,” Kas says then, his voice quiet and without the edge of that animalistic growl. The sound of someone who’s not meant to speak at all. The souvenir of someone who was human once before Evil grabbed him and modified him to His liking. 

“Me,” Steve says, an automatic response, just as quiet. He’s listening. 

“How… How are…” Kas struggles, huffing in frustration at the words that refuse to come, but still it’s the most coherent Steve has ever heard him. It makes him sit up half way again; leaning his weight on one arm to focus all his foggy and cloudy attention on the vampire trying to ask him how he is feeling. 

No more words come, though, the question half finished in the air between them. But somehow it makes Steve smile. Just a little bit. This feels important. And huge.

“My head hurts,” he answers truthfully, amused when Kas’s eyes snap back to his. To search them. To communicate something.

“Hurts?” 

“Yeah. It will, for a while. Always does. Nothing to do about it, really.” He wishes he felt as indifferent to it as he sounds, but that’s just the tiredness clouding his tone. It’s fast approaching now that he knows he’s relatively safe. Now that he knows he can rest. His arm gives out and he slides, slowly this time, back to lie on the pillow. “But it’s not as bad. And the other pain is gone, so…” 

So. He could go home now. He should, probably. Ignoring the weakness in his bones and the exhaustion in his every fiber. If he closed his eyes again right now, he could fall asleep. Still, maybe he should—

“Stay,” Kas says again, and Steve really should have figured. He’s not quite well enough to really fight him on that, though, so he shrugs. 

“Fine,” he mumbles into the pillow, halfway back to slumberland already. 

There’s movement on the foot of the bed, and before he knows it Kas has tucked him in again, draped across the pillows as he is. It’s still unreal, that, but Steve won’t complain. What’s even more unreal, though, is the image Steve gets of Kas curling up by the foot of the bed in a similar position. As if he still means to keep watch. 

It’s ridiculous. A little weird. And sort of endearing.

——

The next time Steve wakes, everything around him is a little brighter, daylight fighting weakly to fill the room, but it stands no chance against the large wooden planks and thick curtains meant to block it out permanently. 

He blinks away the heaviness, taking stock of his body. There is a crick in his neck and burgeoning cramps in his side and hip from the position he’s still in, and this head still is a pulsing, aching mess — but no more than usual. 

He taps the pads of his fingers to his thumb before flexing his hands. Only then does he stretch the rest of his body and announce his wakefulness. 

Opposite him, at the foot of the bed, Kas is already awake and still in the same position that Steve saw him last. Did he even sleep? Does he need that? Or has he just been staring at Steve, watching him, ready to carry him to the bathroom again for round two. 

The thought of that makes his skin crawl.

“Hi,” he says to fill the silence that is all too inviting for his spiralling mind.

Kas grunts, but it sounds more like a hum. Sort of gentle around the edges. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem at all fazed that they’re just kind of staring at each other. Steve swallows, not really sure how to go from here.

He fists the blanket and rubs the linen bedding between his fingers, feels the rough fabric catching on the callouses along his hands as uncomfortable seconds tick by. Still Kas doesn’t move. 

“Listen, man,” Steve says at last, thinking back to yesterday’s events and the vampire’s sudden care. “Thanks, alright? What you did, that was, uh. That was nice. You didn’t have to do any of that.” 

Another hum, and it occurs to Steve that Kas is back in his normal state, retreated back into his mind, hiding from the world himself now that it no longer needs him. It’s a strange thought, that Steve being hurt would be what brings him back. If at all. Maybe he’s reading it all wrong. Maybe it as just a coincidence, or maybe Kas tasted something in his blood that made him want to improve Steve’s physical state for selfish purposes. That’s probably more likely.

But it makes him feel even more wrong-footed than before, and it leaves him hyper-aware of the situation. Of their dynamic. Indifference and annoyance and… He doesn’t want it to change, doesn’t want some kind of debt between himself and Kas — especially not when Kas has no means to really settle it. But he also can’t feign some kind of gratitude when what he feels the most is mortification and embarrassment; and he sure as hell doesn’t want Kas to know that either. 

So he throws back the blanket and gets out of the bed, a little dizzy at first, but he doesn’t care as he slips into his shoes and hurries out of the room. 

He just wants to leave. Get out of here and go home, go back to bed and get over the mortification of having been seen like this. Of having been taken care of. By someone who doesn’t even like him. By someone who hissed and snapped at him one moment and then carried him to the bathroom the next. 

“It looks like there’s nothing human left in him, but we do have data that suggest otherwise.” Owens’s words echo through his mind as he crosses the living room. “It seems to be in hiding, the Munson part of him; that’s our hope at least. That you can get him back out one day, make him win over the vampire part. It could be like a self defence mechanism, I guess. We hope he can still be coaxed back into the land of the living. How, though, we don’t know.”

Was this what happened? Has Steve’s weakness triggered the human part of Kas’s tortured brain to take over? No, that can’t be. 

It seems unreal. Unlikely. Wayne telling him stories or Dustin talking about their campaign, that should have helped. Even Mike playing the guitar, or Robin rambling about something or other; all of that was much more close to who Munson was. Or used to be. Eddie Munson never struck Steve as someone who took care of people naturally. Someone who stepped in. He stepped up, sure, but only ever for the wrong reasons. 

It makes no sense. So it must be wrong; just Steve’s exhausted brain grasping at straws. It usually does that, anyway. Nobody knows if Eddie is even still in there. Part of Steve hopes he’s not. 

Just as he reaches for the front door, ready to just get out of here and pretend like nothing happened, he feels a presence behind him. Kas followed him out of the bedroom, standing in the doorway now with an unreadable expression. It's the blank one he usually takes on, but where before it was normal, it throws Steve off now. Maybe because he saw how Kas can look at him. How expressive his eyes can get.

He holds them, the red shimmer a little dimmer out here in the brighter living room. 

And maybe it's the blankness in those eyes, or the lack of judgment in Kas's every action, but whatever it is, it makes Steve let go of the door and turn to face Kas properly. 

"Why'd you do it?"

The vampire inclines his head. Listening. Always listening. Steve doesn't know how he never noticed that. It seemed so primitive before. Like how a dog will react to its owner speaking, but never process the words. Kas processes, though. So Steve keeps going.

"Why'd you... You kept saying that word. Safe. Do you, uh. Do you know what it means?" 

Slowly, his eyes growing a little less blank, Kas nods. 

Steve looks around the cabin, swallowing thickly, still feeling so out of place in here, still feeling the need to run and leave it far behind. But something makes him stay. Makes him want to understand. 

"You wanted me to feel safe?" Again, Kas nods. "Why?" 

There is hesitation there, and Steve wonders if it's because he doesn't want to tell him, if he doesn't know the answer, or if he doesn't know how to answer. It's a loaded question, maybe. 

"Pain," he says at last, his voice barely discernible from a growl, but somehow Steve seems attuned to it now. Maybe because he listens now. Because he wants to know. To understand. 

He waits, watching as Kas struggles for more words once more. Just like last night. 

"Know... Know... pain. Know.” He taps his temple with a clawed hand, and Steve's heart falls, his chest aching with realisation. 

Right. He would. He would know pain like that. If what the doc says is right, if what Vecna taunted them with is right, if every working theory the kids have is right, then… yeah. Kas would know. He’s know something about pain. More than any of them. Pain so intense it splits you apart from yourself. 

"Shit," Steve whispers more to himself than to the room, crossing his arms in front of his chest to hug himself and keep from digging deeper, keep his heart from falling further, and keep the horror at bay. 

He doesn't want to imagine the kind of torture Kas went through. Is still going through, if what the doctors say has even more truth to it. If Munson is still in there, still suffering because human minds have a way of holding on to pain — Steve knows soemthing about that, too. 

"I'm sorry," he offers. It's all he can offer. In the end, it’s all that’s left.

And still it's so lame. It's not enough. 

But Kas just nods again, a pained shadow of a smile appearing on his face. Something transpires between them in that moment, Steve can feel it, but he can't really define it. Maybe some kind of understanding. Some kind of safety. 

"I gotta..." he starts, motioning to the door behind him. "I gotta go. Will you be fine? Did you have enough, y'know, to drink?" 

Another nod, and the smile widens a little. Looks a little less pained this time. 

"Good," Steve says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, lifting his shoulders to his ears, trying and failing to seem casual in the face of those glowing eyes. "I’ll– I'll see you around, yeah?" 

And then he's out the door, his head spinning and aching, his steps heavy with the weight of whatever has changed between him and Kas in the past twenty-four hours. 

... sooo. part 3 anyone?

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently) 🤍 tagging for this work only: @forestnymph-666 @little-trash-ghost @jupitersgonemissing

[comatosebunny09]

safe haven | leon k.

genre(s): romance, erotica warning(s): female reader, established relationship, explicit language, fingering, p in v, bodily fluids, unprotected sex, womb fcking, mating press, pet names, size kink, choking, stream of consciousness summary: he’s missed this; missed you. gone weeks without the suppleness of your body and your earthy scent filling his head. so, of course he’ll take advantage of this moment—tucked away from the dangers of the world—to hold you. kiss you. love you. exalt you. now playing: what was i made for? - billie eilish notes: rewatching that one scene from (500) days of summer put me in a mood. i hope you enjoy, lovelies. thank you so much for reading!

It’s in the way he slowly backs you against the front door, the two of you veiled by the serene glow and stillness of your entryway.

The background noises of your neighborhood fade into a dull murmur. And only the two of you exist in this world of static, pheromones, and unspoken affections.

He perches his hands on your hips. Pulls back a little to survey your eyes and lips—a silent request to kiss you. His gaze swims with emotions beneath furled lashes, though the most prominent at this moment is longing.

You nod without really thinking, trapped beneath the spell the evening’s cast and the idle stir of his irises, gathering his cheeks into your hands like he’s glass that will shatter if not handled with care. And his brows furrow slightly as he nuzzles into your palm.

You’re his vice. His kryptonite. He’s missed the touch of your hands more than you can comprehend.

He towers over you, making you feel so very tiny yet so very safe, swaddled in the warmth and strength he emits. And he pans in until your noses and lips graze, and his breath fans across your already feverish skin. He kisses your goofy, tipsy smile away. Lips write something sluggish and cautious, making way for soft giggles and little huffs of affection.

The kiss soon evolves into something more voracious with each sticky grind of your lips, with each swipe of his tongue. His hand finds your jaw, a thumb tugging at your bottom lip, angling your head back ever so slightly so he can push his tongue further inside.

He bunches up your dress with his other hand to feel the supple skin of your hip skating along the pads of his fingers. And he presses a little more into you, squishing your warm breasts against the hard planes of his chest. Not enough to crush you, but enough to remind you that he is here and this is very much real.

You wind your arms around his neck. Trade your giggles for soft pants of his name as he nips your bottom lip and chin. Burns a trail down to your neck, kissing along the outskirts of your jaw. Groans something throaty. So low, you have to strain your ears to hear it, though the sound of it makes your stomach prickle with pins and needles.

He has your thighs clutched in his hands now. Squeezes, firm and wanton, thumbs cruising along the crease of your hips. Didn’t wear panties. Naughty, naughty little thing, you.

Leon huffs a sound against your carotid, drawing your waist closer to his until the ridge of his slacks acquaints itself with your inner thigh, and you both groan at the deliciousness of such contact.

He’s hard. Painfully so. Of course, he is. He’s missed this; missed you. Gone weeks without the suppleness of your body and your delicate scent turning his head to smog. His reconnaissance mission took longer than expected. Swept him away to remote parts of the world, far from the safety of your embrace. So, of course, he’ll take advantage of this moment—tucked away from the world’s dangers—to hold you. Kiss you. Love you. Exalt you.

He couldn’t keep his hands off you at dinner. Always had to have your thigh cratering between his fingers under the table as you exchanged laughter and banter with your friends. And once you were filled with steak, wine, and mirth, he shepherded you to the car. Promised the best of things into the crown of your head as he squeezed your ass and ushered you into the passenger seat.

And now, this is Leon, puffing hot air into the space between your open mouths. Rutting his hips against yours, chasing those little sparks of heat in his abdomen. Loving how your lips part with whimpers and how you tug on the hair at his nape, quietly begging him for more. More friction, more skin. God, he can’t stand it.

“Up,” he murmurs into your mouth. Cups your ass in one hand, peeling you away from the door. And how quickly you obey, hopping up to twine your legs around his waist, hands roosting on his shoulders for support. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, spinning ’round to walk you deeper into your home. And his effortless display of strength makes your body thrum with desire.

He manages the feat of kissing you senselessly whilst carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom. And you can’t get enough of him, taking fistfuls of his hair between your fingers as you pepper his chin and jaw with rose-red kisses, and he nudges the door open with his foot.

It’s cold inside. The only light is that of the moon filtering in through the slits of your blinds. And the sheets are a crisp contrast to your inflamed skin as he tenderly lays you amongst them, mouth fastened to yours like you’re his only source of oxygen.

You let out a little whimper at the loss of his body heat when he peels away to undo his shirt. Yet you watch, perched on your elbows, with hooded eyes and your lip pinched between your teeth as he unfastens his belt and slacks. The wispy shadow of his happy trail peaks from the waistband of his briefs, making your throat thicken.

You welcome his weight when he crawls back over you. Kisses you into the plush pillows, his hands languid and exploratory on your breasts. Pinching your nipples, pebbling beneath the frailty of your dress. Weighing your tits in his palms, humming his approval into your mouth. And when you’re keening and shuddering from the artfulness of his fingers, he smiles against your lips. Palms continue scorching downwards, taking hold of your waist and coaxing your thighs apart, your dress gathering at your belly button.

He’s massive. All muscle and skin stretched taut as your fingers creep over whatever skin you can reach from your vantage point. And, goddammit, he feels good. Twitching against your thigh, sweltering and heavy, and the thought of him has you throbbing. And his zipper grazes the space between your outer labia and thigh, and fucking hell, you need him.

He heeds your silent demand. Palms the warmth of your muff when your eyes beg him to, and you arch so pretty for him. Sigh his name like a hymnal, clawing at his deltoids. He mouths your exposed throat, massaging your pussy with a thick palm, pressing two fingers to the seam of it. And how wet you are, dribbling onto his hand, squelching lewdly, keening, begging.

He looks at you with his lips curled around a coo. Around an oh, because you’re so fucking cute. Reduced to a mess of writhing limbs and obscenities, and fuck, he wants to taste you. Can’t wait much longer, having suffered enough time without feeling the hot suction of your pussy around him.

You whine when he draws his hand back. Suck in a breath when the arctic air touches your cunt. And he’s seated on his haunches, tugging his pants and underwear down just enough until his dick springs free. Bounces against his stomach, weeping sticky beads of pre-spend onto your belly. And you’re staring, drooling, and he chuckles something abrasive into the stillness of the room.

Your pussy clenches as he strokes himself. His mushroomed tip wet and sticky, continuously swallowed up by the bulk of his hand. The hardened pad of his thumb sifts through your plump labia in search of your clit while he handles himself. And he presses down, running a slow, meticulous circle around your pretty nub until you claw at the sheets and gasp.

“You should see yourself, sweetheart,” he rasps. Watches you through curtained lashes, eyes gleaming something blue and feral in the moonlight. Lips parted, hair mussed, and cheeks speckled pink. He wants to devour you. You’re the lamb laid to slaughter and fuck. It’s taking all of him not to spear you on his cock here and now. Not without prepping you first, though.

He tests your opening when you’re swollen, pulsating, and leaking a pretty, pearlescent strand of lubricant onto the sheets. Teases a finger inside, pushing your slick back into you with a vulgar squelch, groaning at how hot you feel. How hungrily you suck him in, and he scissors you nice and open with another finger added to the fray. Fucks you knuckle deep, stroking those sensitive nerve endings to life until you beg him so sweetly to “fuck me fuck me fuck me, Leon, please!”

He’s never been one to keep his pretty baby waiting. Lifts your hips to shimmy a pillow beneath. Fists his cock with fingers slick from your essence. Takes hold of your calves, pushing your knees up to your breasts, resting the crease of your knees into the crooks of his arms. And the wet, viscous grind of his cock against the slit of your pussy draws pleasured growls from each of your throats.

He opts for a few leisured rolls of his hips before feeding his cock into you. And you feel complete. Warm and tingling and your cunt releases the most obscene sigh when he’s fully seated, the bulbous head kissing your womb. His hips stutter. Still. You’re so very tight. Feel like home, and his arms shake to keep himself upright. He looks down at you, searching your eyes for any sign of disapproval. Offers you an out. But the way you wiggle your hips and imprint little waning moons into the skin of his biceps tells him all he needs to know.

His pelvis builds a steady tempo from here on. Sets a pace that’s both maddeningly slow and too much and you’re squeezing so wonderfully for him, drawing him in impossibly deeper. Slurring your words, tongue lolling about in your mouth.

Pleasure mounts with each stroke. Your clit, swollen and sticky, bumps against Leon’s abdomen, and his balls knock against the cleft of your ass. He watches where your bodies join with such reverence, mouth open and lips shining. And he won’t last much longer if you keep moaning like that and if your hips keep lurching to meet his, and fuck fuck fuck.

He takes to thumbing your clit again when he feels the pleasure mushroom in his stomach. Manacles your neck with his free hand, squeezing until your pulse thrums into the clench of it.

He won’t do this alone. Wants you to cum with, if not before, him. He’s missed you entirely too much. And the carnal urge to feel you clenching and gushing around him has his pelvis moving purely on instinct.

He releases your neck, bowing forward, curling into you until you’re folded in half. Mouth hot in the junction of your shoulder, and he nips at the saturated flesh as his thrusts grow more erratic. You’re reduced to choked sobs and slapping skin, clinging to him for dear life as he batters against your cervix. And his movements are suddenly choppy, and he’s sighing hot and wet into your ear. And you feel so fucking incredible, and—

You’re seeing stars before you know it. A milky explosion across an inky sky that’s blinding and searing hot. Your breath sits heavy in your throat, eyes screwed shut, toes curling. The contractions of your pussy pull Leon into the void with you, and he coats your insides a gooey white. The gritty noise pushing through his teeth has your cunt spasming with another wave of euphoria.

He anchors you to the mattress with the weight of him when he falls back to Earth. Breathes deep through his nostrils, his heart wild behind his ribs. Your hands skim over the muscles of his back, soothing in their ministrations. You sigh as he litters your shoulder with kisses as if to apologize for his abrasiveness. Makes a motion to unsheathe from the warmth of your cunt when he’s gotten a hold of himself. But the hook of your heels into his back advises him against it.

“Stay,” you rasp when he looks at you with questioning brows and exhaustion leaking into his visage.

Of course, he’ll stay. Nestled deep where he feels most at home, safe in the circle of your arms. He obeys, melting against you, arms wrapped snuggly around your middle. Lulled into a dreamless sleep by the gentle patter of your heart and fingers stroking lovingly through his hair.

[spacedace]

Gotham loved all her children fiercely.

Every single parent working three jobs, every corrupt politician lining their pockets with tax payer money, every exhausted student scraping by on rent, every doctor, drug dealer, lawyer and killer. She loved them all. Even those she hated beyond words, beyond ability to comprehend, those of her children so filled with evil not even a mother’s love could excuse or condone, even those she still loved.

They were all pieces of herself. As much a part of her as her cracked pavement and unruly parks and dirty cobblestone street skin, as the smoke and smog and storming haze of her hair, as the glint of her stained glass and cctv eyes. Her Populous made her as much as she made them, over years more cursed than blessed, shaping her with their stubbornness and pride and strength.

She did not love equally though. 

It was not something that guilted her. That all children should have equal parts affection were concerns of living things. And though it could never be argued that the Spirit of Gotham was anything but alive, it is not the same as being living. She is a City Spirit, first and foremost. Her children are counted in the millions, and though she knows every second of every life that call her home, there are those that she gives more of her love to than others.

Her Bats and Birds, who flit around her jagged skylines and down her shadowed streets and gave all of themselves to trying to protect so many. She loved them dearly, wanted to do everything in her power to care for them as they cared for her. Had done everything, when it became clear that she hadn’t power enough.

A deal with the King Infinite could be a dangerous thing, a great risk only the most reckless were willing to entertain.

But the King that had instilled such an apprehension in the Infinite Realms was gone now. Stripped of crown and ring and title, consumed in his entirety by his conqueror - though it had taken time and a great deal of danger for the new King to complete that right - Pirah Dark was a bad memory.

Phantom was something else.

And Gotham was willing to be a little reckless in trusting the whispers of her dead that their new ruler was a fair and kind one. That his Obsession was not with power, but with Protection.

That the King could use a little Protection himself, on the mortal side.

She’d made an offer, a Deal.

The King’s Grave Mother accepted on his and their Grave’s behalf. If it was, perhaps, a little underhanded to speak with the Queen Mother rather than the King himself, well. Gotham was born of shady dealings, the language of slanted deals was her first, and she could craft contracts that would put any Fae or Demon to shame.

It was a good deal though. Equal and fair for both sides. She’d been born of human kindness and empathy too, though they were not as easy a touch stone.

The King was kind, and hurt and in need of a protector of his own. His Grave were doing his best, but Halfa were things Between. They could not live all on one side of the veil completely. They needed a place on the mortal side, where they would not need to fear being hunted. Gotham could give them that. Gotham could be that.

What she asked for in return wasn’t so great a price.

If, perhaps, upon the King and his Grave taking up residence within the bounds of her Populous, she gained more than just the power she asked? A mere coincidence. Surely. The other City Spirits were just bitter that their more straight forward Populous hadn’t allowed them to think of such a scheme, to claim otherwise.

Besides, she thinks it still worked out equal enough. Companionship for some of her lonely Birds meant companionship for the King and his Grave as well after all. 

Even if it took a bit of nudging to get them all to fall in place. It was a mother’s right to meddle in the lives of her children, after all. Her duty to help ensure they found good partners. And she was hardly the first parent to feel that nothing short of royalty was good enough for her children.

*

Blurb from me figuring out the vibe between the Spirit of Gotham and the Pham in my Gotham’s Favorite Therapist Jazz AU. Also a writing prompt for anyone who wants to run with this haha

Believe it or not, this originally popped up because I had the idea “What if the person Gotham loves most in the world is Alfred because he looks after her favorite kids?” and it turned into this lol Eventually I’ll actually write the scene where Alfred and Gotham sit down and have tea together and talk about their kids.

In this AU/my headcanons Grave is the term Ghosts use to reference family (in the context of people you love and care for, doesn’t have to be actual blood relations or anything and more often than not is used to describe found family).

I just like the idea of a grave being seen as a place of peace and rest and for actual dead/ghosts you find that not in a literal grave but in the people you call your own. Also just like the alliteration of “A Grave of Ghosts” lol

Also have the idea that a Grave has a social structure similar to wolves not in the sense of the shitty incorrect misunderstanding with alpha/beta/omega sense, but in the sense that it’s all family dynamics with one or more families grouped together with parents generally trying to wrangle/look after everyone else. The head(s) of a Grave is called a Grave Parent/Father/Mother (in this case, Jazz being the Grave Mother).

Not referenced in here but gonna add it here anyway: I like the idea that the concept of “Ghost King” is meant to actually be more like “Grave Parent to all Graves and ghosts” rather than actual king, and that Pirah Dark just kinda fucked that whole vibe up with his shit. Just really like the idea of things going back to that with Danny having a more protector role and ghosts start using the title “Grave Father” for him (maybe with some misunderstanding of what that means and folks not in the know thinking it some ominous title lol).

Don’t have time to tag everyone who asked at the moment, but I’ll come back & do that later after work

[heartfullofleeches]

real master of the cult shows up, they're eerily similar to monster reader, feeling surprised at finding another fellow of their species, simply deems it so that the monster reader HAS TO BE their designed mate

Otherwise, why would they look alike so much? They're destined to be intertwined together!

(light body horror)

Foolish creatures. To be so easily led astray meant they were nothing more than lambs to the slaughter. Trapped bewteen their reality and the next, the cult's true master could hear their celebrations to its very core. Their disgusting misguided joy mocks the beast in its pathetic state; its control on their minds weakened now that they've found new faith. No matter. The fools had done enough in their own right that their aid was no longer needed.

Black smog trickles from the fire in the center of the room. The ash in their air solidifies and conjoins into small crystals that float into the vivisected body on the alter. Its glassy eyes fog over, limbs spasming as the forgien angents poke at its blood deprived brain. Their legs sweep over the side of the table; the lack of organs making the body light and easier to control.

The corpse picks up the bowl next to where it lie, blood sloshing down the sides and over its limbs. It stumbles toward the fire and chucks the harvest in bowl and all. As the flames lick the ceiling, the body goes limp and subcome to the heat as the smog leaves and rejoins its true fold.

-

"I'm full, please!"

You use a claw to keep a stray fork from invading your personal space, much to your follower's sadness. Weak to their puppy eyes, you exhale and steal the bite of breakfast off their plate hopefully before the other's notice, but of course they do.

"My Lord! Would you like to try mine next?"

You moan in defeat. How things have changed. You went from not knowing where your next meal would come from, to being stuffed with home cooked foods daily. You felt horrible for tricking the camp, but in your defense you tried to tell them you weren't their god. The hopeless saps wouldn't here it, falling for your charms even when the veil began to rise. World domination could wait a year or so while they got you comfortable to life in the compound.

A loud boom rocks the entire cabin.

"̸W̵h̶e̶r̴e̷.̸ ̸I̷s̵.̵ ̶I̶t̵?̴"̷ ̷

Panic and confusion spread through the entire table, you all hurry outside to see the cause of the fuss. Fire pours from the main cabin's doors, injured cultists picking their fallen comrades off the ground and to safety in the trees. A large creature wrapped in shadows destroys the remaining foundation of the cabin as it squeezes past the frame, lifting the frightened human in its grasp to dangerous heights as it hiss.

"Where is the one you betrayed me for!"

"Th...ere." The cultist points over to you. They're lowered closer to the ground before being roughly discarded. You can see the deity turn in your direction.

"You."

Its upon you in the matter of seconds, daggered claws rearing to tear you in two as soon as it spots you, but- those eyes. They're just like theirs.

As you cower, it takes a long look at you. Teeth as black as coal, the spilt in your irises. Bit on the small side and lacking horns, but there's no doubt that you're the same breed. The creature thought that the cult's new ruler would be a slick talking mortal, not this.

"You... you're...."

The shadows shrink. They take your jaw in their palm, the anger in their eyes fading as the same realization they had flashes in yours.

"Perfection."

The deity coos as it pulls you in. "Oh, what an adorable creature you fools have discovered. I should smite you all and every member of your blood lineage, but I can't since you've found me such a delicious mate."

Mate?

They pull down the collar of your shirt. "This scar proves of our bond for I bare a similar burden. Tell me, love. How did you come by it."

You cover the scar with your arms. "Bad humans... Researchers."

Its eyes darken, a comforting hand gripping your shoulders. "I am the same. We have solace in that, and being the only remains of our kind. Even if the ancients prevailed, I have a feeling there'd be no better match for me than you."

Groans of pain remind you of the damage they've caused. You struggle in their grip.

"Oh? Are you fond of these insects, love? Do not worry. I may be weak, but I have enough power to restore their health and I will do so.. for a price.

[poppy-s-rampage]

Chapter 2: Welcome to Gotham!

Warnings: A little bit of blood, breakdown and emotional distress.

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

Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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

After finally closing up the last wound, Clockwork took a moment to look over his work. All of the young Halfa’s wounds have been sealed and treated with diluted ectoplasm. It was only enough to make the injuries look a week old at best but it will have to do.

The Ancient lifted his staff and in one swift movement ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. CW then carefully cradled Danny in his arms. Then both the Ancient and the Halfa stepped into the portal.

On the other side, they were met with an emaciated woman clad in a red and black Victorian dress accompanied by a small rose decorated matching hat. In her hand a small umbrella made of lace and what seemed to be black clouds. 

Her delicate snow white skin furrowed by ink black veins. Her blood red lips striking against the pallor of her face were pursed in worry. Her eyes, even while covered by her laced black veil, didn’t hide her apprehension.

The woman’s dress’s neckline was fashioned in the silhouette of a bat. Pearls scattered like falling stars across the red and black folds of the garment. Her waist encased in a tight bodice was embellished by small golden coins and feathers. The red fishtail spilling on the ground lazily trailing after its mistress.

The woman bowed her head, greeting the Ancient and his charge.

“Lord Clockwork.” Her raspy yet somehow suave voice resonated into the night.

“Lady Gotham.” He responded while slightly dipping his head down.

The city spirit glanced at the boy in the other’s arm. His bandaged form and torn clothes were not what first captured her attention. What truly horrified her was the state of the young Halfa’s core. Wrapped and cracked, barely a breath away from breaking and ceasing to exist.

Her own aching at the view, screaming at her to take the boy, wrap him in a bundle of blankets and nurse/guard him until at full health.

Being ended was reserved to the lowest of the low. It was a last resort that should only be used should the offender be irredeemable and too dangerous to be contained. To think that this almost happened and still could to her own king and one so young.

It was nauseating.

Lady Gotham forced herself to look away, turning her attention back to Clockwork.

“I assume he is the charge you want to bring into my care.”

“He is.” Clockwork responded.

The woman nodded, the smoke and black clouds in her umbrella spreading around her.

“Then if you will follow me.”

Lady Gotham faded and became one with the smog. The black mass zooming towards Midtown Gotham, the ancient of time on its heels.

They soon arrived in front of a small but clean apartment building. The two ghosts phased through the wall of the top floor only to be greeted by the view of a spacious yet cozy loft.

The unit was furnished with all the necessary furniture, non-ecto-contaminated food already stocked in the fridge. The space was designed in order to facilitate Daniel’s recovery. The boy would already be going through hell with his recovery and grief; it was best not to add insult to injury.

The city spirit having taken back physical form, leads Clockwork towards the bed on the second floor of the loft.

Once inside, the Ancient carefully sets Danny down on the bed and slowly covers him with a soft blanket. He then produced a pen and a neon green notepad from who knows where and started writing.

Lady Gotham approached the ghost.

“Lord ClockWork, pardon my intrusion, but wouldn’t it be best for you to explain the situation to the young king face to face.”

Clockwork paused.

“Young Daniel is too unstable to be dealing with the emotional distress my presence would bring. He has been hurt enough as it is.”

“Those excuses are nothing but the words of a coward.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are not. Are you truly running away in order to protect the boy or are you doing so to save yourself?”

“…”

“Tell me, Lord Clockwork. When the young king awakens, would he prefer to be met with an insincere apology letter from a coward or the genuine words of a man admitting to his mistakes?”

Clockwork couldn’t even utter a word.He didn’t have any excuse to defend himself. The city spirit was right.

“Your words are as sharp as ever, old friend.”

“I speak nothing but the truth, Master of Time. However, it seems to me that you are already set on your decision.”

“I-”

“I hope in your interest that you made the right choice.” The Lady snapped.

The woman turned away but not without leaving a few departing words.

“Or that at least you are prepared to face the consequences.”

Lady Gotham disappeared in a whirlwind of smog.

Clock work turned back to Daniel watching as his face scrunched up when the old ghost brushed a strand of hair away from his face.

His old core flared with parental love.

He looked so peaceful, as if nothing ever went wrong. However, In just a few hours, he would wake up and reality would come crashing down.

His bright and joyous protegee. The one he couldn’t help but adore every version of. The one he subconsciously adopted as his own child.

Clockwork couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to face the hatred and pain his pupil would inevitably direct at him.

Gotham was right.

The Master of Time set down the notepad on the night table

He was a coward.

—-------

*A few hours later*

As the first few rays of sunshine broke through Gotham’s thick smog, a young black and white haired boy slowly woke up from his slumber.

It was comfortable, the soft fluffy blanket brushing against his achy skin. The warmth that comes with being cocooned in the safety of your own bed. Danny didn’t want to open his eyes. But he needed to wake up, in just a few moments Jazz would come knocking at his door to drag him to school.

The soft familiar knock never came, but the memories sure did.

Danny snapped his eyes open. Tears threatening to fall.

Clockwork -LiaR- ,the reveal, the capture -BeTraYaL-, the experiments -PaIN-, Jazz, Sam, Tucker,-PAINPAINPAIN mY FauLT- the wails, blood, explosion, death -MurDEreR!-, pain, Core breaking, burning, melting- PAIN PAIN PAIN! I ShOuLD be DeAD!-.

The Halfa now fully awake kicked the blanket enveloping him away and tried to get out of the bed.

His legs still injured and unable to support his weight gave out and he collapsed on the wooden floor in a heap.

The sharp pain of jolting his injuries and face planting further cemented to Danny that he wasn’t dreaming and that the nightmare was fully real.

“...no…NONONONONONO! Please, no! Please! I BEG YOU! PLEASE! JAZZ, TUCK, SAM PLEASE! DONT BE REAL! PLEASE!” Danny tried to say, but the only thing that came out were erratic breaths that could vaguely be associated with words. His damaged throat made it impossible to even breathe without it flaring in pain.

Choked and pained sobs filled the once silent room.

The young Halfa still collapsed on the floor cried , slowly curling up on himself hugging his knees.

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

Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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

See you next time!

[perfectlyoongi]

BOUQUET

ㅤ↬┊synopsis ... when people needed to buy words to be able to speak, the entire world was plunged into a grey silence that only drained all existing joy. but, in so much grey, jungkook discovered a small green bouquet.

ㅤ⚘.fandom ... bts. ㅤㅤಇ.ft. ... jungkook x gn!reader. ㅤ⚘.genre ... long-shot. ㅤㅤಇ.content ... dystopian!au, fluff. ㅤㅤಇ.word count ... 3.3k. ㅤ⚘.cole's note ... it's ♡ my bday ♡ here's the 2nd post of today !! hope u enjoy it ♡

The world was dark.

With so many factories working, it was impossible for anyone to remember the last time they saw a bright sun or a blue sky. With so many factories working, it was impossible for anyone to know the meaning of such words.

For several years, all a person could see was the thick clouds pouring out of the various factories, all the color in the world being stolen by the overwhelming smog that covered the city. That covered the country. That covered the world.

The world was dark.

Ruled by poverty the entire world lost its charm from the day a single person started ruling it. All the rights a person could have were stolen. All the happiness and joy were sucked away by the hard work that was already destined for people for a long time.

The colors were stolen. Colors were stolen from people’s eyes. No vibrant color brought any trace of joy to anyone. No dearer word brought comfort to anyone.

A veil of torment occupied the entire city. The entire country. The entire world.

Nobody knows how it started. They just know it happened.

Without realizing it, everyone was forced to buy to survive. Between water and food, all resources were reduced, giving only the minimum to each family.

In fact, everyone began to need to buy to survive.

What no one expected was that they also had to buy words to speak.

Nobody knows how it started. One misty autumn morning, everyone lost the ability to speak. No sound could be made by them and panic quickly set in in the city. In the country. In the world.

The newspapers were quick to announce the event: Population outraged by the Governor’s audacity!, Word prices are absurd!, A ‘hello’ shouldn’t cost two coins!.

The world fell into an extreme void.

People’s silence led to the great depression that was felt in this new world. The only sound that could be heard was the continuous work of the various word factories.

The world fell into an extreme despair.

Work slowed down due to lack of communication. Only the people who worked in the factory and a few others had the right to continue working, to continue having enough money to support a family.

Newspapers were quick to find out what happened: Factory workers get paid in words!, Population divided between two coins water and three bills ‘please’!.

Indeed, this new world was grey, cold, devoid of any life or joy. The constant silence was overwhelming, carrying with it the pain of many and taking with it any and all hope for change.

But you didn’t need a change.

Each region had a factory. Each factory had an owner. And the owner of the factory in your region was your father.

You could be considered one of the few people who had a vast knowledge of words – words that you could utter.

You were seen as the most beautiful person in your area. Your words were always imbued with innocence and joy, bewitching the many people who heard you, who saw you, who admired you.

And although your words were always sprinkled with magic and bathed in the sweetest tenderness that existed, everyone envied you. How could they know what charms your words contained if they didn’t know their meanings? Why couldn’t they have the same rights as you?

People said you were too happy. When they saw you on the street, with a smile on your face and charm on your lips, people only saw the happiness you showed. But no one knew about that nervousness, that anxiety you felt whenever you sat next to that boy in class.

Jeon Jungkook.

For as long as you could remember, the two of you had been classmates, but there had never been an exchange of words between you. Jeon Jungkook didn’t have working parents. Your parents were the richest in the region. Social classes should not, and could not, mix. That was the rule. That was the law.

But even though you had never been with Jungkook, not really, you couldn’t get rid of that curiosity of yours that whispered in your ear whenever classes started: what would Jungkook’s voice sound like?

From a very early age you were fascinated with Jungkook. It was his relaxed nature, his confident stance, his intelligence, yes; but, above any fascination or interest, you simply admired Jungkook.

What would it be like to live without talking?

Jungkook made you question. Always with bright eyes, but a sadness clinging to your smile, whenever you looked at Jungkook you could only question everything you knew and the entire world you lived in.

You had read the newspapers: Families save for the three bills and ten coins for a “Happy Birthday” for their children!, There is no hope – words’ prices keep rising!, Every “Yes” and “No” is running low in the stores – when will we have freedom of expression?!.

Yes. Jungkook made you question what it would be like to live in a world where you had to count to be able to express what you felt, what you thought. For you, all words were natural and, although you tried to hide the entire encyclopedia of words offered by your father in the back of your mouth, you knew that everyone looked at you, that everyone envied you.

But Jungkook didn’t look at you.

Jungkook didn’t envy you.

Jungkook might not have words, but he had kindness.

In a world plunged in darkness, where all colors are different shades of the same grey, Jungkook carried in his hands a bit of kindness that had long been forgotten. In a world plunged into darkness, where all words were stolen without any warning, Jungkook didn’t need to speak to show all his pure and extraordinary soul.

But no matter how much you admired Jungkook, no matter how much you wanted to explore the nervousness in your tummy that surfaced whenever you were around Jungkook, nothing would happen.

And you’ve already tried.

It was a small “thank you” from you that made Jungkook shiver as he held you the library door. You had used that word without any thought. You just blurted out something that was completely normal for you.

It was that moment that made Jungkook realize you had nothing to lose. It was at that moment that Jungkook knew that you could own the world if you wanted. All simply because you don’t have a word limit – you could talk forever. It was that moment that made Jungkook accept the fact that you and him could never form any bond.

Yes. Jungkook always found you fascinating.

It was your pure and genuine smile, your loud laughs that echoed through the school corridors as if they carried with them the hope of a new world, a better world. It was your simplicity, capturing all the attention even when you didn’t want it, even when you didn’t speak. You were, quite simply, the ray of sunshine in that grey world. You were the only comforting light in that desperate world.

But Jungkook knew that all the fascination he felt for you would have to remain hidden in the darkest corners of the silent world – all because he couldn’t give voice to his feelings.

Jungkook let out a long, drawn-out sigh that became silent from the moment it escaped his lips, dragging itself silently through the dark streets of the city.

It was difficult to live without talking, yes. But, when eighteen years pass wrapped in a silent bubble, a person only knew that silence, because that silence was all a person had.

And Jungkook still hoped to speak. Jungkook still dreamed of finding an eternal sea of ​​words ready to be used. He didn’t want to know about status or wealth – Jungkook just wanted to talk.

In eighteen years of life and pure existence, Jeon Jungkook only remembered having spoken a mere thirty times: the words “Happy Birthday” were always expensive, even when spoken to his parents; the words “Thank you” were used too much, even though it cost almost three bills; the word “Yes” was repeated over and over and over again, as it was the cheapest, and the most widespread word throughout the world.

Since he was little, Jungkook was taught that the only time he could say those expensive words and spend all the money was on the most special dates of the people who really mattered to Jungkook. Jungkook’s parents insisted on this idea, knowing perfectly well that they could never offer their son a dictionary of words – they just wanted Jungkook to know how to save his money and words.

And that was why Jungkook seemed so melancholic that day.

School was about to end. All preparations for receiving the diploma had been working on for two weeks. There was only one more week of school. And all this time seemed so short to Jungkook, who could only think about the after: would he still see you? Would Jungkook be able to write you a little letter confessing all his fascination for you? How could Jungkook continue to think about hope when you, the bearer of the meaning of such a word, would leave?

No. Jungkook didn’t want to write you a letter. Jungkook wanted to use his voice. But, without money, there were no words and Jungkook remained mute in that grey world.

After a long day of looking for work, Jungkook was heading home.

Dragging his feet along the dirty, brown paths of the street, Jungkook carefully observed the thick, contaminated clouds of the factories – all the silence seemed insignificant at that moment. When he let his mind wander to possible scenarios if he only had a little money, all the silence became meaningless – for what value could silence have when it is forced upon the world?

In the midst of that grey, the wind slowly began to emerge. As if fearing to meet Jungkook, the end of the day breeze gently pushed the young man along unknown paths, making him find new silences in the middle of new streets.

Although the day was spent between stores and cafes, interviews and rejections, the reality is that Jungkook was not at all focused on assuming his soon-to-be adult state.

The truth, and if Jungkook wanted to get rid of that weight that was dragging him down, he had to admit that all that was on his mind was you.

It was your birthday.

Finally, today you have reached that age that abruptly pulls you out of innocence and forces you to face the world without any strength or dexterity. Finally, today you reached that age that gave you the feeling of freedom while suddenly robbing you of all your honesty. Finally, today you were an adult.

And, on such a special date, words had to be used.

Yes, words. In that world, all the letters Jungkook could have written, all the gifts Jungkook could have made by hand, all the little flowers Jungkook could have picked, all of that was worthless – when Jungkook lived in a world that was powered by words, only words had value.

Jungkook wanted to give you something, a small souvenir, a small thing that showed that, even though you didn’t realize it, you were the reason for making Jungkook’s entire academic path an experience worth living.

But everything seemed little. Everything seemed useless. Everything seemed lost.

Jungkook felt desperate.

How could Jungkook show you, tell you, that he wanted to keep seeing you? That, who knows, wanted to start a friendship? A friendship that could blossom into something bigger, something more beautiful, something colorful in that grey world. How was Jungkook supposed to tell you that he wanted you in his life? Without words, how could you ask someone to stay?

When he realized it, the wind had pushed Jungkook into a long, deep puddle that prevented him from continuing his walk. So Jungkook just stood there, pondering, carefully observing that brown, polluted water.

Lost in his thoughts, Jungkook didn’t seem to see that puddle.

Was there ever beauty there? Would there be color in the world in another life? Would there be words in another world? Was there any hope for him now?

A sigh. A shrug. A withdrawal.

What a pathetic idea of ​​Jungkook to want to talk to you. How could he tell you anything if he didn’t even have money for a “Yes”? That idea was ridiculous. That thought was nothing more than a simple dream, an illusion that Jungkook had created to comfort his heart.

A sigh. A shrug. A color.

Jungkook crouched at the edge of the puddle when something caught his eye. Pulling his sleeve up, Jungkook brought his fingers to that dirty water and, after feeling once, twice, three times, he held it.

There. In that moment. In that place. Jungkook was holding it.

Carefully, fearing breaking what was already fragile, Jungkook took the small bouquet out of the water and looked at it.

One, two. Back there was three. There was a small four and a five wanting to escape. Seven, eight, nine. There was the ten intertwined with the eleven. Eleven. Eleven colors. Eleven greens. Eleven possibilities.

A holding of breath. A wide smile. A new hope.

Jungkook quickly took off his coat and wrapped that small bouquet in the comfort of its fabric. The water quickly consumed Jungkook’s coat, but he didn’t care – there it was safe, there it would dry.

Bouquet in hand and hope in his heart, Jungkook stood up and tried to position himself for a moment. Where was he? What street was that? Was that Café Longo there? Yes. So… There! To the left.

In a mix of excitement and nervousness, Jungkook began to carefully run through the streets, making sure the bouquet was always safe in his arms.

Then suddenly, like someone blinking, Jungkook started to believe.

As he walked down street after street, as he left neighborhoods and houses behind, Jungkook only looked ahead. His hands were shaking as he held the bouquet, his fingers were starting to get cold from the water, but his eyes, oh! his eyes! Bright stars had descended from the skies after years of refuge, only to make home in Jungkook’s beautiful eyes.

It was with magic that Jungkook looked at the world at that moment. As if the stars had sprinkled him with the ancient pleasures of a colorful and beautiful life, Jungkook stopped seeing grey. At that moment, bouquet in his arms and hope in his steps, Jungkook saw colors, Jungkook felt colors.

When he arrived at your house, Jungkook was tired, but, still moved by all the happiness, Jungkook just felt excited.

He took a deep breath once. He straightened his back. He cleared his throat. He rang the bell.

One second. It’s going to be okay.

Two seconds. What if you’re not at home?

Three seconds. The bouquet is ridiculous.

Four seconds. What did Jungkook have to lose?

Five seconds. The door opened.

You welcomed Jungkook with a smile on your lips. Using constellation lipstick, your smile was beautiful, making Jungkook question what meaning the word “fascinating” could have that couldn’t leave his head.

Looking at Jungkook, you could only smile. Seeing Jungkook there, at the door of your house, on that special day of yours, was as if your heart had learned to breathe for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, you decided to swallow all your words – you just wanted silence to preserve that memory.

You gently tilted your head as if asking Jungkook the reason for his visit and, as if waking up from a trance, Jungkook straightened his back again and looked at his arms.

This was his last chance. This was his last hope.

Gently unwrapping his coat, Jungkook began to very slowly reveal a small green bouquet.

You craned your neck a little curiously, wanting to unravel that mystery as quickly as possible. And it was when Jungkook extended his arms that you realized.

A bouquet of words.

Jungkook was offering you the most valuable asset in that world. To you. You who have an eternal source of words within you. You were being offered words. Jungkook was giving you words. A bouquet of words.

With shaking hands, you accepted Jungkook’s gift.

With a smile on your face, you tilted your body a little to thank him.

With a full heart, you read the bouquet.

Eleven words. Eleven words that you had already said a long time ago. Eleven words that were repeated by you on several occasions. But those were eleven words offered by Jungkook.

You gently shook your head and handed the bouquet back to him.

The entire world fell at Jungkook’s feet.

So suddenly, like someone losing a smile, Jungkook stopped believing.

When he saw the bouquet being handed back to him, when he felt your rejection up close, Jungkook just looked down. His hands shook as he held the bouquet back, his fingers getting lost between the vowels and his eyes, oh… his eyes… The sharp thorns of the stars stung with all the revolt of years of hiding, creating small tears in Jungkook’s sad eyes.

Accepting your rejection, Jungkook was ready to leave.

And it was right before he turned his body that you moved.

Your hand was quick to hold Jungkook’s chin, helping him lift his face, forcing him to look at you. Still smiling – always smiling – you brought your hand to your mouth, gesturing a small “eat” while pointing to the bouquet with your other hand.

Jungkook was surprised.

It wasn’t a rejection. It wasn’t the end of that hope. It was eleven words offered by Jungkook – it only made sense for Jungkook to say them.

A little shy and afraid, Jungkook slowly began to eat his words. Nerves began to race through his body, creating so many unlikely scenarios. What if he choked while eating? While speaking? What if his voice broke? What if, by pure chance, a leprechaun appeared and stole the words from his mouth? Could Jungkook bring that bouquet to life?

The eleventh word slipped gently down Jungkook’s throat, leaving its impression inside him, giving him the power to speak it.

He had finally eaten the eleven words – oh, how sweet they were.

You continued to wait patiently with a smile on your lips – oh, how beautiful you were.

Jungkook took a deep breath to speak – oh, how he could dream.

“Flowers grow in you. Is what the world is made of.”

Finally Jungkook’s voice.

In the midst of so much grey, a light. In the midst of so much silence, a melody. In the middle of that world, Jungkook. How beautiful he was. How beautiful his voice was.

Blessed by the constellations, Jungkook’s voice was capable of speaking in celestial timbres, all the magic that existed in the cosmos being carefully deposited in each word spoken by Jungkook. Soaked in divine magic, with an angelic touch to the vowels, Jungkook was capable of creating worlds with his voice.

You finally heard him. You finally heard Jungkook’s voice. You finally heard Jungkook.

And there was no need to say a single word.

When you approached Jungkook and gently placed your lips on his cheek, you didn’t need to say any words to show him that the flowers that grew within you only bloomed for him.

ㅤㅤ♡ feedback is appreciated ♡

[romerona]

Stellar Veil

In which a star falls in Westeros.

Cregan Stark x reader????

Words 1.7k

The night draped Westeros in its customary shroud, stars flickering like cold diamonds against the dark tapestry of the sky. And yet, amidst this celestial dance, a singular brilliance unfolded—a comet, resplendent in its fiery tail, streaked boldly across the heavens.

In King's Landing, where ambition and conspiracy brewed as thick as the city's smog, the Red Keep stood sentinel against the cosmic display. Nobles and commoners alike were drawn to its battlements and gardens, their faces upturned in wonder and trepidation. The comet's golden glow suffused the city, casting shadows that danced across cobblestones and whispered secrets into the night.

Far to the west, where the Iron Islands gripped the tempestuous seas, sailors paused in their dance with the waves. From the deck of every longship, weathered faces turned skyward, witnessing the comet's passage mirrored in the restless waters below. Above them, the ancient castle of Pyke seemed to hold its breath, its jagged silhouette outlined against the blaze.

Across the tumultuous waters of the Narrow Sea, the comet's brilliance reflected off the prow of Braavosi merchant ships and the galleys of the Free Cities. Sailors, traders and slaves hardened by salt and sea, paused in their endless voyages to witness this divine occurrence.

In the Reach, where the verdant fields of Highgarden stretched beneath a canopy of stars, peasants and nobles alike paused. They gazed heavenward, their hearts filled with awe and mistrust, as tales danced upon their lips.

And in the North, where the night was as black as obsidian and the stars burned with an icy intensity, the comet blazed its final path. Its light pierced the veil of mist hanging over the haunted forest and the desolate lands beyond. There, amidst the sentinel trees and the solemn silence of the far North, the comet's radiance flared brightly before vanishing beyond the horizon.

South of the Wall, in the desolate expanse known as the Gift, the comet's descent shattered the silence of the frozen wilderness with fierce force. A blinding flash of light, brighter than the pale moon above, rent the night asunder. The ground trembled violently beneath the celestial impact, sending shockwaves rippling through the thick crust of snow that covered the ancient land.

As the earth ceased its violent tremors, silence descended upon the northern wilderness like a heavy cloak. The Night's Watch, vigilant guardians of the Wall and the realms of men, stood amidst the aftermath of the comet's impact, their faces etched with awe and apprehension.

Commander Ulric Rivers, a grizzled veteran of many winters, surveyed the scene with a mixture of curiosity and concern. His voice cut through the lingering echoes of the crash, commanding attention from the assembled rangers.

"Brothers," he intoned, his words carrying the weight of authority earned through years of service beyond the Wall. "Gather your gear. We must survey the impact site."

The rangers, seasoned men clad in black with weapons and fur-trimmed cloaks, exchanged glances of determination. Among them, Harald Snow, a knight of the Watch known for his keen eye and steady hand, stepped forward.

"Commander," Ser Harald spoke, his voice steady despite the tension that hung in the air, "We will go. We'll bring back word of what we find, true as steel."

Commander Ulric nodded in approval, his expression grim but resolute. "Go swiftly, and return with all haste. The hour is late."

With that, the rangers set forth, the horses steps crunch on the icy ground as they ventured towards the crater that marked the comet's violent descent. Behind them, the rest of the Night's Watch remained vigilant, their eyes trained upon the northern horizon where the comet's trail still lingered faintly in the night sky.

The rangers approached the crater cautiously, their breath visible in the frigid air as they navigated the transformed landscape. The snow around the impact site had melted into a steaming morass, revealing scorched earth and jagged fragments of rock still glowing faintly with residual heat. The air hummed with a strange, palpable energy, casting an otherworldly glow over the scene.

Ser Jaremy Woodbear, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, led the way with Harald Snow close behind. Their sharp eyes scanned their surroundings, taking in every detail with the precision of a seasoned watchman. Beside them, Alexio Stone, a stoic figure with weathered features and a keen intellect, knelt to examine a particularly large fragment of rock that jutted from the ground like a blackened tooth.

"Careful now," Harald Snow cautioned, his voice a low murmur that carried on the wind. "We don't know what this rock may hold. Keep your wits about you."

Ser Jaremy Woodbear, ever vigilant, was the first to notice the form inside the crater—a woman.

"Ser Harald, come, there's a woman..." Jaremy called out quietly, his voice carrying a note of awe and uncertainty.

Harald Snow hurried to his side, his eyes narrowing as he beheld the scene before him. Nestled amidst the charred remnants of the comet's impact lay a figure unlike any he had seen in his years ranging away from the Wall. A woman, an ethereal woman. Her skin seemed to shimmer with a faint glow, casting gentle reflections upon the jagged rocks that surrounded her.

"Gods be good," Harald muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. "What in the name of the Seven Kingdoms...?"

Alexio Stone slowly made his way down and knelt beside the woman, his weathered hands hovering uncertainly above her prone form. "She... she's glowing,"

The woman lay still, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that seemed out of place amidst the chaos of the impact site. Her hair, a cascade that shimmered like moonlight, framed a face that could have graced the halls of the most illustrious castles in Westeros. Despite the harshness of her surroundings, an air of tranquility radiated from her presence, as if she were untouched by the violence that had torn through the night.

"She does not seem a threat. We'll take her back to Castle Black,” Harald decided finally, his gaze lingering upon the woman's enigmatic form. "Ser Jaremy, help me carry her."

With careful hands, the ranger lifted the unconscious woman from the heart of the crater, cradling her as gently as if she were made of glass. Her ethereal glow seemed to pulse faintly in response to the touch, but as they traveled, the ethereal glow that had surrounded her began to dim, fading like the dying embers of a once brilliant fire. Her radiant presence dwindled until she appeared as any ordinary woman, though her beauty still held a haunting quality that spoke of otherworldly origins.

Harald Snow glanced at her intermittently, his brow furrowed in contemplation. "Keep an eye on her," he instructed the rangers quietly, his voice carrying a rare note of uncertainty. "We know not what we carry."

The journey back to Castle Black was fraught with quiet tension, each step echoing with the weight of their extraordinary discovery. The woman remained unconscious, her features peaceful yet arcane as if she carried secrets woven into the very fabric of her being.

As the gates of Castle Black creaked open to admit the weary party, all eyes turned towards the mysterious woman cradled in the arms of Ser Jaremy Woodbear and his fellow rangers. The men of the Night's Watch gathered in hushed clusters, their faces etched with curiosity and apprehension as they beheld the ethereal beauty now brought within their walls. Commander Ulric Rivers stepped forward to greet them, his brow furrowed in stern inquiry. His gaze locked onto the woman.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ulric Rivers demanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the assembled ranks. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, though beneath the stern exterior, there flickered a hint of curiosity and perhaps even concern.

Harald Snow, unwavering in the face of his superior's scrutiny, stepped forward with measured resolve. "We found her at the site of the comet's impact," he explained evenly, his tone betraying none of the awe he felt at the mysterious woman's presence thought he hesitated to continue. "She… appeared to be glowing.”

The courtyard fell silent as the gravity of their discovery settled over the assembled brothers. Whispers filled the air, mingling with the chill wind that swept down from the Wall, most not believing, saying it was a wildling woman, others whispering about sorcery.

Ulric Rivers approached the woman with cautious steps, his gaze assessing her with a mixture of scepticism and a begrudging acknowledgement of the inexplicable. Her ethereal beauty was undeniable—a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings of the ancient stronghold. Her hair, a shade that shimmered iridescently in the torchlight, cascaded around her like a flowing waterfall of sapphire strands. It was a hue unlike any he had seen before.

Her attire was equally unusual—a gown of fine fabric that seemed to shift and shimmer with every movement, as if woven from threads spun by the stars themselves. Its design was intricate, with patterns that hinted at craftsmanship far beyond the skills known to the realms of Westeros.

Ulric Rivers frowned, his thoughts racing with speculation. "This is no wildling," he muttered under his breath, his voice a gruff murmur that carried a note of wonder. "Nor any woman of our lands."

Beside Ulric, Harald Snow exchanged a meaningful glance with Ser Jaremy Woodbear and Alexio Stone. They had seen many things in their years on the Wall, but none quite like this.

"Should we remove her gown?" Harald asked quietly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. That statement earn a hum of agreement from the men around them.

However, Ulric shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the woman. "No, leave her be for now, we'll keep her under watch until we have answers. Lord Stark will need to hear of this. Prepare quarters for her," he instructed, his tone firm despite the uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of his command. "And summon the Maester. We'll need his counsel."

With practiced efficiency, ser Jaremy Woodbear carried the woman to a chamber within Castle Black, where torchlight flickered against the ancient stone walls and cast long shadows across the floor. And above them, the stars continued their eternal dance, oblivious to the upheaval their celestial sibling had wrought upon the realm of men.

Part 2?????

A/N: The story is inspired by Stardust by Neil Gaiman.

I’m still unsure who is the main LI will be but Cregan is top 3.

And while it's an Xreader I will be describing the hair colour and eyes. But just that.

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 16

MASTAPOST

tell me what u like about the chapter :D guess where the story's going, anything! gimme fuel qwq

Damian lay on his belly on Phantom’s chest as the boy floated just underneath the surface. It was night time, and the Atlantean town they’d sacked was far behind them now. Here they only had the stars to accompany them, wobbling and swaying over the distortion of the water.

They were so close… Damian pushed himself up with his arms. His head breached the surface, water washing over his face like a veil. His eyes widened as he took in the beauty of the night sky, much more comfortable without the blinding sunlight when he’d first tried this.

There was something comforting about the stars, something beautiful outside this world that would be there no matter what, even in his most miserable nights with the League. It was something he missed when he moved the Manor underneath Gotham’s smog-filled skies.

Damian pushed himself further, balancing himself on his tail and hip fins instead of his arms. The gentle sea breeze prickled at his wet scales, causing him to shiver. It brushed against his ear fins and gave a sense of immeasurable calm. Just him, Danny, the stars and the whistle in the wind.

And a feeling of suffocation.

Damian’s lungs demanded air. Or was it water? He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the sea from above it rather than underneath, but it didn’t help. He inhaled again, but the pressure remained.

What- What was this madness?! Sirens could breathe over water. This was indisputable. Danny had been able to breathe and talk over water the night Damian was transformed. Damian was able to breathe air and talk then. Damian sucked in more and more air, desperately trying to sate the need for oxygen. Why couldn’t he breathe?!

 Damian’s vision twisted. His head spun. His chest felt like knives being stabbed into it.

Hands grabbed him. Danny pulled him back under, where the water provided sweet relief. Damian clutched his chest, as if any moment now he would drown again.

“Are you ok Damian?” Danny’s hands hovered over him, like he was fragile china. Damian scowled.

“Why couldn’t I breathe? What has happened to me?” Damian asked, demanded, heavy with accusation.

“Dude, your lungs are water balloons right now. You gotta empty ‘em out before you can breathe air.” Danny said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Damian’s cheeks burned. He turned his back on Danny and crossed his arms.

“I was aware. I was merely testing you.”

Danny poked him in the sail, the sensitive touch causing Damian to hiss instinctively. “I mean if you’re the siren expert, then by all means!”

Damian did not dignify him with a response. Instead, he surfaced again, determined. Instead of inhaling in panic, trying to pump air into lungs at full capacity, Damian focused on exhaling, on pushing the water out.

His throat cramped with pain. The young siren gargled and gasped. His throat clamped and throbbed, like he was pushing a jagged boulder up. He barely managed to spit out a meagre drop of water before Danny dragged him under again.

The older boy pulled him to his chest, stroking his back as Damian coughed and hacked.

“Ok that was my bad, are you ok?” Danny said, ear fins drooping. Damian wheezed, his eyes closing as the pain abated.

“Do you go through this every time you surface?” Damian shuddered. What would happen to him once he got home? He wouldn’t be able to walk, and now couldn’t even breathe without immense pain.

“Hehe, no.” Danny deadpanned. “You’re supposed to use your gills.”

Danny tapped on his own gills. Instinctively, Damian moved his elbows to cover his. Lately he had been keeping sane by not thinking too much about the creepy feeling of having water flow through the slits in his chest, how exposed and vulnerable it made him feel. How it gave him a glaring weakness that could be easily exploited.

“Just open up your gills, and let the water drain out. It’s that simple.”

Damian sputtered. “What did you say?”

Danny shrugged, like he was explaining grade school mathematics to a two-year-old. “Like this.”

Danny’s gills flapped open. It was only from years of stoic training that Damian did not gag at the sight of Danny’s pale flesh revealed underneath his aquatic breathing apparatus. His eyes trailed to his own set of gills.

“Is there another way?” Damian was not avoiding this issue, nor was he ‘procrastinating’ as Richard would insipidly suggest. He was merely searching for a more optimal alternative.

“We’re sea creatures, Damian. I consider myself lucky for being able to not drown in air at all.”

Damian swallowed the lump in his throat. He was the son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul. He could face this. Being unable to breathe above water would make him a liability on this journey. He had to push through.

Damian prepared to resurface, gathering his nerves.

“Just relax. You can do it, Damian. It’ll be as easy as breathing.”

Encouraged by the prospect of not hearing any more puns, Damian pushed his upper half over the surface. Accordingly, Danny also pushed closer. This high over the water, Damian wobbled as his body adjusted to his weight in the air.

The pressure started to mount on his chest. Damian focused on the slits between his ribs, on the alien feeling of wind blowing into them and hitting exposed flesh. He squinted his eyes and tried to push the water out through his gills. He flexed and contracted his arms and stomach, searching for the unconscious switch in his brain that could activate the write muscles.

It was too much. He went under again.

“This is proving more difficult than I had anticipated.” Damian huffed, chest heaving from strain.

“I can tell.” At Damian’s glare, the older boy raised his hands in defense. “Hey, you looked legit constipated up there. I was starting to worry you’d actually make a mess of yourself. Now, like I said, all you need to do is-”

Damian hissed at the older boy’s mockery. “I can take care of myself. I need no advice to do something as simple as breathing. Thank you.”

Damian glared at the surface, the invisible barrier between this world and the old one, and redoubled his efforts. The pressure came back. Damian twisted his body and nerves, but he couldn’t get a single gasp of air in. He sank. He re-emerged, he suffocated again. Each time Damian pushed himself further, only to be met with the same difficulty. Each time left him sorer, more cramped.

Until after many an attempt, Damian slumped against Danny’s chest, scaled skin warm despite the cold, deep-sea looking appearance. His muscles turned to jelly, even as he feebly pushed against the older boy’s scales for another attempt.

The young siren felt soft hands wrap around his waist. Damian tried to push away, to wiggle out. Danny’s chest vibrated with a low him, and it was like his strings were cut, and Damian’s resistance ceased. All he could do was mutter weakly.

“What are you doing?”

Danny surfaced, arms keeping Damian under, until they began to pull him up too. Damian’s heart accelerated. He could not stop the frightened chitters forcing their way out. His fins went rigid. Was this it? Did Phantom finally lose his patience, and decide Damian was no longer worth the effort? This was bad. He needed to escape and he needed to escape yesterday.

But as Damian began to struggle, the rumbling vibrations from the elder’s chest intensified, and the small boy went limp again. His muscles, sore from exertion and rendered even weaker by the strange biological signal, refused to move. All he could do was tilt his head away, trying to delay the inevitable. Helplessly, he watched the surface creep closer and closer, until he went over.

Damian waited for his death. In his prayers, he apologised to Father, to Richard, even to Drake, for everything. In this moment, as tears pricked his eyes as he was helpless but to drown in fresh, oxygen-rich air, Damian resigned himself.

The pressure did not come.

His chest tingled. Pinpricks poked the skin and outer scales, and along the lining of his gills. Water ran down his chest and over his abdomen. Damian blinked, and looked down.

His gills were open, fully open, gaping wide and exposing his insides for the world to see, but they were open. And water flowed out of them, emptying his lungs. Damian gasped, and felt sweet relief as cold, burning, fresh air finally filtered into his body. His body wracked from the sweet release, chest struggling to accommodate the big greedy gulps he took.

“And now you shut them, keep the air going out the other way.”

Damian nodded glumly. That he could manage. A swift motion, and the flaps of scales and skin shut tightly, leaving only thin lines on his body to suggest that he ever had gills in the first place.

For a moment, he felt human. Even as he actively commanded his breaths, he felt more like a normal human again than he had in the last 48 hours.

“T-thank you.” Damian said, cursing the weakness in his voice. Not to mention how it sounded completely different now, travelling through water instead of air. It was unnerving, but he couldn’t place why. He felt too tired for more riddles about his body. “You have saved me a great inconvenience.”

Danny quietly chuckled. “It was literally what I told you. You need to loosen your muscles to get the water out. This whole time you’ve been all tight and wound up like a spring lock. Dude I think you even sleep all locked up too. That can’t be healthy.”

Sleep was when you were at your most vulnerable. Any threat could walk by and do with you whatever they pleased. In his life, there would be danger at every turn. It was a sentiment he’d expressed to the others in his family when they too voiced the same concerns.

He would never be safe in this life.

A finger poked his cheek. Damian snapped his teeth at the infantilizing gesture, only for it to retreat back just as quickly. He turned around and looked up, muscles no longer rendered limp by the subjugating vibrations.

Danny pointed to the sky, a soft smile on his face.

“It’s a good night to stargaze, isn’t it?” A comet whizzed by in the night, a streak of white trailing behind it, like an artist’s brush across a canvas. Now that he could breathe again, Damian felt an overwhelming sense of calm again, treading water and watching the stars shine.

[weneverlearn]

Interview: JOHN MORTON - electric eels, X_X

In 2014, I was Managing Editor at CMJ -- the long lost college radio magazine and yearly NYC festival. I interviewed legendary Cleveland proto-punk gonzoid, John Morton, on the occasion of him bobbing back up via some new X_X and electric eels releases, and he even played some live shows around that time. Saw a great one at the L.E.S. haunt, Cake Shop, also long lost. Then a few years ago outta nowhere, Morton -- who lives in Canada now, I think -- sent me a pdf of the interview.

Due to the last owner being a complete evil shyster, all traces of CMJ have been wiped from the internet. Not even sure how John got this pdf, must've made it off the original post, who knows. Such is the mysterious meanderings of one of the great unsung artists of the late 20th century. Hey, he's still active today, making art and music, so we'll see more from him, I'm sure... Anyway, I've been meaning to post the interview -- so here ya go, below.

John Morton, 2016 swiped from his wife's Facebook.

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

From Helvete With Love

Summary: Euronymous' twin hippie brother is in town and up to cause some chaos! (Bear with me, I'll make it work!)

Pairing: Euronymous x fem!Reader x Kappa

Word Count: ~1.8k

Content Warnings: Double Trouble Smut 18+!, You Don't Really Expect This To Have A Noteworthy Plot Do You?, Threesome (mfm), Spit Roasting, Hair Pulling, Subspace, Emotional Cheating, Implied Substance Use (Alcohol and Pot), Dub-Con Due To The Substance Abuse, Kappa Having Insane Amounts Of Audacity While Euro Is Kind Of An Asshole

A/N: I really hope the nonnie with the Threesome request from 2-3ish weeks ago sees this 👀 Also not proofread bcs I literally need to catch the bus to work in like 3 minutes.

Tagging the horny horde:

@crypticsewerslut @quicksilversg1rl @cc-luvr @icarus-star @milaeth @roryculkinsgf @spookyorchid @arch1viste @whoareyoi @angelsanarchy @b4sementgrl @blueberrypancakesworld @rocketqueen-world @r0ttenmess

Cry

Who do you need? Who do you love

When you come undone?

Who do you need? Who do you love

When you come undone?

- Come Undone By Bad Omens

In a high pitched jingle, the little bell above the door indicated that someone had entered the record store but you didn't really bother looking up from the latest issue of Kerrang! magazine, your eyes busy with studying an oven-fresh Duff McKagan interview.

"You call that shithole a record store, huh?" A somewhat familiar voice asked in a cocky tone.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint the person it belonged to and the snarky comment certainly had you raising your gaze towards the counter, shooting right towards the new visitor.

With a sleazy grin playing around his mouth, a well familiar face stared at you with strikingly blue eyes just like those of your boyfriend.

"Look what the cat dragged in…it's the hippie cunt!" You teased right back at the man that happened to be Øystein's twin brother, Kappa.

"Oh, mean, missy!" He scoffed and arched his brows in amusement.

"What do you want, trashbag?" You sneered, smiling at him while your eyes roamed over his features.

You only had met him on a few rare occasions but it never failed to befuddle you just how similar and yet dramatically different Euronymous and Kappa were. Polar opposites in everything but being terribly eccentric and pretentious jackasses.

"I'm in town and I thought to say hi to my brother, is he around by any chance?" Kappa inquired, leaning his torso against the counter whilst throwing you a borderline flirty smile.

"In the back." You nodded your head towards the bureau behind the countertop to gesture him the way.

"Thanks, sugar!" Kappa quipped whilst walking around the counter, heading towards the bureau.

"Fuck off, hippe." You beamed at him with a cheeky smile before lowering your gaze back onto the glossy pages of the magazine.

Neither of you had really been ready for the way this day played out after this seemingly innocent interaction. Everything started with a few guiltless beers at the pub nearby, maybe a few shots of vodka too and the occasional cigarette to go with tipsily firing neurons, craving one hit of serotonin after the other at this point. However, the nicotine in your bloodstream turned into herbally-pungent THC by the time the three of you arrived back at Helvete, sloppy steps scratching over the cold asphalt illuminated by cool-toned street lights. Of course, Kappa had brought some weed with him and neither of you held back in indulging in it to the point where your body felt like one buzzing cloud made out of cotton candy. At some point you weren't sure anymore whether the couch was actually a part of you or not as your weary eyes grazed over a scenery of crushed beer cans, shot glasses and scattered vinyls. The air around you was thick and heavy with the smell of alcohol and pot, the smog covering the record store in a white, translucent veil seeping into every last nook and cranny.

Your bloodshot eyes felt like simply fluttering shut and you could've sworn they did but you weren't sure of this at all. Did you black out for a moment or where did the memories go that would’ve explained how your train of thought got back on track again as you heard yourself breathing out a muffled moan?

"There she is! Got me worried there for a second, sugar." You noticed Kappa talking to you in a breathy tone from above.

The hits of information reached your brain one after the other in a violent flush of realization. You knelt on all fours, a soft mattress underneath your palms and knees swallowing up a good part of the recoil caused by your body being penetrated from both ends, Kappa in the down your throat and Øystein buried deep inside your oozing cunt, both their cocks fucking into you in a firm pace.

Pulling in all the air you possibly could through your nose, you reluctantly looked up to Kappa as you noted how sore your jaw felt with your lips eagerly wrapped around his girth, sucking him off like you never did anything else in your life. How the hell did you get here? The question burned inside of your racing thoughts but you tried to push it to the side as your gaze met with Kappa's, who was looking down at you with an unexpectedly warm smile.

"Don't worry, I got you, make sure you’re okay, hun." He whispered to you in a raspy voice as the hand, that wasn't grabbing fistfuls of your hair to guide your head back and forth over his throbbing cock, went to your cheek to give you soft caresses filled with affirmation.

"Good girl.", He praised, the tip of his hard on nudging against the back of the throat, "Øystein really lucked out with you as a girlfriend. You're funny, you're smart and hella pretty."

"Could you not?" It was now that you really took notice of your boyfriend behind you with his hands on your hips and his lap rocking against your rear in desperate thrusts.

"What? You gotta make her feel at least a little special right now." Kappa sneered back at his brother without ever taking his eyes off of you, practically hypnotized by the way his cock disappeared into your throat with every roll of his hips.

"I think I can do that very well on my own." Euronymous huffed, tightening his grip around your waist before pushing himself into you with such brute force that it nearly hurt.

You winced around Kappa's cock, a few wayward tears pricking at your lower lash line and his thumb wiped them away before they could even really trickle down your face.

"Issok, sugar. C'mon, close your eyes and enjoy yourself." His broad hand cradled your face and you trusted him, allowed yourself to.

"There you go…" Kappa cooed to you in a saccharine-sweet voice, hips rolling against your face in a steady pace, careful to not hurt or overstimulate you.

With that you let yourself go, adjusting to his rhythm while your mind rendered blank. You've never ever felt this filled up before and it was continuously bordering on the very fine line of being just too much for your body but instead of your actual boyfriend it felt like Kappa was guiding you through this, all his attention was on you and you only. Of course, he loved the sight of his cock slipping in and out of your mouth in wet, sloppy sounds, making him feel ready to burst at any minute now but he not once put his own pressure released over your well-being in this constellation. Quite the contrary to his brother who was railing into you at a merciless pace from behind, rendering your tightening cunt sore from within. In a way, he knew that he wasn't having the upper hand here anymore and in desperate, failing attempts Øystein tried to turn your attention back to him which only led to you being even more infatuated with the gentle yet firm ways of his brother.

Kappa put you in a headspace you've never experienced before and to say that this state was blissful oblivion would've been an understatement. Mixed with all the substances in your bloodstream, you felt yourself slipping into beautiful nothingness and just felt your body, felt Kappa's cock sliding down over your tongue again and again while he held your head by your hair, steadying you, making sure to not accidentally choke you with his girth. He made it known that he was here for you and it made your chest feel all warm and secure, a warmth that would shot right down between your legs in the very next second, making you clench down around Euronymous' cock in what turned out to be the first contractions of an orgasm that took you by surprise. You inhaled sharply as undefined moans and whimpers vibrated around Kappa's hard on which he only reluctantly pulled out of your mouth. While Øystein rode you through your orgasm, gradually losing himself in it, Kappa stroked himself off with a few quick pumps of his fists, spilling and splattering thick ropes of his seed right onto your face. With your entire body convulsing around your boyfriend one rouge thought escaped its prison and ran wild inside your mind. For a moment you couldn't help yourself but to wish that it was Kappa's cock you were cumming on right now. Your eyes shot wide open as a sharp pang of shame and guilt chased right after the orgasmic high.

"Dude, really?!" Øystein groaned behind you, drilling himself into your now utterly overstimulated pussy one last time before coming undone deep inside of you himself. You recognised how he filled you up with himself like so many times before but you couldn't pull any please from it right now, instead you stared back up to Kappa who was breathing heavily.

"What? I thought it to be a bit more decent than busting my load down your girlfriend's throat, no?" Kappa scoffed at his brother, lowering his hand down to your face again, gathering a dollop of his cum from your chin and smearing it just over your trembling lips, the tip of his thumb prodding against your mouth, leaving it up to you whether to open up or not. Entranced by the way his icy blue eyes were beaming down at you, you did just that, a part of you defiling your boyfriend for never taking care of you the way his brother did.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hello I love your short fics you do with LeonxReader. I also saw your “tired, trying and internally dying” and it describes me perfectly. I was also wondering if you would do a LeonxReader with some injury/angst and Leon or reader whoever is the injured one making jokes to try and lighten the situation??? Please and thank you💖💖

I appreciate that you enjoy my little Leon x reader stuff and Ngl I made that motto up on the fly when making this blog and now I’m only seemingly to live up to it nowadays 😂

Tw: Hatchets being thrown, injuries, violence, gun violence and reader having a gun.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not good etiquette to greet guests with such hostility?’ You taunted the villager just as he threw his hatchet at your head but you moved out of it’s trajectory in the nick of time. ‘Ha! You missed!’ You exclaimed which would’ve proved in making the villager pissed, but you noticed the sinister look in his eyes as they moved over your shoulder before a sickeningly satisfied smirk stretched across his face.

Just then a pained shout came from behind you and your blood ran cold. ‘Leon?’ You said under your breath and the smile on the villagers face seemed to only grow, as though he was confirming your worst fear; A scowl then replaced your worried expression as your jaw clenched tightly and your blood began to boil out of anger.

‘Say good night you son of a bitch.’ You snarled as you were quick in drawing your gun before putting a couple of well placed bullets through the man’s head, chest and legs in rapid fire succession; Taking an unsettling amount of enjoyment as he fell off the side of the castle battlements and into the veil of smog below before a faint thud could be heard, indicating that the bastard was well and truly dead.

‘Hey, if your done patting yourself on the back, I’m still very much hurt and would very appreciate if my lovely partner would offer me a helping hand, if that’s not too much to ask for?’ Leon’s voice brought you out of your own head and you were quick to look at him; only for your eyes to focus on the handle of the hatchet that stuck out from his shoulder whilst the steel blade was buried deep into his flesh.

‘Oh my god, Leon.’ You said hurriedly as you rushed to his side, trying not to openly express your internal fretting over him but you obviously weren’t doing so well in keeping your composure, as Leon attempted a smile before placing his hand on your shoulder. ‘It’s no biggie, having a hatchet in your shoulder and all.’ He shrugs with his uninjured shoulder. ‘It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, so I’d give this experience a five out of ten.’

‘Will you quit it with the joking?’ You said, not finding any of this even remotely funny as you gestured to the hatchet in his shoulder. ‘You’re hurt, seriously hurt-‘

‘oh is that what this searing pain in my shoulder is? I wouldn’t have guessed. Thank you for educating me doctor, you really saved my life.’ Leon cuts you off sarcastically and you looked at him with raised brows and arms crossed over your chest as you impatiently tapped your foot. ‘Your ability to run your mouth hasn’t seemed to be hindered much for an injured man, so you should be up to continuing the mission right?’ You told him, flashing a false smile as you patted his chest rather harshly, causing Leon to wince upon each impact of your hand.

‘No, I would like it very much if my partner got me medical attention before I decided to pull this fucker out myself and bleed to death.’ Leon retorted, mimicking you by raising his brows and tapping his foot. The sight was quite humorous that you had to stifle a chuckle behind you hand because of it, before regaining your composure as you then sighed loudly as you moved yourself to Leon’s side and usher him to where you met the merchant last.

Yet with how slow Leon was taking his strides, you couldn’t help but crack a joke at his expense. ‘C’mon grandpa, it’s time for your daily medication.’ Leon scoffed but couldn’t help the smile that slip onto his lips when he noticed how much you’ve calmed down since first seeing his injury; Being a little pain in the arse seemed to have finally pay off in his favour.

‘You’ve been waiting to make that joke you, haven’t you?’ Leon asked, voice light in humour as he gauged your reaction.

‘Maybe.’ You responded, neither denying nor confirming.

‘Bitch.’ Leon said.

‘Jerk.’ You replied.

[ladyloveandjustice]

Summer 2024 Anime Overview: Mayonaka Punch and SHY Season 2

Mayonaka Punch

Masaki runs a successful YouTube (or ‘NewTube’ as they call it) channel with her two friends, however arguments arise, and she ends up punching one of her friends during a stream. She’s dropped from the channel and the internet turns against her, dashing hopes of starting over. Meanwhile, a vampire, Live, is dreaming about a beautiful woman offering blood to her and she discovers the girl of her dreams is Masaki. So Masaki strikes a dangerous deal with Live so she can start a brand new YouTube channel with the vampire as the star...

Canceled Youtuber x Loser Vampire yuri. This is the kind of shit I watch anime for.

Do you support women’s wrongs? Are you an appreciator of female characters who are loveable shit heads? This is the show for you! I love that Masaki is absolutely in the wrong, her punch is not justified and the show never pretends it is, she’s unabashedly selfish and the show loves to point that out, yet she still has a lot of pathos, and you really begin to root for her and her budding friendships (or possibly more with Live?) The four vampires Masaki team up with (and one vampire desperately trying to keep them in line) are all unapologetic disasters, and they make a fantastic ensemble comedy.

The dynamic between to group and the way they form strong bonds with each other through the chaos is fun to watch, and almost every vampire gets a nice focus episode where you come to feel for them. Fu’s episode is a highlight here, being so devastatingly sad and sweet I believe the people who say they cried over it. While the show never gets that intense again, we do get to see these ridiculous assholes put themselves in wacky situations for the sake of clicks, from stranding themselves on an island or getting in an ill advised garlic eating challenge.

But the core relationship is obviously Live and Masaki. Live is downright horny for Masaki’s blood, from the moment she imagines Masaki coming to her in the nude in a dream. The blood=sexual lust metaphor is...incredibly thinly veiled. Masaki is completely willing to take advantage of the down-bad vampire, even seductively baring her shoulder at one point to make Live do what she wants.

But of course, it’s not all horny antics…we slowly watch Masaki warm up to Live, meanwhile Live come to love Masaki as a person, going into a depression whenever she and Masaki are separated for a while, only to be all blushes and on her way to confessing when she gets a phone call before Masaki cuts her off. Masaki helps Live and the other vampires come together, and the vampires help Masaki out of her creative breakdown in return.

And Masaki really is going through it, getting so much criticism from and hate from the internet she doesn’t feel she can show her face again. She did do the bad thing, but it’s hard to not feel sorry for her when all the criticism beats her down, and the show subtly gets across that the performative internet outrage accomplishes nothing but being detrimental to the target’s mental health (and how often the target is not an evil irredeemable person). It’s great that Masaki is by no means the “perfect” victim, but the show still invites you to empathize with her. The way the comments are represented as swirling around her head wherever she goes, forming a cloud of smog she can barely see through—it really captures what that's like, as someone who's also been bogged down by internet drama

But the show also doesn’t group in all the negative criticism as vile bullying either, showing how some people can think their comments aren’t that serious, and think of it as regular criticism or playful ribbing that's tone gets lost over the internet…the show seems to understand internet (or at least YouTube) culture a lot better than a lot of anime do, showcasing the way it brings out creativity and comradery and also the way it can make you forget the joy of creating in your desire to please the fickle masses, and the way net users can twist and misconstrue things.

I thought the finale was very strong, but I’ll admit a tiny part of me was hoping for romantic catharsis between Live and Masaki or at least something more explicit and charged than what came before, and yeah, I didn’t get that. But I fully expected not to get that, as the many hits I’ve taken over the years as a yuri soldier have toughened me into the cynical woman I am today. Aaaand the show makes it pretty obvious they’re trying to leave room for a sequel, so that softens the disappointment a bit. I’ll also admit I was a little disappointed some angsty backstory that was teased ended up…not amounting to much, to put it in a non-spoilery way. I think the direction the show chose to go in for the finale was for the best and perfectly fitting for the story it was telling, especially considering the time constraints, but man, I am a sucker for some angsty gay backstory so I couldn’t help imagining could-have-beens.

However, it was a great series all the way through, and I’d love to get that sequel, even if I’m not holding my breath for all my yuri dreams to come true. It’s a solid, funny, well-animated good time with some messy, relatable adult women, many of whom are incompetent gay vampires, and honestly, it doesn’t get much better than that.

Shy Season 2

The second season of Shy was a disappointment. While the first (review here) was a little rough around the edges at times but had a lot of charm and a strong emotional arc, this season’s conflict was extremely repetitive and dragged out. The show is suddenly about ninja family drama, which would have been fine if the ninja characters added something new to the mix, but they really don’t. Fights go on and on with the same sentiments repeated over and over again by multiple characters. The comedy sometimes feels awkward when the next minute the show tries to get you to take the goofy villains seriously. The show has a big cheesy save-this-person-with-the-power-of-friendship anime finale…only to suddenly decide next episode “whoops they weren’t saved after all that was all for nothing tragedy time now” YOU CANNOT HAVE IT BOTH WAYS SHOW, it isn’t a tragic twist, it just feels like you wasted our time.

The anime’s strained resources are really showing this season too- it held together reasonably well in the first season despite being a clearly modest production, but is more and more off-model throughout this season, with a lot more obvious shortcuts.

It’s such a shame, because Shy was a female superhero show with so much potential and endearing characters and huge yuri undertones, so I wanted it to do well. There are still moments of charm, but if the writing stays this level, not even a hero can save it.

[kvetchlandia]

Joe Rosenthal Allen Ginsberg at Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "City Lights" Bookstore, North Beach, San Francisco 1959

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--

--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past--

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown--

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

-- Allen Ginsberg, "Sunflower Sutra" 1955