#so i’m thinking of adding red devil horns to the hood

[apollos-boyfriend]

Im sorry EGGPIRE HOODIE?? Thats so cool can you show a photo (only if youre comfortable of)? Its like actual merch i misses or did you make it diy style??

it’s actual merch!! it was dropped right after the eggpire finale, here’s some pics from bad’s twitter + just the hoodie itself :]

[moiraxknight]

@knightsarmor

Moira and Yael had their rituals and dynamics already, mother and daughter becoming the powerful duo they were destined to become. Yael was five months already - Moira had no idea how since only yesterday she was pushing that huge, crazy-haired baby out of her body - and was a huge, pale mass of curly dark brown hair, big blue eyes and a distinctively Jewish nose. Her mother’s nose, like Oliver had wanted, and the hooded eyes she got from her father. She had already started to babble incoherently like she was having a full conversation with people, especially Billie and Wolf, the biggest listeners of her baby lectures. 

Staying away from work was simply not something Moira had done. Maybe for the first month after Yael was born she’d stayed home but longer than that would have made her crazy. So they had come up with their own mother-daughter schemes. Moira had found a way to put Yael into the sling where she’d be upright, with easy access to Moira’s breasts and full view of the world if she wanted to inspect her surroundings (which she did, often, curious eyes roaming around and discovering the world, something her parents encouraged greatly). But Moira could admit it was tiring to do both so her deal with Oliver was half a shift at the shop, only in the mornings since Yael woke up early and then she worked from home on her commissions so Yael would be away from her dad for too long either.

Right now, Yael’s head was covered by the hood on the sling while she carefully held with both tiny hands onto her mom’s left boob, eyes on Moira while she ate her lunch, and Moira was picking the new colors of yarn to add to the shop’s stock. Little Knight over there had a saying in every single item that had entered the shop’s catalogue since she was born and even before because Moira took her kicks as signs. “Which one do you prefer? Violet or Grape?” Moira lifted the two different purple shades of yarn to her view and Yael stared, cooing with her mouth full of milk and making a bit of a mess Moira had learned to ignore by now. “I think so too, this grape one is just too dark.” She nodded, putting it back on the cardboard box.

The bell at the door rang and Moira lifted her eyes, fighting hard not to roll them when she saw the person walking in. Mrs. Mills was an old church rat, queen of the catholic ladies in town, that every now and then would throw in a commentary on how incredible Jesus was specially in the presence of any of the Lieberman-Knights. Oliver in special, since the lady was still the only person in the whole of Rhineback that though Oliver was scary and mean. But the woman came into the shop at least once a week to get supplies for her crochet classes in church, usually on the afternoon shifts but not today. “Good morning, Mrs. Mills.” Moira greeted as politely as possible, closing the box with the deep purple and moving with the violet to load them into the shelves, Yael’s eyes curiously moving and her lips hard at work while she ate. 

“Oh, you’re here.” The old woman seemed startled, eyes moving to the beautifully drawn menorah on the wall Moira had put up as Hannukah approached. Moira bit back the urge to remind the woman she owned the shop, it had her name on it. “Shouldn’t you be home with your baby?” Mrs. Mills said in the most judgmental voice Moira had ever heard and she ignored it.

“Got her right here with me, ma’am, she’s perfectly fine and beautiful.” Moira didn’t bother looking back while the woman filled a basket with thread and some other colors of yarn. Yael blinked, trying to look to see who it was but Moira shook her head letting her know it was not worth it. 

“Good God, woman, I can almost see your breasts!” Mrs. Mills exclaimed and only then Moira noticed she was much too close, trying to take a pick on Yael, probably wanting to make sure that Jewish baby wasn’t horned and hooved, a little Jesus-less devil. 

“It’s her lunch time.” Moira added simply, eyes back on the box full of yarn while Yael let out a happy sigh against her breast and a light cough, probably chugging a little too excitedly on all that milk. 

“Cover yourself up, you’re a mother!” Mrs. Mills demanded and Moira took a deep breath, finally turning to face the woman, who was considerably shorter than her even though Moira wore flat boots. 

“Mrs. Mills, do you need anything, any help with your supplies?” Moira wrapped her arms around the baby, an instinctive protective move, and Yael smiled as she felt the warmth of that hug. It was December in Rhineback, which meant cold even with the heater on. 

“I need you to maintain a certain level of decency when attending your customers, Mrs. Knight, this is a family town.” The old woman barked at her, with that perfectly pushed back hair in a tight bun, doing no good to her eternal frown. 

“Mrs. Mills, my child is hungry, I am feeding her, it is quite simple actually.” Moira arched an eyebrow at her. “I find it very decent to keep my daughter fed and alive. Now if you’ve come to teach me how to be a decent mother, I’d ask you to return another day. If you need help with supplies, I am all yours.” She gave the woman a smile that had Mrs. Mills gasping in complete outrage. 

“You shouldn’t speak like that to your customers, Mrs.Knight!” The woman raised her voice and Moira’s patience was gone. Mostly because she noticed Yael flinching. They didn’t raise their voices around her unless they were singing and happy, having family time. Yael was a highly sensitive child just like her mother. “But what else could I expect from someone like you and your people?” The woman huffed and Moira took a step forward, watching her wince, not having expected Moira to react since she usually just chuckled and walked away.

“Like my people what, Mrs. Mills?” Moira leaned forward slightly, Yael widening her eyes in amusement as she moved along. “My people that refuse to hide their feeding children? My people that work hard to keep their family safe, fed and happy? My people who would never walk into your shop to tell you what you should be doing?” She added. That woman had caught her in the wrong day, and Moira would not be quiet, not in front of her daughter. She would not teach Yael to just bow down to disrespectful and intolerant people. 

“Your people that denied and killed the son of God!” The woman insisted, pointing a finger at Moira, raising her voice again and Yael was starting to wine, having let go of Moira’s breast now, looking at her mother with scared eyes like she could feel the hostility in the air.

“Get the hell out of my shop, Mrs. Mills.” Moira pointed at the exist. “Right now. This is no place for antisemitic, racist ignorante people. Get out!” She demanded and the woman gasped, dropping her basket to the floor and making Yael cry, Moira’s embrace around the little girl tightening. “You do not get to insult my people in front of me, in front of my child. I have never be anything but respectful and polite to you, Mrs. Mills, but my God did not teach me to suffer quietly, he taught me to fight for my family. Get the fuck out of here!” 

“This is absurd! I’m going to talk to the mayor!” The woman was yelling, stepping back to the exist as Moira moved towards her precisely to lead her out of the establishment. 

“And I’m going to call the police and report a hate crime if you don’t leave right now. Religious intolerance, do you know what that means?” Moira arched an eyebrow, holding tight onto her daughter while she cried, walking the woman out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. “Go away, Mrs. Mills.” It was a final warning. 

“You Godless people! You and that devil child and your evil husband!” The woman yelled at her, nearly tripping on the snow.

“Get out of here and may God bring back to you everything you give out onto the world.” Moira spoked in Hebrew, in a threatening voice, and the woman shouted in utter panic.

“You witch! She’s a witch! They’re all witches!” The woman ran off, drawing a cross over her chest, looking back to make sure Moira wasn’t following her. Moira looked down at her daughter, both of them instantly freezing out there, Yael crying startled, that pale face turning red.

“Shhh, it’s okay, neshama. The mean old lady is gone.” She whispered to her little girl, moving her body to rock her softly, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “I don’t think Jesus would like her very much.” She added, smiling at Yael and the little girl smiled back through her tears, looking confused, extending her little hands so Moira would hold onto them, kiss her tiny fingers. 

“What the fuck was that?” Moira heard that voice that instantly washed her over with calm and Yael’s eyes widened as she recognized it too. Moira looked back to see Oliver coming from the diner, lunch packed in a takeout bag, layers of clothes on him and that cute beanie hiding his hair thought hit full beard was out for her to appreciate. “You two will freeze out here.” He immediately wrapped his arm around them and brought them back into the shop, tapping the snow out of his boots by the entrance.

“Doo? Doo!” Yael cooed, shaking in the sling, turning her head to see her very favorite man in the world. Oliver came into view to kiss Moira’s lips, lingering for a moment, and she smiled widely, a toothless grin as she cooed even louder, gesturing her grabby hands towards him. “Doo!” It seemed to be her coo to her father while her mother was “Dee”. Very creative. She immediately started babbling to Oliver, telling him all the gossip of her morning at work with her mom.

“Yes, tell dad everything, how that mean old lady came in here and complained mom’s boob was out.” Moira nodded, detaching the sling so she could take Yael out of it and pass her onto Oliver. Yael was babbling nonstop when Oliver put the bag on the counter and grabbed her, covering her face and neck in kisses, rubbing his hand on her back to warm her up. “She called her a devil baby and you my evil husband.” Moira told him, wiping the dripped milk off of her chest and putting her shirt back in place, the putting on her jacket and scarf. 

“She what?” Moira knew Oliver didn’t care that the woman called him anything she wanted, but he wouldn’t stand anyone speaking will of his child. Moira waved it off, sighing and picking up Yael’s little jacket to put it on her, but the baby was busy trying to eat her dad’s nose. 

“I cursed her, we’ll be fine.” Moira said simply and he arched an eyebrow. “Next time she says anything, I’m calling the police.” She added, finally able to put the jacket on their girl, making her look like a little fluffy marshmallow as she zipped her up. “Tell dad, what are we?” Moira pointed at her and she cooed. “That’s it, Jewish and what?” Yael cooed again, lifting her arms in the air. “Jewish and proud, that’s my girl.” Moira lifted a hand and Yael laughed, giving her a light high five. Oliver chuckled, shaking her head at his ladies. “Wanna look like abba?” Moira smiled and she grinned back at her mom, letting her put on the beanie on her hear, little curls sneaking from underneath the fabric. The little girl touched the beanie on her hand and Oliver’s and smiled, recognizing their were looking alike. 

“Wow, I got some feisty ladies in my life.” Oliver nodded, looking quite smug and proud and Moira grinned, picking up her purse and the keys to the shop, turning the lights off before she took the bag with their lunch. 

“Oh, Mrs. Mills thinks we’re witches now, all of us.” She told him as they stepped out and Oliver laughed out loud, Yael following just because she loved the sound of his laugh just like her mom. 

“We should light up a big menorah on the first day of Hannukah here, invite people in town just to spite her.” Oliver teased as he held Yael in one arm and reached for Moira’s hand, leading them back to the car once she had locked up the shop.

“Ugh, you’re so hot.” Moira groaned, pulling him to her to kiss his lips again, a soft but lingering kiss she only broke when Yael smacked her own on her cheek and made her laugh. “Let’s go home and do some witchcraft, you Godless Knights.” 

[digitalworldbound]

“D..did you just make that noise?” For Sora/Jyou

Number 20: “D-Did you just make that noise?”

Characters: Sora/Jyou. This takes place sometime during the Tri timeline. I tried to add some references to other pairings you like, so if you squint, I hope you can see them. I absolutely loved the idea of all of the Chosen in their little Halloween costumes, and had to stop myself around 1500 words because I was getting way too excited. Also, I apologize for the abrupt ending!

Send me a prompt if you’d like!

In retrospect, maybe encouraging her rambunctious group of friends to go to a haunted house on Halloween may not have been the best idea she’s ever had, but Takenouchi Sora refused to admit defeat. The past week had been stressful, filled with exams, sports tournaments, and holiday festivities. The group was due for some relaxation.

As Sora watched Daisuke and Iori competitively inhale their second yakitori, she felt more like a mother hen tending to her chicks than a high schooler. “Hey, guys!” she called, attempting to gather the attention of at least two of their collective braincells. Any response she might have received would have been lost in the throngs of people that crowded the waterfront. Festival tents lined the shore, the smells of fried food and pumpkin spice wafted through the air.

Each second of silence only added to her annoyance. She had worked endlessly for days to plan this get together, and it seemed that no one was taking it seriously. “Did you need something, Sora-san?” A small squeak escaped her throat as her body whipped around in surprise. The skirt of her devil costume swayed around her hips as she tried to regain control of her breathing.

“Oh, it’s you, Jyou-senpai.” She managed, heart pounding in her chest. A Bakemon costume (hand crafted by Mimi) hung off his thin frame, casting grueling shadows across his cheekbones. The sight reminded her of their first encounter with the ghost-like creatures, all wrapped up and ready for a sacrifice.

Instead of responding, the gentleman in question smiled a toothless grin. The soft glow of the fairy lights illuminated dark blue eyes as they scanned the crowd for his friends. “You know, everyone looks like they’re having fun.”

From their position on the outskirts of the festival grounds, Sora could make out Mimi’s hair as the girl mercilessly teased Koushiro. Her cat costume left little to the imagination, and Koushiro’s pink cheeks contrasted against his blue wizard robes.

Sora’s tension eased when her eyes landed on a blonde vampire and his mummified friend chatting amiably next to a noodle cart, toothy grins gleaming under the lights. It always soothed her worries when those two boys managed to get along. Their siblings, ever the rowdy pair, competed head-to-head in a heated battle for dominance: dart throwing. At stake? A month supply of strawberry ice cream for the girl in the Wizardmon-inspired ensemble and a kiss on the cheek for a smaller, blonder vampire. Sora laughed lightly as Takeru’s last swing wedged itself in the bullseye and Hikari’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Even if it wasn’t Miyako’s slightly off-key voice that filtered through the karaoke speakers, she would have been easy enough to find in her full Sailor Moon cosplay. Ken had managed to slip away and join Iori and Daisuke in their quest to consume any meat that was wedged onto a stick. They looked darling, Sora decided, dressed as Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

“I guess. I just wanted everyone to go to the haunted house together. What’s the point of planning this get together if we all aren’t, you know, getting together?” Punctuating question with a sigh, her shoulders slumped forward. “But,” she continued, “they all look happy enough, so it’s okay.”

Jyou opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Sora’s hands fiddled with the plastic horns nestled in her hair. Her eyes flicked towards her navy-haired friend as he cleared his throat nervously. “Well, just because they won’t go doesn’t mean we can’t.”

Her rejection died in her throat when her eyes settled on his hidden smile and flushed cheeks. “Jyou-senpai, you don’t have to sacrifice your night to entertain me. I’ll be fine. Besides, I think Koushiro-san might spontaneously combust if Mimi-chan tries to feed him again.”

In an uncharacteristic act of boldness, his slender fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist. “C’mon,” he said, turning his neck to meet her eyes, “You need to live a little.” Sora allowed him to tug her down the boardwalk and towards the old courthouse. If the twisted, bloody smiles of the clowns weren’t enough to double the young girl’s heart rate, the shrill, primal screams spilling out into the October air were.

If the twitch of Jyou’s hand on her wrist was any indication, he was becoming apprehensive as well. His smile never wavered, nor did his grip on her. Before Sora could decide whether or not to kindly remove his fingers, the pair were shoved in a group of Love Live! Idols and various farm animals. “Welcome to the House of Terror!” gritted the clown from before, his pungent odor testing the limits of the young girl’s gag reflex. His mouth opened once more, but whatever advice he was about to give them was drowned out by the screeching of the entrance erupting wildly on its hinges.

“Right this way, my pretties.” an old woman crooned from the building, voice reminiscent of branches scratching against a window. Sora shivered, but allowed Jyou and some stranger dressed as a rooster to push her along.

Her tension eased once the group left the corrupt clown outside. The hallway they entered was eerie, a black light illuminating the fabric of Jyou’s costume. One of the school idols screamed as an arm reached out from behind a blood-splattered curtain to caress her. Sora pressed herself closer to her companion. Wordlessly, his fingers reached down to grab her own, giving her palm what Sora assumed was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. If his hands hadn’t of been so sweaty, she might have been comforted.

The black sheets opened into a large room filled to the brim with children. Dismembered baby dolls littered the ground, limbs hanging from the rafters above. The Chosen of Love smoothed down her pleated skirt, eyes avoiding the creature in the corner. A young girl, no older that thirteen, sat alone on the far side of the room. Dressed in a simple white gown, the child chanting something, but her voice was so low and haunting that Sora couldn’t make it out. Water dripped from her dark hair, and her lips were painted sea-sickening blue.

A couple dressed as cows made a run for the door on the other end of the room, utters quaking in fear. Their hooves slipped on a severed baby arm, and their spots went flying. Jyou tensed, the crunch he heard after the fall not boding well with his first-aid training. Sora looked around helplessly as the pair of utters still hadn’t gotten back up. ‘Oh, gods.’ she thought, stomach anxiously twisting itself into knots.

The group’s guide had suddenly disappeared.

“D-Did you just make that noise?” Jyou whispered into her ear. For a second, the red-haired girl had to convince herself that the shiver she felt was a result from the chilly atmosphere, and not the fact that his lips had been that close to her skin.

In all honesty, her heart had been pounding too loudly for her to hear much of anything, but with one look at the soulless girl in the corner, she turned towards Jyou. “No, but let’s get out of here!”

Jumping over the up-turned cows and various idols, the pair ran towards the rickety door. Apparently, the staff on the other side had no idea they were expecting the next group of people to terrorize, as the bloody nurses and doctors still engaged in an intense lip lock.

“G- Gomen'nasai.” Jyou stuttered, a flush reaching his hair line. His little devil companion felt as uncomfortable as he looked. “Um,” the polyester doctor called out, “this room is occupied.” Sora made haste to drag her and Jyou away from the hormonal teenagers before he could give them The Talk. He attempted the same thing with the younger kids a few months prior, and nearly cried when they were the ones to correct him.

Red light filtered through the hazy hospital room, but Sora recognized an exit when she saw one. “This way, Jyou-senpai!” she yelled, tugging his arm behind her.

The pair burst into the warm October night, panting and sweating. It took several minutes for the pair to catch their breaths and ever longer to notice their mischievous friends staring at them.

Takeru’s laughter startled Sora, her hand flying up as if to hold her heart in her chest. As her orange eyes rose to meet mahogany, she found herself temporarily blinded by the flash of a camera. “Hmm,” Hikari mused, “this one may be cute enough to develop.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s developing.” the younger, annoying, traitorous vampire giggled out. His basketball reflexes proved useful as he dodged an attack from the little devil, pulling an amused Wizardmon behind him. “See you love birds later!” he called out cheekily, admiring his own pun.

“Get back here, you guys!”

Jyou laughed quietly beside her, the hood of his costume bunching around his shoulders. “Ah, just let them have their fun. Besides, I’m pretty sure that sound I heard was the growl of your stomach.”

Fingers still intertwined; Sora allowed her senpai to tug her towards the tents of food. On the way down, her eye caught Mimi’s. In a strange way, the well-placed wink and sly smile on her friend’s face seemed to be a cue of sorts., and Sora tightened her grip on Jyou’s hand.

“Hey, Jyou-san, how do you feel about splitting some ujikintoki?”

[bnhabadass]

BNHA Halloween Day 9 - Horns

@bnha-halloween2019 | Day [9]: [Horns] / [Kirishima x Reader] | [Mature] | [Borderline smut, mention of bondage]

It was a warm day for October, and you and your boyfriend decided to visit the Halloween store that had just opened up in the mall. You always loved those big animatronic ghouls and witches that said stuff like “come in little girl” followed by an ugly cackle.

Kirishima pulled his car into the parking lot and the two of you got out, you skipping and acting jumpier than usual out of the sheer excitement that was your favorite time of the year. “Wait for me!” Kiri said, running to catch up with you and tackle you to the ground.

You squealed but caught your fall before hitting the pavement. You stood up and saw he was running away from you, so you chased after him only to see that he had stopped and was staring at something.

“Haha check this guy out.” He pointed to a zombified looking guy who, when you press a button, begins moving his arm, grasping for something (or someone). You laughed, loving how much Kiri was getting into the spooky spirit. You reached for his hand and the two of you walked into the store together.

You were enticed by some of the sexy looking costumes and wigs lining the walls of the store. Maybe if there was time you could try a couple on. Who knows, maybe Kiri would like it.

He didn’t seem interested in what you were eyeing, though. He broke his grip away from you and grabbed a Jason mask hanging on the wall. “What do you think of this, babe?” he asked.

You giggled and went over to lift up the mask and kiss him. “I think you should wear that for Bakugo during one of your bromance sessions.”

“Is somebody jealous?” he asked, quirking his eyebrow up. The smirk on his lips continued turning upward as you pretended to think long and hard about the question.

“Maybe not jealous, perse.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to do something about that.”

You tried leaning in to kiss him again, but he ducked and ran off, only leaving the mask in your hands. You scoffed, both out of irritation and amusement. Where did that boy run off to? Oh well. It gave you a bit more time to browse those sexy costumes you saw earlier.

You walked over to the array of adult costumes, your eyes lingering on some of them a bit longer than others. They weren’t supposed to be lingerie, but how were they not! There were so many of them. Sexy bee, sexy red riding hood, sexy nurse, sexy prison inmate, you shuddered at the sexy minion costume. This list went on and on. That’s when your eyes landed on the most raunchy looking of them all. The sexy devil. The costume was just straight up bondage; a tiny leotard with a lace up front and cups for your breasts as well as a shibari style harness in the shape of a pentagram to go around your chest. It also came with small little hair clips in the shape of devil horns. You loved it. And you knew Kiri would like it too.

You grabbed it off the rack and went over to the self checkout, taking out your wallet and sticking your card in the machine. The transaction had been completed, and now all you had to do was hide the costume in your–

“There you are!”

You yelped and shoved the costume behind your back at hearing Kirishima’s voice.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

You completely forgot. The only reason you came here in the first place was to find a big bowl with pumpkins on it or something to put the candy in for trick-or-treaters. “Uh…nope,” you said. “Guess we’ll have to look somewhere else!”

“Well what’s that?” He pointed to the thing you kept behind your back.

“Uh...” Think, (Y/n). You clutched the costume desperately and looked around the store, stating the first thing your eyes landed on. “Grease paint.”

“Grease paint?” He quirked his eyebrow up at you, not really buying what you had said.

“Yes.” Oh god, what do you say in this situation. “Because I decided I’m going to be a…” Come on, (Y/n). Quick lie quick lie quick lie. “...vampire this halloween.”

“A vampire,” he said.

This had to be the most painful conversation. “Yes. I’m going to be a vampire.”

He smiled at you with his big sharp teeth. “Well alright then. Do you want to get anything else for your costume while we’re here?”

“Nope,” you said. The stoic expression on your face refused to leave. “Let’s just mosey on outta here.”

He laughed and you two walked out of the store. You tucked the costume into your purse while he wasn’t looking. By the time the two of you made it back to your apartment, you only had a couple hours until you had to go to work. You had been assigned night patrol and was not looking forward to the long hours ahead.

“I’ll start dinner,” Kiri said, getting out of the car.

“Sounds good.” You yawned, also getting out of the car. “I think I’m gonna take a quick nap before work.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Rest up, babe.”

You smiled a sleepy smile at him before taking out your keys and unlocking the apartment. You opened your bedroom door and threw your purse onto the bed. The costume you purchased fell out and onto the floor. You might as well try it on while you had the time. After all, you bought it on a whim and wasn’t even sure if it was the right size. You gently opened the bag and took out the costume. The leotard was skimpy, leaving very little to the imagination.

You took off your shirt and unbuttoned your jeans, allowing them to slip off with ease. You stuck one leg through the leotard and then let the other follow. The harness was easy to slip over your neck, and there was a little tail you noticed dangling between your legs. You looked in the mirror. Sexy was one word to describe the way you looked. Fierce was another. You were shocked to see just how well the costume accentuated every one of your curves. You couldn’t help but toss your hair around at the sight, making it look bigger than it actually is. That’s when you remembered the little clip on horns. Once you put them in, the costume was perfect. You couldn’t help but do a little twirl and pose for yourself in the mirror.

“That looks cute.”

You jumped a little at hearing your boyfriend’s voice. He wasn’t meant to see you in this. Not yet anyway. You crossed your arms, a terrified expression on your face.

“Don’t be scared,” he said. He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, patting the seat next to him. “Come here.”

You obliged, still clutching yourself for dear life. You gulped as you sat next to him. “What do you think?” Any self confidence you had before was long gone.

Kirishima looked up and put his hand on his chin, pretending to think long and hard about it. “Hmm. I don’t know if I should be scared or intrigued.”

You hit him on the arm and he laughed.

“I’m just joking,” he said. “You look so fucking sexy.” The way his usually spiky hair fell over his eyes, added by the hungry looking grin on his face, made him look like a beast, like you were his prey and he was here to devour you. He leaned in and caught your lips with his own. The two of you were like that, just making out on the edge of your bed for a long time. He pulled your bottom lip back with his teeth and you gave him a sultry look. He began kissing down your neck, leaving small marks everywhere his lips touched. He grabbed part of the pentagram harness with his teeth and lifted it up, only to open his mouth and have it release onto your skin, causing you to gasp.

Kiri was never rough during sex, which made you wonder what was in store just then. He pushed you back ever so gently so your back hit the mattress. He continued kissing down your body, then made his way back up your thighs. He stopped for a second to look up and you and clink the end of his fingernail against the clip on horns. “I like your horns,” he said.

“Really? That’s what you stopped for?”

He gave a low chuckle. “You want me to continue?”

You gave a silent nod.

“Alright then.” He pressed a warm hand to your pelvis and gently pushed down as he kissed the inside of your thighs.

Yes, you thought. Yes. Yes. Keep going Kiri.

But your thoughts were interrupted when the alarm on your phone went off. Right. You had work in an hour. The both of you sighed out of frustration. And just when it was getting to the good part.

“You should eat something before going to work,” he said. He extended an arm to help you up, but you dragged him closer until he fell on top of you. This time you were the one to capture his lips with yours.

“To be continued,” you said with a small wink before getting up to change. Your shift at work that night was agonizing. All you could think about were Kirishima’s kisses and how sexy you looked in that devil costume. You were quick to race back home after your shift, and you wasted no time unlocking the door and bursting in.

Kirishima looked up at you, and you saw that your little clip on horns were placed meticulously in his hair.

You tried stifling a laugh. “What are you wearing?”

“What?” He smiled at you. “I told you I like your horns.”

[ghosthouses27]

Hot Damn

Summary: George fucking dies and Phil takes him to Hell Court™

(i had so many options for puns for the title-)

(warning: swearing, mentions of death)

  ~*~

George jolted awake, eyes wide with panic and shaking slightly. A black void surrounded him and whatever flooring was beneath felt cold, almost like water.

"W-what the hell?!" he stammered, his words echoing and bouncing around the... room? He didn't know where he was, in fact he didn't even remembered how he got here! All he remembered was sitting in his friend's speeding car, the sirens behind, and then-

"Hello." A calm voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked around. A man with pale blond hair and green-and-white striped hat was stood behind him, black robes covering his body. George was quick to notice to gleaming scythe in his hand that was just taller than the man himself.

"H-hi?" George replied, putting on a nervous smile. "Uh, where am I?"

"The afterlife."

George felt dread pool in his stomach. "O-oh... So I did get shot..."

The man nodded, a sad smile on his face. "Yes, you did," he said with a nod. "I understand if you need to mourn but I will also need you to follow me."

George nodded and stood up to follow him, feeling slightly intimidated by the giant scythe hovering its blade over his head. As they walked, George noticed the large black wings on the man's back but decided not to question it.

"Hey uh, actually where are we going?" George asked, the shock of suddenly being in the afterlife finally wearing off. "I thought you said this was the afterlife? Seems pretty boring... Also uh, who are you?"

The man chuckled with a surprisingly warm smile on his face. "I'm usually known amongst mortals as the Grim Reaper, but since you're dead now you can just call me Phil. I'm taking you to the Court of Souls, where you'll be put on trial to see whether you go to heaven or hell."

"Oh, I thought you just automatically go to one or the other?" George asked, tilting his head.

"Well for most it is," Phil explained. "But for some people, like you, it's harder to decide what your moral compass is. Small white crimes usually just go to heaven, terrorists go to hell, but a hacking into and robbing a bank takes some more thought."

George was about to ask how he knew about that when Phil put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from nearly crashing into a ridiculously tall door. He gazed up at what looked like a cream colored palace with gold accents and a red carpet peeking out from under the door.

Phil glanced at him and smirked. "Hope you're ready."

The doors burst open dramatically and George was met with a large throne room and 7 people, all of which seemed to be arguing with each other.

"We really couldn't have done this at Pride's place?" a tan man complained, slumping in his golden throne. "It's so much nicer there, this place is shit."

"Language!" a man with strawberry blond hair yelped, eyeing the raven-haired. "There's children here!"

"For the last time I'M NOT A FUCKING CHILD!" a blond yelled from the other side of the line of seats.

Phil fake-coughed in an attempt to get their attention and the pink-haired one in the middle turned to him. He quickly straightened up and snapped his fingers a few times. The rest of the group looked over and seemed to notice George and Phil standing there.

"Oh, hey there," a man with curly brown hair said, waving at the two from where he was laying down. "Nice to meet ya."

The blond next to him gave him a harsh shove with a disgusted look. "Ew, don't hit on him, you're like a hundred years older than him."

The brunette rolled his eyes. "Who gives a shit, we're dead," he scoffed. "Plus, I'm not gay, I'm just being nice."

"Well you make so many jokes about it I can't tell anymore-!"

"Shut up you two," the pink-haired snapped, giving them both a harsh glare. He glanced back at Phil and George, staring at both of them with a withering glare. "So this is who we have to trial?"

"Yup, George Nolfund," Phil said with a smile that seemed too bright for the situation they were in. "He's come down here because he was out robbing a bank with some friends."

He turned to the brunette next to him who was staring at the rag-tag group with pure bewilderment. "George, this is the 7 Deadly Sins of Hell," he explained, gesturing to them.

"Pride-"

The pink haired one in the middle glared at him with scarlet red eyes. He was sat on a golden throne with ruby colored cushioning, and adorned in a dark red cape with a fur trim. A diamond sword leaned against his throne, gleaming dangerously, and a shining golden crown sat on his head.

"Envy-"

The raven-haired with tan skin was sat in an identical golden throne, one leg propped up on the velvet seat. He wore a bright cyan beanie and matching t-shirt hoodie, black irises glaring at George with a scowl on his face.

"Greed-"

A dirty blond man in a lime-green hoodie was sitting in a similar throne, although his was lavished with even more riches and spoils. A strange white mask covered his eyes and a silver sword was at his hip, shining as brightly as the snarky grin on his face.

"Lust-"

The brunette laying on a victorian-style chaise lounge flashed him a smile, adjusting his black beanie slightly. He had a black jacket over a white collared shirt, the top few buttons undone, and a slick guitar was strapped over his back.

"Wrath-"

The blond in a red and white shirt bared his teeth in a glower, crossing his arms. He was sitting on a generic stool that looked to shiny to be real wood, not to mention the various chunks taken out of it.

"Gluttony-"

The strawberry blond look up from his muffin and waved, sat on a throne that looked to be made of various sweets and deserts. A dark gray cloak covered him and he had on a checkered gray sweater underneath, with little devil horns on the top of his hood that George couldn't tell if they were real or not.

"And Sloth."

A man with black hair was slouched on a beanbag, looking up at George sleepily from under a white headband. He was wearing a black turtleneck with a white t-shirt thrown on top, the flame design on the front crumpled and folded like it'd never seen an iron in its life.

"You will be judged by them to see if you go to Hell or Heaven," Phil said. "So I suggest you be on your best behavior," he added with a smirk.

"So what's the crime?" Greed asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Phil snapped his fingers and a scroll appeared in his hands. "Well, George here is from a rather well-off family but ended up being disowned by his parents and turned to a life of crime, working as a hacker for a group of well-known robbers in the city."

George shifted slightly, feeling uncomfortable at how much the man knew.

"Well G-"

"Well George," Pride interrupted, glaring at Greed. "That certainly doesn't sound like heaven material." He glanced over at his partners then back at George. "I say we just send him down. Greed you can take him, he seems boring."

Greed clapped his hands together happily. "Wonderful!"

"I- whoa, hold on!" Gluttony cut in, nearly choking on his mouthful of muffin. "We need to talk more! He's here on trial for a reaso-"

"I say send him down," Lust said, grinning slyly at the brunette before him. "I'll take him in if he seems like a bother, the more the merrier as they say."

"Guys we need to talk-"

"Actually, I'll be taking him, thank you very much," Envy hissed, shooting a glare at him.

"SHUT UP I WANNA HEAR GLUTTONY!" Wrath yelled, making Lust who was sitting next to him nearly fall off his chair.

Gluttony sighed, taking another bite of his muffin. "As I was saying," he began again, giving a pointed look to Envy who turned away sourly. "Whilst I do agree he doesn't seem like heaven material, we need to actually agree what faction he'll go to. No just calling dibs Greed."

Pride huffed, rolling his eyes. "Well I'm not taking him," he grumbled. "He doesn't even seem proud of his sins, hell he seems remorseful." He made a fake gagging noise which made Lust giggle.

"I don't think he fits Lust either," Lust commented, rolling onto his back to look at George upside down. "Robbing a bank isn't very sexy."

"Not Gluttony either," Gluttony added, voice muffled from a mouthful of muffin. "Least he didn't burn down a house trying to make a cake! Actually, 3 houses," he added with a giggle.

George winced slightly, imagining the flames consuming the building all for the sake of a measly pastry.

"Yup, definitely not Gluttony," the strawberry blond said, seeing his reaction. He glanced over at Sloth who seemed to have fallen asleep. "Got anything to say Sloth?"

The raven-haired jolted awake, spluttering for words and trying to grasp reality for a moment. "Uh- I- yeah, did you say something?" he asked, grinning slightly.

Gluttony huffed in frustration. "We're trying to figure out what faction to put uh..."

"George."

"Right. What faction to put George in. You got anything to say?"

Sloth shrugged, resting his head in his arms. "I dunno. Didn't you say he like, robbed a bank? Probably not fit for Sloth then."

"Geez you actually have something to contribute," Wrath muttered.

"Well do you have anything to add dipshit?" Sloth shot back, smirking.

Wrath bristled, gripping the edge of his stool tightly. "You're the dipshit, dipshit!" he retorted, before glaring over at George and making the brunette flinch. "He's too nice, acts like one of Lust's bitches."

"I don't want him either," Envy quickly added, looking away. "He looks... dumb..."

"Then I do get him!" Greed exclaimed, grinning. "Hell yeah!"

Phil smiled that all-too-friendly smile again. "Alright then! Trial over! You guys can get back to whatever and I'll take this one down on under!"

Sloth was gone before he even finished speaking, and Pride quickly followed in suit. Lust waved goodbye before vanishing as well. Gluttony sent him one last smile before disappearing and Envy sent him a glare before following.

"Bye bitch boy," Wrath sneered before leaving.

Greed gave him a final smile and a wave. "It was great to meet you George!" he exclaimed with a smile that seemed almost fake. "See you in Hell."

[lostonehero]

In hell things go slow and uncomfortable well suppose to

Thomas threw the papers onto the board room table no longer in a human disguise. "Its been just about 200 years. This isn't suppose to happen." The nubs of horns on his head over shadowed by the rainbow flames that floated above them start to puff more smoke as he lays his head on the table.

Roman puffs out his black wings rolling his black and red eyes. "Don't bring that up it would be like Stockholm syndrome if I do that now and even as a demon I have standards. And I would say he would be one of the fallen like myself but 200 years is slow and he was a human who died." He huffs taking off his crown to fidget with it.

Virgil removed his hood to reveal long black and purple horns that produced a small purple flame. "I may have gone a little overboard getting him out though. Even still I'm the fastest on record and it took 1589 years. He doesn't even remember being alive nor what he did all he figures out is that he is in hell." He throws his hands up In annoyance. "But noooo he is going full force."

Logan adjusts his glasses on his pointed ears. "I've already reported again to the higher ups and they have no clue as us even Lucifer heard our case and was confused. I'm afraid we are in new territory."

Patton looks up as his dog ears poke up. "Well I mean that can be good we can learn something new..... but we still need to calm him down explain things and Oh yeah try to figure out how to get his memories back..." his ears go flat against his head. "I wasn't trained for this, I'm suppose to come after and help with the trauma and recovery but this isn't normal."

Thomas slams the table getting everyone's attention. "We have become a family here and have been commanded by Lucifer themself to become a group now a new message just came through. Logan go through his files with a fine tooth comb again to find out if he did anything else while alive. Patton you're on damage control calm him down and minimize his pain. Virgil you'll be with me as we talk with the hire ups, and Roman he has gotten attached to you so when Patton finishes damage control you will begin to take shifts back and forth to keep him stable and to see if that helps slow this. Now I understand he didn't do anything major but we were told to push now we have been to told to hold back and heal please take your jobs seriously." Thomas gets up a rainbow devil tail swishes furiously.

"I will do my best sir and I will report my findings." Logan nods and dissipates into smoke.

"That I can actually do. "Patton says smiling and walks off

Roman sighs. "I'll be in my quarters until needed Patton."

........

Virgil gets up and follows Thomas. "What level."

"Lucifer." Thomas says boldly

Virgil's eyes widen and his pupils narrow. "Oh may hell be in our favor and it explains the sudden shift in method."

Thomas nods frowning. "This won't be good or bad because this is uncharted territory and a new devil shouldn't be created this quickly nor be created by this man whose sin wasn't even that bad he was marked to go to heaven after 500 years."

Virgil stops for a second. "He was?"

Thomas nods. "If this continues we have to get angels involved and that won't be good."

Virgil scowls. "I hate those pricks."

"We all do Virgil, but it has become a looming necessity."

"I understand sir."

"Also next time Virgil do not attempt to remove our charge by trapping him."

"I understand sir it won't happen again."

.........

Deceit's body felt like it was on fire and he could only whimper his voice gone from screaming. He couldn't even tell what was up from down from the nauseous feeling in his gut and the dizziness in his head.

Patton gasped at the state of Deceit he was bleeding and looked awfully Ill. This wasn't a scene they created either which worried him greatly. He walked up carefully to Deceit and felt his forehead, yeah that was a fever high for human and demon standards. That wasn't good, so he summoned some ice water and a towel and began to try to cool Deceit down.

"Do you remember your name?" Patton asks calmly.

Deceit could only whimper as he leaned into the icy cold fabric.

"I'm going to take that as a no. You're in pretty bad shape kiddo hopefully Logan can figure out what happened." Patton chatters about to fill the silence.

He picks up Deceit to give him a nice cold bath and new clothes. Patton is treating this like a normal case because if he doesn't he will probably panic.

......

Logan went over Deceit's life and death with a fine tooth comb, for one his sin of stealing and lying wasn't even that bad and he was due in heaven in 300 years, he was killed by a mob who accused him of witchcraft.... everything in between didn't even matter.

No magic

No curse

No mass death

Nothing

Logan flipped again through the records, and there wasn't anything like the first time he checked, the only thing he could connect was that he had a pet snake which in reality was a small snake he saved from drowning witch would of benefited him for heaven. But if this continues he won't ever reach the silver city no matter how much he suffers.

Hell was rehabilitation in a way sinners get punished for x amount of years and if they aren't devil's by the end they get sent to heaven, but it takes well over 1000 years in order for that to happen, and it only happens to the better of the bunch. Like for an example dictators have a special place where they are never redeemed and must try again in a way after a certain amount of time of torture they get reborn as something to have another shot.

Deceit well Deceit wasn't a major dictator a murderer or even killed animals he committed human sins which isn't that high up there. Logan thumbed through the rule book again and again and again. He even looked through the angel rules with humans and it didn't help, all it gave him is burnt fingers.

He wasn't prepared to deal with this new territory. He didn't know what this meant for demon kind or angel kind for that matter. He hoped that they will figure it out soon since the exponential rate Deceit is turning he won't be able to leave, let alone what it will do to his mental state.

Logan opened up another book and added to the pile on his desk.

......

Roman doesn't remember much before the fall he knew he was some sort of important angel or whatever, but it never suited him. He was trying to think back if this ever happened before and yet couldn't even fathom it.

Did this happen with humans in the silver city? Roman couldn't be certain but they wouldn't know down here since souls in heaven never go down. Why was this happening to this guy? Roman wouldn't be upset if he stayed but not in this circumstance.

Sure he had been around the block before torture was common place in hell because that was the job of this place so heaven wouldn't get their hands dirty messing with humanity. Watching humanity grow and dealing with that wasn't all bad but that meant going to the surface and risking bumping into an angel.

A bitter taste was in his mouth when he thought of angels thoes pricks.

If Roman was being honest he didn't think Deceit deserved even this long in hell for what he did, but what can he do he wasnt at the trail of the soul, he only was put on the case after the start of the odd happenings.

Roman rubbed his face and sat up puffing out his wings on instinct. Five years, and the snake eye. That's how he got roped into this.

Thomas was concerned when his charged suddenly gained the snake eye only five years in so Roman was put on the case, and well the changes came in rapid bursts throught the years and that's how the others got involved. Patton the best recovery officer for souls who finished their torment or when devils needed a doctor he was the first to be summoned for the higher ups. Logan the top scholar of hell he is basically the go to for any fact needed to be known. Virgil well was the record of the quickest turn and was Thomas's apprentice and well partner they made a cute pair.

Roman was only called onto the case because he was one of the oldest in hell and well even now he was stumped and a bit scared for the poor guy. Under better circumstances he would of asked the poor guy out on a date, but now he needed to heal.

Roman had no idea what the future held but in the first time in ages he felt something for another that wasn't harmful or malice. Maybe he could be more helpful when Patton managed to fix Deceit up to a level where he is stable.

Did Deceit remember his name? That was a thought that kept racing through Roman's mind.

[stylinsonlibrary]

Halloween Fic Rec

Includes: fics where it’s Halloween, Alien fics, Demon fics, Supernatural/Ghost fics, Vampire fics, Werewolf fics, Witch fics, and Thriller fics! Happy reading and Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN FICS

Made Just For Me (2k)

“What the fuck are you doing?”

From where he’s sitting on the floor, Harry chooses not to answer. Instead, he continues laying out old newspapers around him. He layers them so they completely cover the carpet, leaving no space for anything to stain.

“Harry,” Louis’ voice comes again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready to carve a pumpkin,” Harry replies simply, still not looking at Louis.

“But…why?”

Or, Harry and Louis carve a pumpkin.

This is Halloween, everybody make a scene (2k)

When Louis takes his son trick-or-treating in a stormtrooper costume, little does he know by the end of the night he will end up gaining a Luke Skywalker, a Chewbacca, and a Rey. He doesn't mind the additions, and if Rey's very hot dad wants to come along as well, he doesn't mind that too much either.

What Goes Up, Ghost Around (2k)

Harry and Louis have a habit of falling into each other time and time again. Harry thinks he'd be more angry if it wasn't so good.

I'll be your trick if you'll be my treat. (2k)

Harry and Louis have been married for a while. Lately they have a problem in finding time for each other. As they plan to attend Niall’s Halloween Party a bit of trouble and dirty deeds occur.

Halloween Night (3k)

Harry and Louis spend Halloween night in. Just something absolutely cute and fluffy because I'm in a Halloween mood tonight!

Everyone's Waiting for the Next Surprise (4k)

"Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just excited to see me?"

Harry jumps and almost drops the bottle he's holding in his hands and whips around to see Spiderman leaning up against the doorjamb to the kitchen. Harry can't see his face due to his mask, but he knows this guy has got to be deadly attractive if his body is anything to go by. He’s clad head to toe in a skintight spandex suit that hugs him in all the right places. His thighs are so thick, Harry wants to put his face in between them. And what the hell are these shots doing to him?

He stumbles a little when he reaches out to place the bottle back on the counter. And when did he become such a lightweight? He gently strokes along the bottom part of his banana costume that's sticking out between his legs and lowers his voice as best as he can. "I am very excited to see you. Banana's got a thing for men who are also spiders."

Or the one where Harry goes to a Halloween party dressed as a banana and meets Spiderman.

Tricking and Treats (4k)

Louis takes his sisters Trick or Treating and just so happens to knock on Harry's door.

A Boo-tiful Relationship (5k)

Louis is hopeless in the kitchen and his daughter is demanding a smorgasbord of spooky treats. He gets help from the most unlikely teacher.

Beep the Horn (5k)

“Listen, I’ve tried to be helpful," Niall said. "But it's been three years. It’s time for you to make the move. There’s only so much encouraging I can do before it starts to get repetitive. And annoying.”

“I feel so loved,” Louis deadpanned.

“Of course we love you, Lou,” Zayn said. “We just need you to tell Harry how you feel so you can stop feeling so down on yourself.” Or, the one where Harry dresses as Miley Cyrus for Halloween, and Louis is the tiniest bit in love with him.

This is Halloween (5k)

Louis hates frat boys. Harry Styles is a frat boy. Therefore, Louis hates Harry Styles right? The Greeks on campus are throwing a carnival on Halloween night. Louis crafts the perfect plan to prank Harry at the carnival, except, things don't quite go quite as expected. What do you get when you toss two boys who hate each other (except they don't), a hay maze, and a prank gone wrong into a bubbling cauldron? Read to find out!

Turquoise Pumpkin (5k)

Louis is just trying to do the best he can for his daughter and along the way, he meets the most mesmerizing man.

My Arms Are Hungry For You (6k)

“Sorry, don’t tell me you’re actually a fan of the Red Devils,” says another voice, and Harry looks beyond Nick to see a guy standing there, taking long sips from a bottle.

“I-I am,” Harry stutters, pulse racing at the sight of him. His face is covered in white makeup, and he’s wearing a well-fitting white shirt, black pants, and a long black cape, a set of fake teeth in his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re actually a vampire.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis meet at Nick Grimshaw's Halloween party and things go better than anyone could have expected.

Fallen treats (6k)

Harry hates both Halloween and Louis Tomlinson. He does, however, love his little sister a lot. Hence why he puts on his ears and his tail and joins her, her friends and their big brother for a round of trick or treating.

Some Day My Prince Will Come (7k)

Everyone thinks we came to this party as a couple because our costumes match. What’s your name?

Faith, Trust, and a Little Pixie Dust (7k)

Louis loves Halloween. Harry hates everything about it, but he loves Louis. And Niall loves vodka and glitter so there's that.

Or the one where Harry has been pining for his best friend and roommate for years. It takes a costume party, an Irish fairy and a sprinkle of pixie dust to give this fairytale prince his happy ending.

Kryptonite (8k)

Louis watches with hooded eyes as Harry’s adam's apple bobs up and down a few times, before licking his lips and slowly bringing his eyes back up to Louis’.

Even in this lighting Louis can see how dilated his pupils have become, and imagines his must look similar.

“Are you wearing lace under your top, Lou?” Harry asks, voice deep with a rough edge that sends a shiver down his spine.

“I’m wearing lace under my everything, Harold.” he says coyly, batting his mascara laden lashes slowly.

For the first time in all of the years they’ve been working together both Louis and Harry are single at the same time. With their company’s annual Halloween bash just around the corner, both men decide it might just be the perfect time to take a risk, and maybe get a little risqué with their costumes in the hopes that the reward might be each other.

it's only you that matters (10k)

“I never used to care for Halloween, but now it’s my favorite holiday and, fuck, there’s no one else to blame except for you. You’ve made not only Halloween, but every day of the year better for me because I get to spend each and every one of them with you.”

The one where Harry and Louis meet on Halloween and Halloween somehow becomes their thing.

Baby I got the power (12k)

“That’s not actually half bad, you know?”

“What?” Louis asked, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah like it is silly, sure but so is this whole idea,” Zayn added. Liam made an affronted sound. “No offense Liam but you have to admit. It is a bit silly. But Power Rangers and nostalgia... Louis really has a good idea right there.”

“I’m a little offended by that, Zayn, I’ll admit but you might be onto something there.”

Or where they dress up as Power Rangers and Harry is the Pink Power Ranger.

It'll Be (13k)

Louis has always wanted children and he decides he's done waiting for love to come first. However, after adopting a baby girl just days after she's born, he quickly realizes how hard parenting is. Louis hires Harry to be his Nanny, and it all works out great. Until Louis falls in love with him.

haunted house (series; 19k; 2 works)

Float Down Like Autumn Leaves (Stay Now) (16k)

Sometimes life plays more tricks than treats on us. Sometimes we plan our future and hope for the best but our world is turned upside down. Sometimes the crispy air of October brings the smell of pumpkin spice candles instead of dead things- and sometimes, when it’s meant to be, there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.

Or

The AU in which Louis has a 6 year old daughter with a costume emergency that puts her school's annual Halloween party at risk, Halloween decorated cupcakes are hard to find and tall men look absolutely ridiculously cute in giant vegetables costumes. Co-starring Harry, who makes really good food for the kids. Featuring Niall, who works in a bakery but has a part time job as a babysitter. And as much as he doesn't believe in love at first (or second) sight, Louis is really infatuated and really wouldn't mind seeing Harry again.

ALIEN FICS

Got This Feeling In Our Souls (8k)

Louis sat up, awoken by something he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He scrubbed at his eyes, unsure if he was actually still dreaming or if he was awake. He didn’t dream often, but when he did they were always vivid like this. Louis opened his eyes and squinted through the darkness before jumping back, his heart racing.

Dream or not, there was a person sitting in the chair in the corner of the room. The chair that usually was only used by Charlie while Louis slept.

“Who the fuck are you and how did you get in my apartment?” Louis asked, voice a bit more squeaky than he’d like to admit. Suddenly there were two flashes of green, and the world went black again.

Alien Roadtrip! (16k)

For the first time in his life, Louis doesn’t know where he’s going. Harry doesn’t mind.

OR: roadtrip with desert feelings, too much snack food, and empty motels. Harry is definitely absolutely not an alien. That would be ridiculous.

Alone in a Sea of Stars (21k)

He shifted his helmet, where it was still in his hands, watching the fluorescent lights shine off of Harry’s hair and reflect off his skin.

Louis knew he would have to let Harry leave, but before doing so he licked over his dry lips, asking genuinely, “So are you going to follow me back to the ship again tomorrow or…?”

Harry smiled in reply, dimples going all soft and sweet. “Going to wait until right before you close the doors again so you have no choice but to keep me.”

Louis felt his skin warming and a small laugh bubbling up from his chest, as he bit down on his lower lip to stop his smile from growing. He cleared his throat, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I could probably kick you out right now if I wanted.” The thing was, Louis knew he wouldn’t. He could wait at least ten more minutes before he let Harry leave. Maybe even twenty.

A King Beside You (25k)

When the aliens invade, the last thing Louis expects is to fall in love.

Cosmic Love (27k)

Sudden chills rake over his body yet again, making him stay rooted to the ground. Static in the air makes every hair on his body stand up straight. That’s when he notices something a couple feet in front of him lying on the ground. It’s what appears to be a person, weird white beams snaking around them like Christmas lights. Louis’ heart rate picks up. Is the person alright? What are they doing here? What the fuck is happening? Or: Louis lives in a small, desert town in the middle of nowhere Texas, yet a strange visitor manages to find Louis among the stars.

alien harry (series; 2 works; 36k)

Beautiful & Strange (40k)

Over the top of Niall’s cackles, Louis heard Zayn say: “I think it’s…. A spaceship.”

Louis and Niall turned to him in bafflement. Zayn put his hands up in surrender. “What! It’s clearly floating, so it’s not a rock, and it’s not made of wood or plastic or metal.”

Louis didn’t even bother telling him that, no, of course it’s not a spaceship, this isn’t the x-files.

OR: A story in which Harry is an alien looking to be found, and Louis does the finding. (And vice versa.)

Glow (41k)

Alien AU, with a hint of Royal AU. A summer barbecue at the Tomlinson’s is interrupted by a naked visitor from a peaceful planet far, far away. Can an alien and a human survive a summer together for the sake of the human race?

Won’t sleep (48k)

Roswell!AU: After a situation at the pub escalates, Louis almost dies, but Harry is there to bring him back and nothing is ever the same again.

through struggles, to the stars (80k)

Louis is a Starfleet captain trying to find his place in the universe. Harry is a prince just trying to do what’s right.

A Star Trek-inspired AU.

DEMON FICS

My Sweet, Sweet Love. (1k)

Louis is an angel. Harry is a demon. They fall in love. Its forbidden.

Two different versions of the universe (11k)

Harry is a demon, captured by hunters. but not just any hunters. Angels. Louis is his angel.

A bit of happiness (11k)

Harry is a new angel, given a task to help a troubled kid, Liam, but a certain little Demon keeps getting in the way.

Run Like the Devil (series; 157k; 2 works)

SUPERNATURAL/GHOSTS FICS

we've got unfinished business (6k)

“Maybe we have a ghost,” Harry suggests, frowning when Louis laughs. “Lots of people have them, you know.”

“Harry, ghosts aren’t real,” Louis snorts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the kitchen. Harry pouts for a moment, until he hears Louis shriek on the other side of the door.

Or, there’s a ghost in Harry and Louis’s apartment that seemingly just wants them to date.

Just Around the Corner (7k)

Louis' routine life is interrupted by the repeated appearance of... something. A ghost? A stranger? A hallucination?

Veni, Vidi, Amavi (10k)

Harry remembers why he stayed now, why he’s always had that feeling of waiting. He was holding out for Louis, his soulmate. He was keeping his promise.

You and Me and the Devil Makes Three (10k)

AU. Louis moves in next door to Harry. Louis has a ghost, Harry has an extra futon and a crush.

Poison Me With Love (11k)

Gemma hums for a couple of seconds, and then, she gasps. “What if your flat is haunted?”

“Gemma, that’s not funny,” Harry says.

“No, I’m serious. I was just watching a show about it the other day. There’s, like, spirits and stuff that roam around different places. Maybe one of those spirits lives in your flat.” She says it like it’s such a common thing that Harry rolls his eyes. His sister would be watching shows like that, but Harry doesn’t appreciate that she’s telling him all this, not only because Harry is already spooked, but also because he lives alone in a flat that has weird things happening to him, and the last thing he needs is to be losing sleep over wondering if there’s some sort of spirit living in his home.

Or- There are strange things happening in Harry's flat and he's determined to figure out the cause.

you look so good in blue (20k)

“You don't believe in ghosts, do you, Mr. Styles?”

If he's honest with himself, Harry's not sure what his stance is on the subject. So he just smiles and shrugs before leaving. After all, he's never actually met a ghost, that he knows about. Besides, even a ghost wouldn't bring him down on how affordable the rent on the flat is.

Or: Harry Styles hears about a perfect flat from his roommate Zayn's boyfriends and decides to sign the lease. The only problem is: the flat has a reputation for being haunted. It certainly doesn't help that Harry's cat is seeing things as soon as they move in...

Gracious Goes the Ghost of You (25k)

And there it was again. That heaviness, that shift in the air that makes everything feel just a little slower. It’s like just moving forward makes him sore from the exertion. It’s not in the least physical, it’s his heart and mind and soul that feels stretched and pushed too far. It’s those moments, where his heart feels like it’s thudding only because it still can, that Louis feels the itch to glance at the clock. When he aches to know how long it’s been and maybe a part of him is wondering how long it will be. If this time, when he checks the clock, he’ll feel the same shame for his long stint of grief, but it will be followed by some sort of pride. He’s made it this far, and “because it still can” is a perfectly good reason for his heart to keep beating.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks.

Louis hums, shifting a little to rest his head on top of Harry’s. “Is this your new question?"

“Yeah,” he whispers, softly.

“Just… thinking about how long it’s been. And how long it may be before it doesn’t hurt so much anymore."

Harry is a ghost who comes to visit. Louis feels like a ghost, himself. In forgiveness, they find their way back to life.

Across The Lines (28k)

With a camera in hand, Louis sets off on the road trip of his life to explore the most famous haunted houses of the UK. Things don't exactly go to plan.

The Haunting of Louis Tomlinson (31k)

“I'm not afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

Every single magnet unstuck itself from the fridge and fell to the floor in a clattering cascade.

“I'm only a little afraid of ghosts,” Louis said.

OR: Louis is a plucky Gothic Heroine, Harry is a Mournful Spirit, and Big Country Houses are full of mystery and suspense, as Big Country Houses ever are!

Psychic / FBI (series; 57k; 2 works)

Ghosts in the Attic (series; 36kl 2 works)

Through Eerie Chaos (102k)

For as long as anyone can remember, Old Hillsbridge Manor has always been believed to be haunted. Everyone in the village agrees and keeps a respectful, fearful, distance. New in town after a bad breakup and an internship that led to disappointment rather than a permanent job, Harry Styles figures taking pictures of the decrepit building could be a great new creative project. Or at least a much-needed distraction while he searches for a job and crashes at his parents’ new house. No one warned him about the apparitions though; about the music, the laughter, the people who flicker and vanish when you call after them, the echoes of a past that should be long gone… Harry has never believed in spirits but even he can admit that there’s something weird going on. What starts as mere curiosity evolves into a full-blown investigation and soon enough, Harry finds himself making friends with an aristocrat from the 1920s and struggling with finding the best way to tell him that he’s dead.

The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.

VAMPIRE FICS

Howls Like A Beast (You Flower, You Feast) (16k)

France, 1754. Château de Versailles.

“You don’t love me,” Louis had said, utterly blasé as he callously fractured the heart of a Harry that was just barely eighteen.

“I do,” Harry had insisted pleadingly, green eyes already watering.

Louis had rolled his eyes, exasperated and flippant in the way only beautiful, young boys could be when faced with the affections of a baby prince. He had run his finger down Harry’s cheek then, had forced him to look into his eyes as he delivered the final blow.

“You’ll change your mind once you’ve seen more of the world,” Louis had teased, pressing a brutally delicate kiss onto Harry’s lovely, pure cheek. “Once you’ve been properly defiled.” He had whispered filthily, delighted by the gasp he heard, the frantic pink blush that had rested high on Harry’s cheeks, the power he had felt at knowing he could make the Crown Prince squirm.

Can I just be the same? (17k)

“Are you skint?” Louis studied his face. “I can give you the bloody bus fare home, Harry. You don't have to walk.” His voice was soft. Caring.

Harry stopped, his body tingling. Fuck. He shouldn’t have crossed the road. Keep walking. Always keep walking.

“I’m not skint, but thanks for the offer. There’s not many kind people like you around. You’re lovely, you know that?” Harry reached his hand out tentatively, cupping Louis’ elbow and squeezing. “Thank you.” His voice hitched a little.

He’d roamed the country for centuries, coming in and out of people’s lives, never able to forge bonds. Or, if he did, breaking them and suffering the pain of lost love. That was his life forever. Stuck in this limbo with not one other person in the whole world who cared about him. So the kindness of a stranger really hit home, and this stranger with the bluest eyes and brightest smile was making Harry feel alive again. Reminding him of what he was missing

Harry is a two hundred year old Vampire with no one in the whole world and Louis is the kind hearted stranger who comes into Harry's life bringing something that Harry had missed. Love. But Harry is forever running, can Louis be the one to change all that?

Darkest Night Hour (24k)

After spending thirty-five years hiding out with his face buried in ancient vampire texts, Louis comes back to New York City. While Louis is adjusting to city life in the modern age, Zayn just wants his clan to finally win at trivia nights. Louis needs to make a major decision and he's running out of time. The last thing he expects is to meet someone like Harry, who might be the solution to all of their problems.

Carnelian (30k)

“It’s a donor matching center for humans and vampires.”

“Vampires.” Louis snorts. “Like pretend vampires, like for people who think they are vampires?”

The humor clearly lost on Zayn as he answers calmly, “No, real vampires.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires.” Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking with me or something.” Louis flicks his cigarette to the ground.

“I’m not.” Zayn speaks, his tone harsh and deeper than Louis remembers. “There are vampires all around you. We are quite civilized beings. We have careers, business, and we enjoy nights out on the town just like humans do. We aren’t savages. We blend in with the rest of the world. However, no advancement in science has fixed our one problem that makes us different than humans...We still need blood to live and we love it fresh from the source.”

Louis finds himself donating blood to the most beautiful being he's ever seen.

I Will Never Rust (38k)

What was Harry meant to say? Yes Louis, I’d date you. I want to make you come repeatedly so that must mean I have a thing for you yeah? No. Because it doesn’t mean that, because Harry refuses to get attached to anyone he wants to fuck.

Harry wants to suck more than just Louis’ blood but Louis refuses to sleep with Count Dickula.

Into The Meadow's Dawn (42k)

But it is noon and the clouds are sweeping across the sky, a breeze making the ride home pleasant and the short walk from the station bearable. And upon opening the box a white, inconspicuous letter has plunked to the floor. And the reason for Harry sinking against the cool walls is not drunkenness or exhaustion from work or a sneaking wariness of life, no. It’s the sending address. There is none. Just a name. In scrawny writing.

Love, Louis is what she zeroes in first. Love, Louis. A sob forms in her throat. She will be back, it says, Louis will be back. On the second of June. Waiting in front of the French café they used to work in during the late eighties, at midday, if it still stands, it says. If not, she will be waiting anyway, it says.

Or: It's been three decades since Harry had last seen Louis. She hasn't been coping too well, with being alone in a city that used to be their home, with taking care of herself, with finding her purpose in the world. It's summer now and the flowers are blooming all around her, throwing her back into memories she'd rather keep locked away. Of course, this is when the letter arrives.

Among the Humans (129k)

A gothic, modern day vampire romance between a young human named Louis Tomlinson, and Harry Styles, ancient vampire and gentleman.

Creatures of the night come with more trouble than they wish to make it seem.

WEREWOLF FICS

Heart Devoured by alittlewicked (4k)

When Louis came to, it was with a start, claws sunken into the mattress below him and the foreign but somehow familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon deep in his lungs. With blood rushing heavy in his ears, he rutted down into the soft bed and whined breathily at the relief the movement brought him.

“Come on, Lou, look at me!”

Carefully he rolled over and slowly blinked his eyes open for the first time that day. And came face to face with Harry, Niall’s business partner and the most beautiful boy Louis knew.

Or the No Control / Werewolf AU with fairytale elements and some fortune cookies where Louis is a new werewolf suffering from awkwardly popping claws and ears at all times that wakes up to Harry (who he may or may not have a crush on) in his bed when all he can remember is taking a little frog home with him to help him over a break-up.

Being Human by jacinth (series; 3 works; 8k)

fortune’s fools by dramaturgicallycorrect (8k)

It’s about respecting the night and the reason they’ve come together. It’s a rite of passage, as it were, a symbol of status, and that’s the only thing that keeps Louis from skiving off and going for a run with Liam.

And he knows Lottie would chew off his left arm if he kept her away from the first All Hallows’ Ball she’s eligible for. So he keeps himself plastered to her side as soon as they step into the foyer, works hard at keeping his claws at bay once they’re behind enemy lines. It’s a hard habit to unlearn, but he’s trying.

Louis likes an armistice as much as the next lad, but until he sees some sort formal treaty, he generally trusts the vamps about as far as he can throw them. Which is, admittedly, quite far, but not far enough. He’s here to represent the pack, and that’s all. He won’t pick a fight. But he will finish one if it starts, he has to. The war resumes at sunrise anyway.

Or two immortal households, both alike in dignity.

I Would Follow You (To the Moon and Back) by Dick (20k)

Everyone has baggage, some people sleepwalk, some have obsessive exes, and others turn into anthropomorphic wolf-like monsters that destroy furniture and run rampant in the forest. Perfectly normal.

Or the one where Harry and Louis have been dating for six months, Harry is a werewolf, and it’s a full moon. This time they’re going to get it right.

break open the sky by karamelised (20k)

Being a werewolf isn’t always easy. Especially if you have no idea what you’re doing.

or a Werewolf au. Harry might be a werewolf, but he still wants to experience Uni like everyone else. Turns out he learns a lot.

Out of the Wild by jaerie (21k)

Louis has spent most of his life as a wolf in the wild, Harry has spent most of his life as a human in the city. Their worlds collide during the audition process for the hottest new singing competition. What happens next should have expected.

night changes by colourexplosion (series; 2 works; 44k)

But Please, Don’t Bite by shyserious (series; 2 works, 128k)

amaryllis by hattalove (146k)

“Where are we?”

“Um. A little while out of London?” Niall tries, seemingly the only one willing to not be mysterious and provide Harry with information, and. Oh.

“London London? As in, the capital of England London?” he asks, just in case he’d misheard.

“No, the other London,” Louis laughs, low and biting. He comes closer finally, the moonlight just enough to reveal a sharp-cut jaw and pale skin. “Sorry, Pup.” Nobody’s ever called Harry a “pup”. Frankly, he finds it quite insulting, but he lets it slide to try and comprehend his current crisis.

or the one where harry gets bitten by a werewolf. louis is the mysterious not-quite alpha, liam and zayn have Things going on, niall is their token human, and together, they watch a lot of TV.

WITCH FICS

what’s inside your imagination (is as real as anything else)  (3k)

“Hey!” Niall shouts suddenly, scaring Harry nearly out of his hat. “We like your costume!”

The ghost turns to glance at Niall, producing a hand from under the sheet and giving him a thumbs up. Harry can’t help but laugh a little more, the casual gesture adding to the entire vibe of the sunglasses-wearing ghost.

The ghost looks at them for a moment longer before turning and disappearing into the crowd again, and Harry sighs. “I love Halloween,” he says thoughtfully.

Or, Harry’s a witch who likes to pretend he’s a human pretending he’s a witch, and Louis’s the human in a not-so-clever costume that keeps catching his eye.

Always Darkest before the Sunrise (7k)

Salem, Massachusetts, 17th century.

“You have attacked without need and without mercy, you have used arts so dark they are of the Evil One, and for that you cannot be allowed to walk free.”

What?

Harry starts struggling. It’s no use, he’s not even doing it with any sort of rational plan, the whole town at this point stands between him and freedom, but the words leaking from the preacher’s lips are filling him with a bile more sickening than he’s ever known.

“Harry Styles, ward of the church no longer, you are under arrest for the use of witchcraft against the innocent townspeople of Salem, Massachusetts.”

Babe, There’s Something Lonesome About You by patdkitten (8k)

Louis is a hedge witch, who lives a lonely, solitary life. He’s quite happy with his shop in Door County, selling New Age magics to the tourists. He also has his cats and his birds to keep him company. But his best friend Liam thinks he needs someone around, and he’s got just the person: Liam’s friend Harry is coming to the area for the tourist season and since Louis has all this space….

Love Potion Number 9 by noellehenry (9k)

Harry is a witch, albeit a clumsy witch. His spells never work out quite as he expects them to and his potions are at least hazardous. He is, however, talented in the kitchen: his pumpkin pie cupcakes are heavenly. He bakes them as a welcome gift for his new hot neighbour…

Dusk Till Dawn by larryandgaystuff (9k)

Packed Lunches, Sticky Fingers and Accidental Levitation (10k)  

Harry Styles is a skilled work-from-home potionist five years out of university with a steady job, a house, and… eight kids.

He also might be heading towards a breakdown if he doesn’t get a bit of help.

Enter a meddling pixie and an old university friend he might or might not have had a lot of feelings for.

Bewitched by ReadInTheAM (11k)

Louis is a modern day witch. No, he doesn’t have green skin or pointed hats and he definitely doesn’t have warts covering his face.

However, he does have a cat familiar, Harry.

And though Louis’ witchiness doesn’t bother his normal life, he does get into some trouble while he was out of the house. Or at least, Harry does.

Down Comes The Night (12k)

Harry Styles is a not-at-all-magic resident of 23rd Century London in possession of a very weird cat, an occult store, and the budding friendship of an attractive homeless man named Louis.

There’s a miracle afoot.

taken by the wind by lightofathousandstars (12k)

When he decided to move to London with his sister, Harry thought he would finally get to learn how to control his magic. He couldn’t possibly have predicted that he would fall for her neighbour.

Or the one where Harry is a clumsy witch and Louis is making everything worse just by existing.

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by oopsiedaisy (12k)

“I bet,” Harry says softly before adding, “I could help you maybe? With your magic?”.

“Oh yeah,” Louis asks and motions her head towards the burnt flowers still smouldering in their vase. Harry’s top lip quirks up on one side, “Hey. That was a real life magic show I put on for you.”

“Well what are you gonna teach me then Houdini?”

Louis is a witch with no magical powers who joins a local coven she finds on craigslist. Harry is the earth witch convinced she can help Louis find her powers with flowers, baby mice and everything nice.

Witch Harry by QuickedWeen (series; 2 works; 15k)

Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

Burn by anchortied (21k)

Louis is plagued by nightmares of being burned at the stake. Every time he closes his eyes he can see the flames, smell the smoke, taste the acrid smell of his own death in his nostrils. There is nothing he fears more than this.

Besides being something other than what he truly is. Which is, to say in the very least, a powerful witch. One of the most powerful in in the world, as far as he knows. His magic can’t even be matched by Liam, who learned quicker than anyone he’s ever met, or Niall, who’s magic fire could burn through a whole village in a mere moment if he wanted to.

When Louis meets Harry however, he realizes that his magic isn’t as strong as he thought. And as he tries to navigate through this magic, and the trials of friendships and lost loves that come along with it, Louis finds that being powerful is more of a plague than he realized. A plague that infects more people than he is comfortable with.

(A Witch AU based off of The Craft -a very loose interpretation)

Nocturnal Creatures Are Not So Prudent by patdkitten (24k)

Louis spins a finger in midair, like he’s indicating someone to turn around, staring pointedly at Liam as the faucet turns itself on and the can rinses itself in the sink behind him. Liam, moon burn him, doesn’t rise to the bait, choosing instead to lean back on his stool and wrapping his hands around his own mug.

“Anyway, like I was saying and that you were ignoring, there’s this new club near my school and I want you to go with me. Could do you some good, getting out once in awhile.”

Louis is a white witch with a little black cat named Hemlock and a best human friend Liam (they’re a lot like Samantha Stephens and Louise Tate). When he’s dragged out to a new club Liam’s heard about from a friend and classmate, Louis comes face to face with that which witches do not touch: a charming vampire by the name of Harry.

love is divine by stylinsoncity (25k)

Being a witch doesn’t help when it comes to unrequited love.

parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme by MediaWhore (series; 2 works; 27k)

The one where Harry is a cursed witch living in a small town and Louis is the Detective Inspector who crossed his path.

A Practical Magic AU

Bewitched by Snowy38 (28k)

“I’ve got Louis.”

He didn’t mean it to come out that menacing but the naturally deep lilt of his voice wasn’t helping. The female on the other end of the phone gave a hysterical squeal.

“Please! Don’t hurt him!”

Harry frowned, lip protruding sullenly in mild offence.

“I’m not-I’m not going to hurt him,” he argued.

“What do you want?” The woman cried, voice wobbling with emotion.

Harry frowned.

“I want Louis,” he answered because wasn’t that much already obvious? Maybe Louis’ family were just really thick.

Work of Magic by Bekita (34k)

Even though centuries had passed since the Spanish Inquisition and the burning of Witches, these beings with magical powers still existed, in seclusion, always trying to avoid the attention of the persecuting Hunters.

The Sweetest Incantation by smittenwithlouis (40k)

Harry has been alive for decades, and yet he’s never been as confused and dumbfounded. He’s a witch, for God’s sake. Can’t get much weirder than all the magical things he’s experienced throughout his lifetime. Never in a million years, however, would he have expected to be mere inches away from a hybrid. Or: Harry is a witch who’s still working on developing his powers and Louis is a werecat who falls into his life and turns it upside down.

i never did believe in the ways of magic (though i’ve a feeling it’s time to try) by binarysunsets(55k)

Louis can’t shake the feeling that there’s something in the woods, pressing close and watching him with a heavy gaze. It makes him antsy, fills him with jitters. He wants to run, or scream, but he knows to do so would only put him in danger if there’s actually something out there after all. He’s sure he’s just imagining it, but his heart nevertheless pounds in his throat.

When Louis Tomlinson goes on a songwriting retreat to the Laurentian Mountains of Canada, this isn’t how he expects his evening to go.

or the au where Louis is a singer who has been cursed to never make music again and Harry is a reclusive witch of the Canadian mountains who’s going to help him break the curse.

domestic monsters by g_uttertrash (series; 8 completed works/1WIP; 234k)

THRILLER FICS

And then there was love (23k)

A crime story in which Louis makes ridiculous jokes about Harry's bum and loves Ben Winston's dog; where Harry blushes and may or may not be dark!Harry under the dimples and curls; where the world-famous author sleuth Jessica Fletcher joins One Direction to their music video set.

And how lucky is that, as there seems to be a killer on the loose.

What Happened to 'Never Say Die'? (28k)

The 80s were one of the best decades to be a teenager in America. Just ask anyone who's seen a John Hughes movie. Louis would beg to differ. At least today he would, while he was stuck cleaning out his family's basement - part of his grounding after a senior prank gone wrong. But when he finds a box containing details of the biggest unsolved crime in Luna Hills, he and his friends decide to sneak out for one last adventure before they're all off to college. That is, as long as the mayor, who also happens to be Louis' mother, doesn't stop them before they discover the truth.

Or, a coming of age American AU inspired by classic 80s movies like The Goonies and Stand By Me where everyone has a secret and no one wants to get caught.

my heart, in deadly rhythm (42k)

There exists somewhere a very, very small list containing the names of people who don’t want Louis Tomlinson dead. Harry Styles may or may not be one of those people.

(or a Spies!AU in which Liam is the Wade to Louis' Kim Possible, Zayn seduces people for intel, Niall is an expert at blowing things up, and Harry is more than a bit famous in his particular field... or infamous, actually. And Louis? Well, Louis just wishes people would quit trying so bloody hard to kill him all the time.)

Last Day Alive (42k)

Harry Styles was born to the leader of the Following - the organization that keeps their world peaceful and just. Without the Following, the world would only return to the ways of the Old Times and all of them would come to an untimely end. Or, so he thought, until he meets Louis, the leader of the Rebellion.

End Game (54k)

Harry styles is the most feared man in London, notorious for always getting everything he wants. All of that changes when Louis comes around and opens his eyes to a new, beautiful side of the world.

I Walk the Line (55k)

Professor Louis Tomlinson is the leading researcher in his field. Harry Styles is Louis’ recently hired grad assistant. Sparks fly between them but something doesn’t add up when it comes to Harry, and Louis is determined to find out what.

What happens when everything Louis thought he knew comes crashing down around him? Is he doomed to repeat his past mistakes? Or will he learn to follow his heart and find a way to forge his own path, alongside someone he’s not sure he can trust, but who might just be the best thing to ever happen to him.

[danganronpacosplayhelp]

hey guys! just in time for halloween, there’s another v3 graffarts collaboration!

if you cosplay amami, saihara, akamatsu, gonta, ouma, kiibo, shinguuji, momota or harukawa, go hog wild!

i’ll break down their outfits under the cut, but feel free to embellish those outfits however you’d like!

amami: a standard looking vampire! a black cape lined with red, a white collared shirt, a blue vest with white vertical stripes, black pants and black shoes. its possible he has a tie (or a cravat, which works better for classic vampires i think).

saihara: a very generic detective costume. a deerstalker hat, a capelet, a vest, and pants, all with matching brown and checkered plaids. you can see the sleeves of his collared shirt underneath (so it’s a vest, not a jacket) and his shoes are dark brown or black? it’s probably likely he has a tie of some kind, and also he seems to be...armed with a huge magnifying glass.

akamatsu: this one is....hard. i guess she’s just...in a huge pumpkin? but she seems pumpkin themed. she has a black dress with thick straps that cross in the front, and a little pumpkin hat/pin in her hair. that i can imagine you can take whatever creative liberties you want, as long as there’s a pumpkin theme to it.

gonta: pretty simple! a white labcoat with either holes, black stains, or like...bats? butterflies? emblazened on it. it’s torn at the bottom edge. m-multicolored..? stained pants? similar shoes. a collared shirt? he also has his big net.

ouma: little jester...Tiny little jester boy. his outfit’s kind of complex, so i’m gonna doodle it out how i think its supposed to be:

kiibo: he’s supposed to be frankenstein’s monster! he has stitches drawn down from his eyes with screws in his head (and apparently, blue patches where the screws are on his head), a black coat with brown patchwork, black gloves, a green vest stitched up the front, a white collared shirt, an orange bowtie, green patchwork pants, and black patchwork shoes!

shinguuji: the grim reaper! he has his normal hat and mask, but a black, torn up hooded cloak, what appears to be black boots and black pants, and a huge, bloody scythe. we can assume he’s wearing gloves or something, but the rest is fair game.

momota: werewolf! fluffy ears, fluffy tail, and paws&claws! he’s got a black collared shirt that’s a bit unbuttoned under a mainly orange vest. there appears to be a splash of purple on the righthand side, though. he has a huge fluffy cape, which appears to have fur around the collar/shoulders and then is just fabric for the rest, and it’s lined with...a deep blue sky fabric? because that looks like a full moon on the underside.he has a belt across the bottom of his vest, black pants with red stripes up the left leg, and black shoes.

maki: a little devil! it’s hard to tell, but i think its a pink dress of some sort with a red collar that ties in the front. black wings and little horns, a black cape? and black gloves and boots. very....warm.

that’s basically it! if you notice something i didn’t, feel free to reblog or send an ask adding it-- i may disagree and not reblog it back/add it into it, but i’d still appreciate people’s attempts at it because i can’t see everything very well.

hope this helps!

-mod n

[lonelypond]

PhotoJazz, Chapter 5 (of 6)

Love Live, NicoMaki, 5.3K, 5/6

Summary: We have a gallery opening and a request.

THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU (REDUX)

Maki had slept sometime. Since LA. Before LA and after, that was how she broke everything down now. Before Nico had escaped the chains and wrapped herself around Maki’s every nerve and thought process. Enflamed, that’s what Maki was...obsession, passion, desire...she had no real words for this, no way to cope, no way to hold her head above this tsunami of memory and hope that clung to her, making every fantasy, every wish transparent. Not even the first time the potential pleasures of a woman’s body had overtaken rational thought, in Tokyo, at the start, when she swore never again to make that leap, have that feeling that made her shudder, the horror of only existing, detached, on the physical plane, of a one sided lust.

Eli kept nagging about the gallery opening so Maki was working. Framed photos due in two days, 10 days since her return from LA, no time passing since Nico burst from the water, pure drive, the moment, the breath, the shaky way Nico’s chest...that kept replaying in Maki’s mind. In an effort to not picture herself licking every drop of water SLOWLY from Nico’s torso, which honestly would last three seconds before Maki exploded and who knew what would happen, or what Nico would do or...IN AN EFFORT TO DETOUR THAT TRAIN OF THOUGHT, derail it into a deep deep canyon, Maki had pulled up every other picture she’d taken of Nico, the eyes, the closeups, the candids snuck between poses, managed to track down the most exquisite red jewel, the Moussaieff Red Diamond, fortunately on display at the Smithsonian, have Eli talk her way into photographing the exhibit, an overnight trip to DC, a studio full of every red flower she could find on the Northshore, since the perfect pink was still eluding her, and seemed only to make an appearance in the presence of Nico’s lips.

The raw materials. Add Jazz, Nico hated jazz, she could play jazz and maybe it would keep the Nico fantasies at bay. “The Very Thought Of You” over and over again, every cover she could find. Umi had fled the repetitiveness one day after stopping in to check on her. Slices and slivers of diamond, and petals of roses and peonies and dahlias and daylilies and hyacinths and then those eyes, sparkling, sliding in between diamond facets and floral faces, Maki was creating a whirlwind, swirling to a too rapid, too panicked, too heartbeat like beat of “The Very Thought Of You” cover that she pounded out on her piano instead of breaths.

One near hologram quality animation. Eight frames. Nico the essence, the essential, but only if you could tell ruby diamond and ruby iris apart, and even Maki couldn’t. She was proud of her art, Nico had said not recognizable so Maki had grafted her non reproducible charms into a priceless treasure, made only richer by the deeper, human feeling behind it. Maki could sense that when she looked into Nico’s eyes, in frame 1, from the Houdini shoot, and frame 8, when Nico had opened her eyes in her apartment, makeup and pretense stripped, trusting Maki, Nico’s expression open and inviting, a warmth of bemused softness . And that was where Maki was lost....between the opening and closing frames of the rose diamond nico...could she call it rose diamond smile… would anyone know...would Nico care...could she ask her...no, more volume, some random song without words, only depths and feelings, shaking to the ceiling as Maki curled into a cave of ruby walls, mirror images misleading her, calling her deeper, in to drown.

AT LONG LAST LOVE

Eli was back. With Her. The cause of all this. Nozomi. At the opening. Maki had delivered, at dawn, leaving Levine barely enough time to hang things properly. And she had been less than thrilled when Maki informed her that the no version of the completed Diamond Rose was for sale. The lenticular prints Maki had made of the eight key frames were a huge hit, which made Levine a little happier, and now Maki was in a dark corner, watching as the projected animation rotated through its special light show, pleased at how Nico’s eyes melded into the facets of the Moussaif, adding a depth that made the gem almost seem animate.

Eli had tried introducing Nozomi, but Maki had nearly snarled, and even though Nozomi was more than willing to keep up the chatter, Eli had reluctantly pulled her away, to introduce her to Levine. It was an Eli, Maki’s manager, night and keeping the photographer in a calm place was paramount.

And that lasted until the moment Nico Yazawa walked through the door, followed by half a dozen chattering hangers on. Maki startled, as she felt the focus shift from her art; Levine froze; Nozomi trilled a high pitched “Nico-chi.” The miniature marauder in question waved at Nozomi, but Maki knew it was half hearted as Nico’s eyes were searching the room, stopping briefly here and there, to register a photo existed, but in targeting mode until she found Maki’s once sanctuary, now corner. Which Nico did, striding right up, blocking egress, hand out, Nozomi watching curiously, Eli open mouthed, Maki had a hand reaching up for her hair and a bottled water in the other so there was no defense when Nico stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss on Maki’s reddening cheek, and squeeze her shoulder. Finally Maki managed to shuffle around Nico, to escape the trapped feeling.

“The party can start now.” Did Nico always say that? Nico slid an arm through Maki’s and dragged her into the center of the room, where the animation rotated between bright and shadow, “Tell Nico how you did this. It’s amazing. And why isn’t it for sale?”

Maki coughed as she caught Levine Brook’s nod of agreement. She was going to be ganged up on. She threw a desperate look in Eli’s direction but her manager was completely distracted by whatever Nozomi was whispering in her ear.

“Ummmm...well, first there was...first I created…” Maki glanced down at Nico, uncertain if her audience actually wanted an answer, but the miniscule miscreant was actually paying attention, “I created medlies of several objects using photos I’d taken.” Of you, Maki swallowed instead of saying as Nico listened with genuine interest, “and then several days later, this happened…”

“Maki’s never really been good at describing her process, Miss Yazawa,” Levine slid herself smoothly into the conversation.

“No,” Nico smiled gaily at the new entry, “Put a camera in her hand and suddenly you feel like a peeping pervert outside a bedroom window.”

Maki had been wondering exactly how Nico was keeping her bangs to the side but then Nico’s statement registered, “Hey. It’s not like that.”

“Like what?” And now Eli was there.

“I am not in a sexual relationship with my camera.” And the room had, of course, gone quiet, the breath before Maki’s declaration and Eli’s wife, of course, let the echoes die down before she continued the torture.

“So would you AND the camera be in a sexual relationship with your subjects?” Nozomi giggled, “A sort of ménage a montage?”

Eli, traitor to the core, joined the giggle crowd.

Levine, reading the room and ignoring Maki’s aggrieved huffing, decided risky was worth it as neither the celebrity guest or the money people had committed to a mood yet, “Annie Liebovitz did say “A thing that you see in my pictures is that I was not afraid to fall in love with these people.”

Nico was the next to contribute, “Nico’s been reading up on Mapplethorpe,” she tossed off casually as she grinned at Maki, her voice altering as she quoted, ““When I have sex with someone I forget who I am. For a minute I even forget I’m human. It’s the same thing when I’m behind a camera. I forget I exist.” Nico winked at Maki, a smug, confident, audacious, invading-all-Maki’s-sanctuaries wink, as her voice made their exchange a private, sensual whisper. “Nico’s there but not. And the rest is left to the audience.”

Beauty and the Devil are the same, Maki thought. Mapplethorpe said that too. With possibly the same burning in his eyes and chest as she had right now, staring through Nico, wondering if Nico had meant in bed or on screen, Maki could see the smirk and horns and the smoldering and the hood tossed over to make sure there was enough shadowing to upset and unsettle the viewer. And the eyes would burn, fire, fire, flames ablaze in darkness, Nico’s glance lasering down through the skin to the soul, like the lancing touch of angel wings as their feathers ignited in the heavenly fall.

“Maki?” Levine touched her arm lightly, “Nico asked you a question.”

Maki blinked, her ‘what’ all abrupt, half accusation.

Nico was ice calm but that was no balm when she struck, “Could you do an animation of something like the pictures you took of me in LA?”

Oh gods. Cold and hot both burning, flood surge of memories and wants bursting through. Cursing her lack of ability to come up with any dry analogies, Maki spun around and headed for the door, Eli stepping in behind her with apologies, to give Maki a necessary moment to clear her head.

SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE

No, Maki had not spent the entire night sorting through the Houdini Estate pictures, plotting angles for the animated and lenticular display Nico had requested. Nope. That would be creepy. Not more than ten minutes. The rest of the night had been taken up by screaming into one of the pillows on her studio couch, reshuffling the pictures on her wall, and 3 hours boxing her arms off in Wii Sports, followed by too many runs in SSX Blur to count. Then exhaustion had hit and she was too tired to dream or think or plan or…

Knocking. Door. Did she have a doorbell? Umi. Maki sat up in a panic, looking for her phone. Too early for Umi. The London flight left in the afternoon. It was barely dawn. Well, Maki had been up til dawn so it wasn’t really much after. She still needed sleep.

Maki opened the door. Nico Yazawa stood there, behind crystal encrusted sunglasses, pink coat blowing open in the brisk wind, dark floral wrap dress underneath. She had a basket in her hand and pushed it into Maki’s abdomen as she strode into the studio, “Nozomi said that Eli said you slept here most nights. I guess she was right.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast.” Nico smiled brightly, “A breakfast pie. Stick the fork right in. Nico knows that’s your style.”

“Ok.” Maki found herself clutching the basket, which smelled like bacon and fennel sausages closer when she expected to shove it right back at the invading force.

“And…” Nico spun around, whipping an oversized, glossy object at Maki, “Nico brought you an advance copy of Interview.” A dramatic pause, “Signed. Hot off the presses this morning.” Nico unfurled the magazine, the shot of her wet and bursting out of the water tank was splashed across the cover with the caption, ‘Yazawa Escapes Chains of Nico’s Past.’ “Nico signed it for you.”

“I have the negative.” Maki sat on her couch, pulling the pie out of the basket, pausing to inhale delicious, tempting smells.

“Want Nico to sign that?” Had Maki ever heard Nico’s voice without a lilting tease? She couldn’t remember.

“Please leave.” Maki shuffled through the basket but no silverware. She crawled to the end of the couch, precariously leaning over to her desk, pulling a fork out of the pen cup at the end.

“Have you washed that recently?”

Maki shrugged, breakfast pie on its way to her salivating mouth.

“Cotorou says hi.” Nico took her sunglasses off with a flair.

Maki waved the fork.

“He wants to come on another photoshoot.”

Maki nodded, in what she hoped was a non committal fashion.

“Nico needs you in Tokyo before New Year’s.” Nico was now looming both too close and too tall, how high were those boot heels Maki wondered.

Maki stopped chewing, staring up at Yazawa.

“Vogue is flying me out, I’m debuting a hot new designer team, it’s amazing...:” Nico somehow gleamed with enthusiasm, almost taking on a glow. Maki figured her own eyes weren’t used to daylight yet.

Maki swallowed, taking a moment to fortify her constitution as Nico slid into the couch next to her, some citrusy perfume wafting, stole Maki’s fork and ate a piece of pie, “Why do you need me? Nozomi’s back.”

Nico hesitated, then went for accusatory, “Your friend is DRAGGING her to Russia for the holidays, and Nico can’t cope. Everybody else sees child star Nico...you see…” Nico pointed to the magazine, then offered Maki a forkful of pie. The photographer bit, distracted by thinking about how often she saw Nico like that, in LA, in black and white, in color, in motion, in control, in her mind. Nico leaned in, “I know your first show was in Tokyo, after you spent a summer there, and you haven’t been back. I thought you might enjoy a chance to revisit your original inspiration.” Nico’s eyelashes were blinking at an impossibly slow rate, black shadows over the eyes that offered Maki too many things to read.

There were a few reasons Maki had never returned to Tokyo, all of them more whims than foundational beliefs. Another forkful, Nico just watching Maki for another moment and then bouncing up, wandering through the room, “Have you framed a picture of Nico for the wall yet?”

“No.” Maki sounded sullen, but only because she was tired of having that argument with herself.

“Isn’t Nico nude enough?”

Damn it, the midget monster enjoyed this, there was far to much mirth and mischief underlying her tone. Which, Maki conceded to HERSELF, was much better than if Nico had gone for any kind of sensual vocal coloration.

“I’ve been busy.” Maki punted and grabbed the fork from where Nico had stabbed it into the pie. Amazing flavor mix. Maki could eat this every morning.

Nico leaned over the back of the couch, her chin threatening to land on Maki’s shoulder, one arm keeping Maki from sliding away, “Nico is busy too. And I need help. And you love taking Nico’s picture.”

Maki spluttered as that whispered exaggeration slid into her ear, “I don’t...you can’t...it’s not…”

“It’s not what?”

Maki sighed, regaining equilibrium. It was easier when she wasn’t looking at Nico. “Once again, I’m not your personal photographer, Ms. Yazawa. I can recommend several.”

“First class to Tokyo, Nico will pose however YOU want her, such a high class hotel it would make the one in LA drool, and Nico left you an open ended return ticket if you’d like to visit old…” Nico leaned into Maki’s view and winked, “friends.”

“Nico…”

“Please.” Nico pointed to the pie, “Nico doesn’t bake for everyone, just geniuses who do her super special favors.”

It was the “geniuses” that got the nod out of her, Maki thought, or the honest admiration glowing in Nico’s eyes, but there she was, consenting to Nico invading her space, her time, her calendar. Maki’s world wasn’t pre LA or post LA, it was pre and post Nico.

CANDY

Maki hadn’t been back in Tokyo for several years. She’d spent a summer staying with cousins after her junior year of college, mostly following them around to parties and trying to flirt with women she’d never see again, which was, as always, Option A. Memories came back, quick kisses, her first, here, somewhere no one really knew her. And her first chances taken with photography, somehow both mixed together in her memory, candy colored video game trinkets, vibrant plastic trifles, girls, legs, neon against night, shadows of thousands of odd moments caught in the corners of creative minds, briefly, sharply lit future crashing against traditional Japanese formality. Her first nude model, fabric draping off curves Maki had only recently realized felt so different when they were other. Gay might not seem other, but it was, the most intense form. Curves, yes, but there were the details, the differences, the dents, the dips, the draws, the way her fingers, her eyes, her camera were drawn in, almost swallowed, tiny in the overwhelming awe each fraction of a minute of a degree of change inspired. Lost, she got lost, it was amazing, it was terrifying, it was crushing when she realized her emotions had leapt to attachment with so little encouragement. The model had been kind, but the disappointment in herself had tainted the rest of Maki’s visit and she’d thrown herself into her photography, trying to both distance and replicate the experience, with unyielding imperfect plastic facsimiles and flowing fabric. She’d had her first magazine credit, her first gallery show, a sold out success that she’d been too embarrassed to tell her uncle was happening. So many firsts and then she’d left Tokyo behind, bringing only the fire to kneel, to be humbled breathless by, to capture perfect moments, the beats that stopped her cold, the colors that caught her in their swirl like a mythical maelstrom.

Too much pink tonight. Why had Nico dragged her to Tokyo? The shoot in Akihabara had been too close to memories for Maki to be comfortable. But Nico had done her usual bright bulldozing through anyone in her way and she’d looked so damn good in the yukata and kanzashi and...Maki stared at the shot glass in front of her and nodded at the bartender, double it. Japanese whiskey. When in Nippon...someone slid in next to her. She glanced slightly. Not Nico. Her laugh was across the room. The hairstylist. And their translator on the other side, both smiling, both leaning into Maki. She smiled at the one, Yuu, and winked at the other, Neve.

“Hello, ladies.”

Giggles.

“So we heard you had your first…” another giggle. Maki sunk the whiskey in the pool of other whiskey that was working its way through her veins and blurring her vision, her judgement, her grasp “show here.”

Maki grinned, and tapped so the bartender poured her another. It was Nico’s tab, Nico could pay for this mood she’d flown Maki halfway across the world into, “Yep. Just down the block. Famous gallery. EVERYTHING sold.” Maki toasted herself, wondering if she sounded as loud as she thought. She dropped her head, pulling the two women in to whisper, “First everything here…”

The wide eyes told her her audience understood the implications, although Maki wouldn’t bother to explain that she might have been exaggerating her story a bit. She felt a touch on her hair, a breath near her ear, a hand sliding under hers and her hand shot forward, shaking, grabbing the shot glass as she stood, “Look me up later, ladies.” Wink. Stumble. Was it really a stumble, yes, Maki realized as she found herself mysteriously across the room, her arms finally catching her fall by jamming into table. Jarring. Maki shook her head, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and there they were, the eyes that haunted her, the shimmering ruby depths that taunted her by being more unreadable than Lake Michigan under a new moon.

“Nico!” Maki slid into the booth. Nico seemed more amused than usual, but her smile was...Maki frowned, it was a complicated concept, not warm, not cold, something sandwich, wry…Maki pounded the table, proud of herself.

“Why do you always slide away from them?” Nico raised a bulbous glass full of some viscous red liquid in the direction of the bar.

Maki took her time, propping her elbows on the table, dropping her chin down, furrowing her brow, stretching out her mouth as Nico watched every single motion with the protective amusement of an adult in charge of a toddler learning to crawl. Maki purred “They’re not aesthetically pleasing” and Nico only twitched a little as Maki’s finger touched between Nico’s eyebrows, tracing down over her nose, barely tapping her top lip, “Not like you.” Maki grinned at Nico, looming, “Just joking; ‘m not that shallow.” She shook her head, leaning back, staring at the ceiling, “They want...cool.” Another sigh as today, Tokyo, Nico, blossoms, wishes, wants, wounds churned behind her closed eyelids, “I’m not that…” She stuck out her tongue, “And It’s all pink now. I just can’t see any…” Maki blew out a big breath, feeling relieved, maybe a little queasy, what were they talking about, was Nico still there? She let her head fall to the side, something warm, Nico’s perfume, Nico’s carefully trimmed nails tapping a rhythm Maki knew well but which….”HEY!” Maki sat up, her hands reaching out as if for a keyboard, trying to place the tune, Nico had jumped back, her drink spilling a little, Maki watched fascinated as the red liquid dripped down Nico’s wrist and she had the sudden thirsty urge to lean forward and lick it, to see if tasted salty at all, like skin did, like…

“Maki?” Nico’s other hand was under her chin, but Maki shook it off, the almost familiar rhythm still working its way into clarity. Then Maki stopped, eyes narrowed at a confused Nico. “But you hate jazz. There’s no words. You said so.”

Nico looked flummoxed for the first time Maki had ever seen her, “When did I say that?”

“At the party. The first time I saw you. All pink. Eli dragged me there. So she could meet Nozomi.”

Nico’s chin jutted forward, her eyes blinking, a slight flush on her cheeks, “You were there?”

“Obviously,” Maki snorted, “everybody was staring, and so rude but I couldn’t get you out of my m...” Nico was fumbling nervously with the tablecloth. Maki grabbed a napkin to hand to Nico but her hand knocked straight into Nico’s glass, more red spilling across the table, Maki reaching out, fascinated, “sticky.”

“You have had too much to drink.” Nico decided, her voice very close, very soft, Maki turned her head and Nico was right there...right there, she reached out a hand but ended up knocking Nico’s glass the other way so it rolled into her lap, “Time to get you to your room, Nishikino.” Nico’s tone was almost cold, Maki noticed. Maybe her pretty pink dress was ruined? Had Maki done that? That was sad...why did it feel like tears? There was a rough upward tug on her arm and Maki was suddenly on her feet, her arm over Nico’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Maki swayed, but Nico was surprisingly solid.

“Hey, yourself. Nico will do you a favor and tuck you in. But we have an early morning. You need to sleep.” Nico’s voice sounded far away as Maki’s head bobbed through yawns.

“Sleep.” Maki thought that sounded...less shaky.

“Sleep.” Nico’s tone warmed slightly and Maki hummed to herself, that song was almost there...what was it? She’d have to ask Nico in the morning.

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU

Maki had been queasy on the flight to Hirosaki. She’d pulled her hoodie down over her head, pulled the blanket up to her nose and glared at the universe through the narrow gap between them. How many drinks had she had last night? She remembered sitting next to Nico, but after that, just some movement, sluggish movement and the relief when she’d achieved a stable horizontal position, no longer having to willpower through her every movement. And then there had been waking to realize she’d thrown up over the side of the bed. A quick clean up, then a shower, then the quietest, calmest breakfast she could think of...Now, the plane, and Maki just wanted to sleep and not feel every vibration as the plane found things to jar against in mid air. She felt a hand on her shoulder and grumbled only to hear Nico laughing, “Better get some juice to replace those fluids, Maki. Nico doesn’t want to have to drag your nearly unconscious body through the snow.”

Nico was wearing comfy clothes for the plane ride, leggings and an oversized sweater. Maki’s jeans were twisting. Next flight, she was just going to find slouchy, comfy pajama pants and wear them out. She missed first class and leg room. The thought of champagne brought a wince as orange juice dangled in front of her. She reached out.

“That’s a good girl,” Nico teased, her voice shrill and silly, “Listen to Nico.”

The blanket fell as Maki shifted to glare at Nico, who winked, deflating Maki’s sudden urge to strike her with a clever verbal retort. “My hangover hates you.”

“I’ll let my people know.” Nico continued down the aisle, chirping nonsensical travel truisms at random people, Maki could hear the “Nico Nico Ni” that punctuated her conversations with the ones who claimed to be fans.

Oh my gods, Maki thought, entranced, headache forgotten, cold too far away to touch her, watching Nico sweep up a ice white hill toward an ebony roofed castle, framed by frozen cherry blossom branches, her open black coat floating behind her, the black and white of her dress a shattered geometry that amazed, entangled from every angle. Maki had planned to shoot on black and white film but with the Fuji, the ruby red of Nico’s eyes thrilled like stars after a stormy night. Was she knee deep in snow? Maki didn’t care, and fell to her side, to shoot up the hill as Nico approached her, castle looming in the background. Nico sped by, turning sharply in a surprising pause to look right at Maki, winking and blowing a kiss as she shook the snow off a cherry branch. Maki barely felt the cold wet burying her as her shutter clicked madly and Nico threw back her head with a laugh that must have echoed to the sea.

“We’ll come back in the Spring.” Maki swore she heard whispered as her fingers went numb.

IT’S NOT FOR ME TO SAY

It had been a fairly painless interview. A photography podcast had tracked Maki down and was interested in her influences. Her latest book/album had been out long enough to hit a sales lull and Maki was almost recharged enough to impersonate an ambivert so she said yes. Also, there was her continual inability to say no to requests from the the smart, the sharp and the shapely, no matter how much Umi and Eli teased her about it. Maki always countered with “there are worse habits.”

“So Maki, you’ve been travelling a lot the past six months, with photoshoots for Nico Yazawa. Is it exciting?”

Maki chuckled, “I’m a bit of a homebody.”

“You don’t seem like the Netflix on the couch type, Maki. Your photos are so lively. And you incorporate different environments so well.”

“I have these short bursts of creativity, Aylen, everything gets blurry and time….well, it kind of skips, I guess. Or elongates.” Maki shuffled through prints, pushing one in the direction of her interviewer, “Like these shots of granite chess pieces. When I put the cameras down, nearly four hours had passed, I was freezing, and if Eli hadn’t decided to check on me, I probably would have just curled up on a dune.”

Aylen picked up the picture, her finger reaching out as if it had texture, “That’s her manager, Eli Ayase. And I’m looking at a picture from Maki’s Storm Chess series, an oversized, rosy hued queen tilted into an ebbing tide, a grayer knight half buried in sand behind her.” She smiled at Maki, “It’s so cool to see what your favorites are.”

“Well, there are some I always come back to,” Maki waved her hand, drawing her interviewer’s eye to the pictures framed around the office part of her loft.

“No pictures of Nico Yazawa have made the wall yet, I see.” Aylen commented casually.

Maki coughed uncomfortably, “That’s a bit new.”

“But it does make me wonder: how working with someone as well known as Nico Yazawa affects your process. Your previous celebrity models were one time shoots.”

So many Nico mentions, questions. Maki frowned, uncomfortable talking about Nico when the actress couldn’t join in the conversation. Sure, Nico seemed to live for media hits, but Maki was starting to feel exposed, as if she were about to spit a secret out that should have been completely buried in the sand by a wave surge.

“Uhhh...I’m not sure what I should say…” Maki fidgeted, the stool legs grinding across the floor as she shoved herself back from the counter, “I respect Nico, she’s got this laserscope targeting for her personal, artistic vision…” Maki, sighed, tilting the stool back, meeting a pair of friendly, patient hazel eyes, “It has cut into my time. The travel’s exciting and I’ve learned a lot about the entertainment business, but…” Maki stopped, reluctant.

“But?” Aylen’s question was a gentle echo, a well nuanced prod.

Maki shrugged, there was no denying the truth, “I haven’t had nearly enough time for my own projects. I’m still sorting through the Hirosaki pics. The magazine chose the ones they wanted, but Nico asked me to pick an alternate set she could post on her site.”

Aware that she’d just gotten an unexpected moment of honesty, Aylen changed topics before Maki could absorb what she’d just admitted. “Your own website is amazing, the way you’ve fluidly animated the photos to the music.”

Maki let the stool fall back solidly on the floor, leaning forward eagerly, “I know. The program I found is so much fun to play with. And my friend, Umi Sonoda, the poet, is writing haiku for me. We’re both waiting for the cherry blossoms. I’ve been so caught by pink, there’s so much romance encoded in it, such softness.”

Aylen laughed, “So is your next project a pink one?”

“If I could find the right flower....” Maki grumbled.

“What do you mean…”

Maki shook her head, “Nothing coherent. Sorry, I’m not the best interview.”

“You’re doing fine, Maki. And we appreciate your time.” Aylen glanced at her phone, “But we do need to wrap it up. So just a few final questions.”

“Sure.” Maki had been trying not to fidget, not to create extra noise and the stillness was making her sound as restless as she felt.

“I know you’re a Mapplethorpe fan. Do you have a favorite quote? Or photo?”

“Too many photos. I rotate them seasonally at home.” Maki linked her fingers, stretching out, “ A lot of Mapplethorpe resonates. I like that he didn’t really worship photography, it was a tool. He wanted the picture in his hand, the moment captured. "With photography, you zero in; you put a lot of energy into short moments, and then you go on to the next thing." Maki paused, “He really got the intensity of the experience and the relief of moving on.”

“So many metaphors there.” Aylen laughed.

“Ah, I’m actually very literal. I see it, I hear it, I read it, no subtext.” Maki hung her head, bangs falling forward, suddenly tired.

“So then,” Aylen leaned forward, “I guess the only question is what is your ‘next thing’?’”

And Maki knew she should have had an answer.

A/N: In a bit of a rush. Added another chapter; hope you don't mind the suspense. This is a very slow burn for me.

[tamaramalara13]

Chaos's Assassin 4

The bonfire burned a bright pink as campers sang their songs and drank their drinks. It was an atmosphere of pure excitement to be getting The Seven back and I was just soaking it all in. All thoughts of Octavian and the missing Chaos Soldiers seemed to disappear from most campers minds as the clock got close to midnight.

Then the conch horn sounded.

“They’re here!”

“Finally.”

“Jeez, you’d think they tried to get here earlier!”

The campers were a mess. People were shouting all over the place and the campfire was just a mix of voices with no context.

One by one, The Seven entered the pavilion.

Leo

Frank

Piper

…

“Where are the others?” Chiron asked, his white stallion backside trotting around trying to get the campers calm and back in their seats.

“They stayed behind to help with something or the other.” Leo answered, his attention drawn to the scrap metal he was playing with in his hands.

“They’re following a new lead.” Piper specified.

“Good riddance,” Drew exclaimed, “I guess we’ll have to do without them then, not that I’m complaining.”

“What are you, British? Stop being fake, Drew.” Connor said.

“Piper, Leo, Frank, I want you to meet our guest for the next day or two. He was sent from Chaos, to help with the war efforts.” Chiron told them, motioning towards me. My hood was obviously up but I nodded anyway.

“The name’s Omega, it’s nice to meet you.” I said.

“Hey”

“Hi”

“Nice to meet you too”

We shook hands and I sat back down in my seat. People started getting up again and surrounded the 3 newcomers asking questions and discussing teams for capture the flag. After a couple of minutes Chiron stopped talking with Frank and dismissed us. Everyone got up and made their way to their respective cabins, save Leo, Piper and Frank who stayed behind with me to discuss the upcoming quest.

“So I hear we’ll be going on a quest with you.” Piper said, with Leo on her tail.

“Yes, just you two?” I asked, “Not Mr Zhang?”

Piper raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, just us.” Leo answered without missing a beat.

“Perfect. Tomorrow morning after breakfast we shall go up to Ms Dares cave and ask for a prophecy. We leave straight after, so be prepared.” It wasn’t a request, and Piper and Leo noticed.

“Woah, watch it, frien-”

“That sounds perfect.” Piper said with a dazzling smile, cutting into Leo’s sentence and having to hold him back using one hand.

“Good” I said, “I will see you tomorrow.”

It hurt me to be so rude to my old friends, but I couldn’t let them know it was me, and the best way to get them off my scent was to make them hate me. I left the amphitheatre and made my way past the cabins and the volleyball courts onto the porch of the big house. When in the main room I tossed a Cheeto at Seymour, the live leopard head on the wall, and made my way to the guest room I was staying in.

Before even thinking of getting ready for bed, I filled a bowl full of water and heated it up till there was steam coming from it. I then grabbed a drachma, the same currency used in both Chaos’s Realm and by the Gods on Earth and threw it into the rainbow I had created, saying:

“Oh Fleecy, do me a solid. Show me Rebecca from Chaos’s Realm.”

Almost instantly Rebecca was standing in front of me, a reflection in the mist.

“Hey, what’s up?” She asked me.

“I need you to give an update to Chaos for me.” I answered.

“Why don’t you just do it?” She asked.

“Because, if I told someone else and that someone else conveyed the message perfectly, that person might be trusted more by Chaos, and in no time will probably get a promotion.” I answered, pulling down my hood.

Her eyes glistened with happiness.

“Thanks Kakés.” She said, pulling herself together and grabbing a notepad and a pen, “give me the message.”

“The quest will begin tomorrow evening, I will be accompanied by Leo Valdez and Piper McLean and we have yet to get the prophecy. Tell him I will contact him once I know more.”

“Got it. Thanks Omega, for helping me.” She said, moved by my kindness.

“No problem.” I said, “oh, and give Jack a kiss for me.”

She flushed, before recovering and giving me a flirty smile.

“I wouldn’t mind a kiss from you.” She said.

“In your dreams.”

“Maybe” she answered before giving me a quick wink and ending the connection.

I smirked at her antiques before getting ready for bed.

“Are you ready?”

I was standing by Aphrodite’s table in the Mess Hall, the absence of a roof or and walls made it a very beautiful place to eat. Breakfast was almost done and I was itching to go and get that stupid prophecy over and done with.

“Yeah, I’m done,” Piper said wiping her hands on a napkin and standing up, “Let’s get Leo.”

Once we had Leo, we walked together past the Amphitheatre: with a couple of Satyr’s adding logs to the empty campfire for that night, the Cabins: with Hestia at the hearth in the middle, and of course the toilets in which I got my first taste of Clarisse’s wrath all those years ago.

We then turned right and continued passed the archery range and the arena till we reached a little cave in the mountain, It’s entrance draped in a purple cloth giving a very mystical feel as we crossed the threshold into the completely decked out cave with paint easels everywhere and a flat screen TV in a corner, the place looked sick, I will forever be impressed with Apollo’s talents when it came to interior design, too much for my tastes, but just perfect for Rachel Elizabeth Dare.

“Hey Pipes. You here for the prophecy?” The Red-Headed Devil said.

“What, did you see us in one of your visions?” Leo asked sarcastically.

“No, Chiron told me yesterday.”

I had to resist the urge to facepalm my way to China.

“Go get me the stool, will you.” She said rolling her eyes, and pointing to the other side of the room.

Leo reluctantly went and grabbed her tattered old stool, whilst Rachel and I made a proper introduction.

“Rachel Elizabeth Dare.” She said, sticking out a hand for me to shake.

“Omega.” I told her, complying and shaking her hand. She had developed a tight grip and her eyes looked sadder than usual.

“Let’s get this over with,” She said, sitting down on the fragile little stool.

I stepped forwards.

“Give us our Prophecy.” I said, my voice clear.

She gasped, as green steam escaped through her eyes, ears, mouth and even nose, enveloping the cave in a thick layer of smoke.

“Go North with three Where the flower shall be To travel with six Where the leader exists”

The voice was an ancient one, one that was using Rachel as a means of communication. As soon as the prophecy ended the smoke got sucked up back into Rachel, and the room was as it was. As if nothing had even happened.

“To travel with six?” Leo said, momentarily forgetting the scrap metal that he was still fiddling with.

“That felt shorter than usual.” Rachel said, looking confused.

“I think it’s pretty clea-” Piper began, before getting interrupted by Will bursting into the room all of a sudden, panting as if he’d run all the way from the mess hall to here.

“Guys, Chiron needs to see you.”

[bonheurideeneuve]

The Eye of Allah

Rudyard Kipling

THE Cantor of St. Illod’s being far too enthusiastic a musician to concern himself with its Library, the Sub-Cantor, who idolised every detail of the work, was tidying up, after two hours’ writing and dictation in the Scriptorium. The copying-monks handed him in their sheets—it was a plain Four Gospels ordered by an Abbot at Evesham—and filed out to vespers. John Otho, better known as John of Burgos, took no heed. He was burnishing a tiny boss of gold in his miniature of the Annunciation for his Gospel of St. Luke, which it was hoped that Cardinal Falcodi, the Papal Legate, might later be pleased to accept.

‘Break off, John,’ said the Sub-Cantor in an undertone.

‘Eh? Gone, have they? I never heard. Hold a minute, Clement.’

The Sub-Cantor waited patiently. He had known John more than a dozen years, coming and going at St. Illod’s, to which monastery John, when abroad, always said he belonged. The claim was gladly allowed, for, more even than other Fitz Othos, he seemed to carry all the Arts under his hand, and most of their practical receipts under his hood.

The Sub-Cantor looked over his shoulder at the pinned-down sheet where the first words of the Magnificat were built up in gold washed with red-lac for a background to the Virgin’s hardly yet fired halo. She was shown, hands joined in wonder, at a lattice of infinitely intricate arabesque, round the edges of which sprays of orange-bloom seemed to load the blue hot air that carried back over the minute parched landscape in the middle distance.

‘You’ve made her all Jewess,’ said the SubCantor, studying the olive-flushed cheek and the eyes charged with foreknowledge.

‘What else was Our Lady?’ John slipped out the pins. ‘Listen, Clement. If I do not come back, this goes into my Great Luke, whoever finishes it.’ He slid the drawing between its guard-papers.

‘Then you’re for Burgos again—as I heard?’

‘In two days. The new Cathedral yonder—but they’re slower than the Wrath of God, those masons—is good for the soul.’

‘Thy soul?’ The Sub-Cantor seemed doubtful.

‘Even mine, by your permission. And down south—on the edge of the Conquered Countries—Granada way—there’s some Moorish diaper-work that’s wholesome. It allays vain thought and draws it toward the picture—as you felt, just now, in my Annunciation.’

‘She—it was very beautiful. No wonder you go. But you’ll not forget your absolution, John?’

‘Surely.’ This was a precaution John no more omitted on the eve of his travels than he did the recutting of the tonsure which he had provided himself with in his youth, somewhere near Ghent. The mark gave him privilege of clergy at a pinch, and a certain consideration on the road always.

‘You’ll not forget, either, what we need in the Scriptorium. There’s no more true ultramarine in this world now. They mix it with that German blue. And as for vermilion——’

‘I’ll do my best always.’

‘And Brother Thomas’ (this was the Infirmarian in charge of the monastery hospital) ‘he needs——’

‘He’ll do his own asking. I’ll go over his side now, and get me re-tonsured.’

John went down the stairs to the lane that divides the hospital and cook-house from the back-cloisters. While he was being barbered, Brother Thomas (St. Illod’s meek but deadly persistent Infirmarian) gave him a list of drugs that he was to bring back from Spain by hook, crook, or lawful purchase. Here they were surprised by the lame, dark Abbot Stephen, in his fur-lined night-boots. Not that Stephen de Sautré was any spy; but as a young man he had shared an unlucky Crusade, which had ended, after a battle at Mansura, in two years’ captivity among the Saracens at Cairo where men learn to walk softly. A fair huntsman and hawker, a reasonable disciplinarian, but a man of science above all, and a Doctor of Medicine under one Ranulphus, Canon of St. Paul’s, his heart was more m the monastery’s hospital work than its religious. He checked their list interestedly, adding items of his own. After the Infirmarian had withdrawn, he gave John generous absolution, to cover lapses by the way; for he did not hold with chance-bought Indulgences.

‘And what seek you this journey?’ he demanded, sitting on the bench beside the mortar and scales in the little warm cell for stored drugs.

‘Devils, mostly,’ said John, grinning.

‘In Spain? Are not Abana and Phar-par——?’

John, to whom men were but matter for drawings, and well-born to boot (since he was a de Sanford on his mother’s side), looked the Abbot full in the face and—‘Did you find it so?’ said he.

‘No. They were in Cairo too. But what’s your special need of ’em?’

‘For my Great Luke. He’s the masterhand of all Four when it comes to devils.’

‘No wonder. He was a physician. You’re not.’

‘Heaven forbid! But I’m weary of our Church-pattern devils. They’re only apes and goats and poultry conjoined. ’Good enough for plain red-and-black Hells and Judgment Days—but not for me.’

‘What makes you so choice in them?’

‘Because it stands to reason and Art that there are all musters of devils in Hell’s dealings. Those Seven, for example, that were haled out of the Magdalene. They’d be she-devils—no kin at all to the beaked and horned and bearded devils-general.’

The Abbot laughed.

‘And see again! The devil that came out of the dumb man. What use is snout or bill to him? He’d be faceless as a leper. Above all—God send I live to do it!—the devils that entered the Gadarene swine. They’d be—they’d be—I know not yet what they’d be, but they’d be surpassing devils. I’d have ’em diverse as the Saints themselves. But now, they’re all one pattern, for wall, window, or picture-work.’

‘Go on, John. You’re deeper in this mystery than I’

‘Heaven forbid! But I say there’s respect due to devils, damned tho’ they be.’

‘Dangerous doctrine.’

‘My meaning is that if the shape of anything be worth man’s thought to picture to man, it’s worth his best thought.’

‘That’s safer. But I’m glad I’ve given you Absolution.’

‘There’s less risk for a craftsman who deals with the outside shapes of things—for Mother Church’s glory.’

‘Maybe so, but, John’—the Abbot’s hand almost touched John’s sleeve—‘tell me, now, is—is she Moorish or—or Hebrew?’

‘She’s mine,’ John returned.

‘Is that enough?’

‘I have found it so.’

‘Well—ah well! It’s out of my jurisdiction, but—how do they look at it down yonder?’

‘Oh, they drive nothing to a head in Spain—neither Church nor King, bless them! There’s too many Moors and Jews to kill them all, and if they chased ’em away there’d be no trade nor farming. Trust me, in the Conquered Countries, from Seville to Granada, we live lovingly enough together—Spaniard, Moor, and Jew. Ye see, we ask no questions.’

‘Yes—yes,’ Stephen sighed. ‘And always there’s the hope she may be converted.’

‘Oh yes, there’s always hope.’

The Abbot went on into the hospital. It was an easy age before Rome tightened the screw as to clerical connections. If the lady were not too forward, or the son too much his father’s beneficiary in ecclesiastical preferments and levies, a good deal was overlooked. But, as the Abbot had reason to recall, unions between Christian and Infidel led to sorrow. None the less, when John with mule, mails, and man, clattered off down the lane for Southampton and the sea, Stephen envied him.

.     .     .     .     .

He was back, twenty months later, in good hard case, and loaded down with fairings. A lump of richest lazuli, a bar of orange-hearted vermilion, and a small packet of dried beetles which make most glorious scarlet, for the SubCantor. Besides that, a few cubes of milky marble, with yet a pink flush in them, which could be slaked and ground down to incomparable background-stuff. There were quite half the drugs that the Abbot and Thomas had demanded, and there was a long deep-red cornelian necklace for the Abbot’s Lady—Anne of Norton. She received it graciously, and asked where John had come by it.

‘Near Granada,’ he said.

‘You left all well there?’ Anne asked. (Maybe the Abbot had told her something of John’s confession.)

‘I left all in the hands of God.’

‘Ah me! How long since?’

‘Four months less eleven days.’

‘Were you—with her?’

‘In my arms. Childbed.’

‘And?’

‘The boy too. There is nothing now.’

Anne of Norton caught her breath.

‘I think you’ll be glad of that,’ she said after a while.

‘Give me time, and maybe I’ll compass it. But not now.’

‘You have your handiwork and your art, and—John—remember there’s no jealousy in the grave.’

‘Ye-es! I have my Art, and Heaven knows I’m jealous of none.’

‘Thank God for that at least,’ said Anne of Norton, the always ailing woman who followed the Abbot with her sunk eyes. ‘And be sure I shall treasure this’—she touched the beads—‘as long as I shall live.’

‘I brought—trusted—it to you for that,’ he replied, and took leave. When she told the Abbot how she had come by it, he said nothing, but as he and Thomas were storing the drugs that John handed over in the cell which backs on to the hospital kitchen-chimney, he observed, of a cake of dried poppy juice: ‘This has power to cut off all pain from a man’s body.’

‘I have seen it,’ said John.

‘But for pain of the soul there is, outside God’s Grace, but one drug; and that is a man’s craft, learning, or other helpful motion of his own mind.’

‘That is coming to me, too,’ was the answer.

John spent the next fair May day out in the woods with the monastery swineherd and all the porkers; and returned loaded with flowers and sprays of spring, to his own carefully kept place in the north bay of the Scriptorium. There, with his travelling sketch-books under his left elbow, he sunk himself past all recollections in his Great Luke.

Brother Martin, Senior Copyist (who spoke about once a fortnight), ventured to ask, later, how the work was going.

‘All here!’ John tapped his forehead with his pencil. ‘It has been only waiting these months to—ah God!—be born. Are ye free of your plain-copying, Martin?’

Brother Martin nodded. It was his pride that John of Burgos turned to him, in spite of his seventy years, for really good page-work.

‘Then see!’ John laid out a new vellum—thin but flawless. ‘There’s no better than this sheet from here to Paris. Yes! Smell it if you choose. Wherefore—give me the compasses and I’11 set it out for you—if ye make one letter lighter or darker than its next, I’ll stick ye like a pig.’

‘Never, John!’ The old man beamed happily. ‘But I will! Now, follow! Here and here, as I prick, and in script of just this height to the hair’s-breadth, yell scribe the thirty-first and thirty-second verses of Eighth Luke.’

‘Yes, the Gadarene Swine! “And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the abyss. And there was a herd of many swine”’—— Brother Martin naturally knew all the Gospels by heart.

‘Just so! Down to “and he suffered them.” Take your time to it. My Magdalene has to come off my heart first.’

Brother Martin achieved the work so perfectly that John stole some soft sweetmeats from the Abbot’s kitchen for his reward. The old man ate them; then repented; then confessed and insisted on penance. At which, the Abbot, knowing there was but one way to reach the real sinner, set him a book called De Virtutibus Herbarum to fair-copy. St. Illod’s had borrowed it from the gloomy Cistercians, who do not hold with pretty things, and the crabbed text kept Martin busy just when John wanted him for some rather specially spaced letterings.

‘See now,’ said the Sub-Cantor improvingly. ‘You should not do such things, John. Here’s Brother Martin on penance for your sake——’

‘No—for my Great Luke. But I’ve paid the Abbot’s cook. I’ve drawn him till his own scullions cannot keep straight-faced. He’ll not tell again.’

‘Unkindly done! And you’re out of favour with the Abbot too. He’s made no sign to you since you came back—never asked you to high table.’

‘I’ve been busy. Having eyes in his head, Stephen knew it. Clement, there’s no Librarian from Durham to Torre fit to clean up after you.’

The Sub-Cantor stood on guard; he knew where John’s compliments generally ended.

‘But outside the Scriptorium——’

‘Where I never go.’ The Sub-Cantor had been excused even digging in the garden, lest it should mar his wonderful book-binding hands.

‘In all things outside the Scriptorium you are the master-fool of Christendie. Take it from me, Clement. I’ve met many.’

‘I take everything from you,’ Clement smiled benignly. ‘You use me worse than a singing-boy.

They could hear one of that suffering breed in the cloister below, squalling as the Cantor pulled his hair.

‘God love you! So I do! But have you ever thought how I lie and steal daily on my travels—yes, and for aught you know, murder—to fetch you colours and earths?’

‘True,’ said just and conscience-stricken Clement. ‘I have often thought that were I in the world—which God forbid!—I might be a strong thief in some matters.’

Even Brother Martin, bent above his loathed De Virtutibus, laughed.

.     .     .     .     .

But about mid-summer, Thomas the Infirmarian conveyed to John the Abbot’s invitation to supper in his house that night, with the request that he would bring with him anything that he had done for his Great Luke.

‘What’s toward?’ said John, who had been wholly shut up in his work.

‘Only one of his “wisdom” dinners. You’ve sat at a few since you were a man.’

‘True: and mostly good. How would Stephen have us——?’

‘Gown and hood over all. There will be a doctor from Salerno—one Roger, an Italian. Wise and famous with the knife on the body. He’s been in the Infirmary some ten days, helping me—even me!’

‘’Never heard the name. But our Stephen’s physicus before sacerdos, always.’

‘And his Lady has a sickness of some time. Roger came hither in chief because of her.’

‘Did he? Now I think of it, I have not seen the Lady Anne for a while.’

‘Ye’ve seen nothing for a long while. She has been housed near a month—they have to carry her abroad now.’

‘So bad as that, then?’

‘Roger of Salerno will not yet say what he thinks. But——’

‘God pity Stephen! . . . Who else at table, besides thee?’

‘An Oxford friar. Roger is his name also. A learned and famous philosopher. And he holds his liquor too, valiantly.’

‘Three doctors—counting Stephen. I’ve always found that means two atheists.’

Thomas looked uneasily down his nose. ‘That’s a wicked proverb,’ he stammered. ‘You should not use it.’

‘Hoh! Never come you the monk over me, Thomas! You’ve been Infirmarian at St. Illod’s eleven years—and a lay-brother still. Why have you never taken orders, all this while?’

‘I—I am not worthy.’

‘Ten times worthier than that new fat swine—Henry Who’s-his-name—that takes the Infirmary Masses. He bullocks in with the Viaticum, under your nose, when a sick man’s only faint from being bled. So the man dies—of pure fear. Ye know it! I’ve watched your face at such times. Take Orders, Didymus. You’ll have a little more medicine and a little less Mass with your sick then; and they’ll live longer.’

‘I am unworthy—unworthy,’ Thomas repeated pitifully.

‘Not you—but—to your own master you stand or fall. And now that my work releases me for awhile, I’ll drink with any philosopher out of any school. And, Thomas,’ he coaxed, ‘a hot bath for me in the Infirmary before vespers.’

.     .     .     .     .

When the Abbot’s perfectly cooked and served meal had ended, and the deep-fringed naperies were removed, and the Prior had sent in the keys with word that all was fast in the Monastery, and the keys had been duly returned with the word, ‘Make it so till Prime,’ the Abbot and his guests went out to cool themselves in an upper cloister that took them, by way of the leads, to the South Choir side of the Triforium. The summer sun was still strong, for it was barely six o’clock, but the Abbey Church, of course, lay in her wonted darkness. Lights were being lit for choir-practice thirty feet below.

‘Our Cantor gores them no rest,’ the Abbot whispered. ‘Stand by this pillar and we’ll hear what he’s driving them at now.’

‘Remember, all!’ the Cantor’s hard voice came up. ‘This is the soul of Bernard himself, attacking our evil world. Take it quicker than yesterday, and throw all your words clean-bitten from you. In the loft there! Begin!’

The organ broke out for an instant, alone and raging. Then the voices crashed together into that first fierce line of the ‘De Contemptu Mundi.’

‘Hora novissima—tempora pessima’—a dead pause till the assenting sunt broke, like a sob, out of the darkness, and one boy’s voice, clearer than silver trumpets, returned the long-drawn vigilemus.

‘Ecce minaciter, imminet Arbiter’ (organ and voices were leashed togethor in terror and warning, breaking away liquidly to the ‘ille supremus’). Then the tone-colours shifted for the prelude to ‘Imminet, imminet, ut mala terminet——’

‘Stop! Again!’ cried the Cantor ; and gave his reasons a little more roundly than was natural at choir-practice.

‘Ah! Pity o’ man’s vanity! He’s guessed we are here. Come away!’ said the Abbot. Anne of Norton, in her carried chair, had been listening too, further along the dark Triforium, with Roger of Salerno. John heard her sob. On the way back, he asked Thomas how her health stood. Before Thomas could reply the sharp-featured Italian doctor pushed between them. ‘Following on our talk together, I judged it best to tell her,’ said he to Thomas.

‘What?’ John asked simply enough.

‘What she knew already.’ Roger of Salerno launched into a Greek quotation to the effect that every woman knows all about everything.

‘I have no Greek,’ said John stiffly. Roger of Salerno had been giving them a good deal of it, at dinner.

‘Then I’ll come to you in Latin. Ovid hath it neatly. “Utque malum late solet immedicabile cancer——” but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’

‘Alas! My school-Latin’s but what I’ve gathered by the way from fools professing to heal sick women. “Hocus-pocus——” but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’

Roger of Salerno was quite quiet till they regained the dining-room, where the fire had been comforted and the dates, raisins, ginger, figs, and cinnamon-scented sweetmeats set out, with the choicer wines, on the after-table. The Abbot seated himself, drew off his ring, dropped it, that all might hear the tinkle, into an empty silver cup, stretched his feet towards the hearth, and looked at the great gilt and carved rose in the barrel-roof. The silence that keeps from Compline to Matins had closed on their world. The bull-necked Friar watched a ray of sunlight split itself into colours on the rim of a crystal salt-cellar; Roger of Salerno had re-opened some discussion with Brother Thomas on a type of spotted fever that was baffling them both in England and abroad; John took note of the keen profile, and—it might serve as a note for the Great Luke—his hand moved to his bosom. The Abbot saw, and nodded permission. John whipped out silver-point and sketch-book.

‘Nay—modesty is good enough—but deliver your own opinion,’ the Italian was urging the Infirmarian. Out of courtesy to the foreigner nearly all the talk was in table-Latin; more formal and more copious than monk’s patter. Thomas began with his meek stammer.

‘I confess myself at a loss for the cause of the fever unless—as Varro saith in his De Re Rustica—certain small animals which the eye cannot follow enter the body by the nose and mouth, and set up grave diseases. On the other hand, this is not in Scripture.’

Roger of Salerno hunched head and shoulders like an angry cat. ‘Always that!’ he said, and John snatched down the twist of the thin lips.

‘Never at rest, John.’ The Abbot smiled at the artist. ‘You should break off every two hours for prayers, as we do. St. Benedict was no fool. Two hours is all that a man can carry the edge of his eye or hand.’

‘For copyists—yes. Brother Martin is not sure after one hour. But when a man’s work takes him, he must go on till it lets him go.’

‘Yes, that is the Demon of Socrates,’ the Friar from Oxford rumbled above his cup.

‘The doctrine leans toward presumption,’ said the Abbot. ‘Remember, “Shall mortal man be more just than his Maker?”’

‘There is no danger of justice’; the Friar spoke bitterly. ‘But at least Man might be suffered to go forward in his Art or his thought. Yet if Mother Church sees or hears him move anyward, what says she? “No!” Always “No.”’

‘But if the little animals of Varro be invisible’—this was Roger of Salerno to Thomas—‘how are we any nearer to a cure?’

‘By experiment’—the Friar wheeled round on them suddenly. ‘By reason and experiment. The one is useless without the other. But Mother Church——’

‘Ay !’ Roger de Salerno dashed at the fresh bait like a pike. ‘Listen, Sirs. Her bishops—our Princes—strew our roads in Italy with carcasses that they make for their pleasure or wrath. Beautiful corpses! Yet if I—if we doctors—so much as raise the skin of one of them to look at God’s fabric beneath, what says Mother Church? “Sacrilege! Stick to your pigs and dogs, or you burn!”’

‘And not Mother Church only!’ the Friar chimed in. ‘Every way we are barred—barred by the words of some man, dead a thousand years, which are held final. Who is any son of Adam that his one say—so should close a door towards truth? I would not except even Peter Peregrinus, my own great teacher.’

‘Nor I Paul of Aegina,’ Roger of Salerno cried. ‘Listen, Sirs! Here is a case to the very point. Apuleius affirmeth, if a man eat fasting of the juice of the cut-leaved buttercup—sceleratus we call it, which means “rascally”’—this with a condescending nod towards John—‘his soul will leave his body laughing. Now this is the lie more dangerous than truth, since truth of a sort is in it.’

‘He’s away!’ whispered the Abbot despairingly.

‘For the juice of that herb, I know by experiment, burns, blisters, and wries the mouth. I know also the rictus, or pseudo-laughter, on the face of such as have perished by the strong poisons of herbs allied to this ranunculus. Certainly that spasm resembles laughter. It seems then, in my judgment, that Apuleius, having seen the body of one thus poisoned, went off at score and wrote that the man died laughing.’

‘Neither staying to observe, nor to confirm observation by experiment,’ added the Friar, frowning.

Stephen the Abbot cocked an eyebrow toward John.

‘How think you?’ said he.

‘I’m no doctor,’ John returned, ‘but I’d say Apuleius in all these years might have been betrayed by his copyists. They take short-cuts to save ’emselves trouble. Put case that Apuleius wrote the soul seems to leave the body laughing, after this poison. There’s not three copyists in five (my judgment) would not leave out the “seems to.” For who’d question Apuleius? If it seemed so to him, so it must be. Otherwise any child knows cut-leaved buttercup.’

‘Have you knowledge of herbs?’ Roger of Salerno asked curtly.

‘Only that, when I was a boy in convent, I’ve made tetters round my mouth and on my neck with buttercup juice, to save going to prayer o’ cold nights.’

‘Ah!’ said Roger. ‘I profess no knowledge of tricks.’ He turned aside, stiffly.

‘No matter! Now for your own tricks, John,’ the tactful Abbot broke in. ‘You shall show the doctors your Magdalene and your Gadarene Swine and the devils.’

‘Devils? Devils? I have produced devils by means of drugs; and have abolished them by the same means. Whether devils be external to mankind or immanent, I have not yet pronounced.’ Roger of Salerno was still angry.

‘Ye dare not,’ snapped the Friar from Oxford. ‘Mother Church makes Her own devils.’

‘Not wholly! Our John has come back from Spain with brand-new ones.’ Abbot Stephen took the vellum handed to him, and laid it tenderly on the table. They gathered to look. The Magdalene was drawn in palest, almost transparent, grisaille, against a raging, swaying background of woman-faced devils, each broke to and by her special sin, and each, one could see, frenziedly straining against the Power that compelled her.

‘I’ve never seen the like of this grey shadowwork,’ said the Abbot. ‘How came you by it?’

‘Non nobis! It came to me,’ said John, not knowing he was a generation or so ahead of his time in the use of that medium.

‘Why is she so pale?’ the Friar demanded.

‘Evil has all come out of her—she’d take any colour now.’

‘Ay, like light through glass. I see.’

Roger of Salerno was looking in silence—his nose nearer and nearer the page. ‘It is so,’ he pronounced finally. ‘Thus it is in epilepsy—mouth, eyes, and forehead—even to the droop of her wrist there. Every sign of it! She will need restoratives, that woman, and, afterwards, sleep natural. No poppy juice, or she will vomit on her waking. And thereafter—but I am not in my Schools.’ He drew himself up. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you should be of Our calling. For, by the Snakes of Aesculapius, you see!’

The two struck hands as equals.

‘And how think you of the Seven Devils?’ the Abbot went on.

These melted into convoluted flower—or flame-like bodies, ranging in colour from phosphorescent green to the black purple of outworn iniquity, whose hearts could be traced beating through their substance. But, for sign of hope and the sane workings of life, to be regained, the deep border was of conventionalised spring flowers and birds, all crowned by a kingfisher in haste, atilt through a clump of yellow iris.

Roger of Salerno identified the herbs and spoke largely of their virtues.

‘And now, the Gadarene Swine,’ said Stephen. John laid the picture on the table.

Here were devils dishoused, in dread of being abolished to the Void, huddling and hurtling together to force lodgment by every opening into the brute bodies offered. Some of the swine fought the invasion, foaming and jerking; some were surrendering to it, sleepily, as to a luxurious back-scratching; others, wholly possessed, whirled off in bucking droves for the lake beneath. In one corner the freed man stretched out his limbs all restored to his control, and Our Lord, seated, looked at him as questioning what he would make of his deliverance.

‘Devils indeed!’ was the Friar’s comment. ‘But wholly a new sort.’

Some devils were mere lumps, with lobes and protuberances—a hint of a fiend’s face peering through jelly-like walls. And there was a family of impatient, globular devillings who had burst open the belly of their smirking parent, and were revolving desperately toward their prey. Others patterned themselves into rods, chains and ladders, single or conjoined, round the throat and jaws of a shrieking sow, from whose ear emerged the lashing, glassy tail of a devil that had made good his refuge. And there were granulated and conglomerate devils, mixed up with the foam and slaver where the attack was fiercest. Thence the eye carried on to the insanely active backs of the downward-racing swine, the swineherd’s aghast face, and his dog’s terror.

Said Roger of Salerno, ‘I pronounce that these were begotten of drugs. They stand outside the rational mind.’

‘Not these,’ said Thomas the Infirmarian, who as a servant of the Monastery should have asked his Abbot’s leave to speak. ‘Not these—look!—in the bordure.’

The border to the picture was a diaper of irregular but balanced compartments or cellules, where sat, swam, or weltered, devils in blank, so to say—things as yet uninspired by Evil—indifferent, but lawlessly outside imagination. Their shapes resembled, again, ladders, chains, scourges, diamonds, aborted buds, or gravid phosphorescent globes-some well-nigh starlike.

Roger of Salerno compared them to the obsessions of a Churchman’s mind.

‘Malignant?’ the Friar from Oxford questioned.

‘“Count everything unknown for horrible,”’ Roger quoted with scorn.

‘Not I. But they are marvellous—marvellous. I think——’

The Friar drew back. Thomas edged in to see better, and half opened his mouth.

‘Speak,’ said Stephen, who had been watching him. ‘We are all in a sort doctors here.’

‘I would say then’—Thomas rushed at it as one putting out his life’s belief at the stake—‘that these lower shapes in the bordure may not be so much hellish and malignant as models and patterns upon which John has tricked out and embellished his proper devils among the swine above there!’

‘And that would signify?’ said Roger of Salerno sharply.

‘In my poor judgment, that he may have seen such shapes—without help of drugs.’

‘Now who—who,’ said John of Burgos, after a round and unregarded oath, ‘has made thee so wise of a sudden, my Doubter?’

‘I wise? God forbid! Only John, remember—one winter six years ago—the snow-flakes melting on your sleeve at the cookhouse-door. You showed me them through a little crystal, that made small things larger.’

‘Yes. The Moors call such a glass the Eye of Allah,’ John confirmed.

‘You showed me them melting—six-sided. You called them, then, your patterns.’

‘True. Snow-flakes melt six-sided. I have used them for diaper-work often.’

‘Melting snow-flakes as seen through a glass? By art optical?’ the Friar asked.

‘Art optical? I have never heard!’ Roger of Salerno cried.

‘John,’ said the Abbot of St. Illod’s commandingly, ‘was it—is it so?’

‘In some sort,’ John replied, ‘Thomas has the right of it. Those shapes in the bordure were my workshop-patterns for the devils above. In my craft, Salerno, we dare not drug. It kills hand and eye. My shapes are to be seen honestly, in nature.’

The Abbot drew a bowl of rose-water towards him. ‘When I was prisoner with—with the Saracens after Mansura,’ he began, turning up the fold of his long sleeve, ‘there were certain magicians—physicians—who could show—’ he dipped his third finger delicately in the water—‘all the firmament of Hell, as it were, in—’ he shook off one drop from his polished nail on to the polished table—‘even such a supernaculum as this.’

‘But it must be foul water—not clean,’ said John.

‘Show us then—all—all,’ said Stephen. ‘I would make sure—once more.’ The Abbot’s voice was official.

John drew from his bosom a stamped leather box, some six or eight inches long, wherein, bedded on faded velvet, lay what looked like silver-bound compasses of old box-wood, with a screw at the head which opened or closed the legs to minute fractions. The legs terminated, not in points, but spoon-shapedly, one spatula pierced with a metal-lined hole less than a quarter of an inch across, the other with a half-inch hole. Into this latter John, after carefully wiping with a silk rag, slipped a metal cylinder that carried glass or crystal, it seemed, at each end.

‘Ah! Art optic!’ said the Friar. ‘But what is that beneath it?’

It was a small swivelling sheet of polished silver no bigger than a florin, which caught the light and concentrated it on the lesser hole. John adjusted it without the Friar’s proffered help.

‘And now to find a drop of water,’ said he, picking up a small brush.

‘Come to my upper cloister. The sun is on the leads still,’ said the Abbot, rising.

They followed him there. Half-way along, a drip from a gutter had made a greenish puddle in a worn stone. Very carefully, John dropped a drop of it into the smaller hole of the compassleg, and, steadying the apparatus on a coping, worked the screw m the compass joint, screwed the cylinder, and swung the swivel of the mirror till he was satisfied.

‘Good!’ He peered through the thing. ‘My Shapes are all here. Now look, Father! If they do not meet your eye at first, turn this nicked edge here, left- or right-handed.’

‘I have not forgotten,’ said the Abbot, taking his place. ‘Yes! They are here—as they were in my time—my time past. There is no end to them, I was told . . . . There is no end!’

‘The light will go. Oh, let me look! Suffer me to see, also!’ the Friar pleaded, almost shouldering Stephen from the eye-piece. The Abbot gave way. His eyes were on time past. But the Friar, instead of looking, turned the apparatus in his capable hands.

‘Nay, nay,’ John interrupted, for the man was already fiddling at the screws. ‘Let the Doctor see.’

Roger of Salerno looked, minute after minute. John saw his blue-veined cheek-bones turn white. He stepped back at last, as though stricken.

‘It is a new world—a new world, and—Oh, God Unjust!—I am old!’

‘And now Thomas,’ Stephen ordered.

John manipulated the tube for the Infirmarian, whose hands shook, and he too looked long. ‘It is Life,’ he said presently in a breaking voice. ‘No Hell! Life created and rejoicing—the work of the Creator. They live, even as I have dreamed. Then it was no sin for me to dream. No sin—O God—no sin!’

He flung himself on his knees and began hysterically the Benedicite omnia Opera.

‘And now I will see how it is actuated,’ said the Friar from Oxford, thrusting forward again.

‘Bring it within. The place is all eyes and ears,’ said Stephen.

They walked quietly back along the leads, three English counties laid out in evening sunshine around them; church upon church, monastery upon monastery, cell after cell, and the bulk of a vast cathedral moored on the edge of the banked shoals of sunset.

When they were at the after-table once more they sat down, all except the Friar, who went to the window and huddled bat-like over the thing. ‘I see! I see!’ he was repeating to himself.

‘He’ll not hurt it,’ said John. But the Abbot, staring in front of him, like Roger of Salerno, did not hear. The Infirmarian’s head was on the table between his shaking arms.

John reached for a cup of wine.

‘It was shown to me,’ the Abbot was speaking to himself, ‘in Cairo, that man stands ever between two Infinities—of greatness and littleness. Therefore, there is no end—either to life—or—’

‘And I stand on the edge of the grave,’ snarled Roger of Salerno. ‘Who pities me?’

‘Hush!’ said Thomas the Infirmarian. ‘The little creatures shall be sanctified—sanctified to the service of His sick.’

‘What need?’ John of Burgos wiped his lips. ‘It shows no more than the shapes of things. It gives good pictures. I had it at Granada. It was brought from the East, they told me.’

Roger of Salerno laughed with an old man’s malice. ‘What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave, where do we stand?’

‘At the stake,’ said the Abbot of St. Illod’s, and, raising his voice a trifle ‘You hear that? Roger Bacon, heard you that?’

The Friar turned from the window, clutching the compasses tighter.

‘No, no!’ he appealed. ‘Not with Falcodi—not with our English-hearted Foulkes made Pope. He’s wise—he’s learned. He reads what I have put forth. Foulkes would never suffer it.’

‘“Holy Pope is one thing, Holy Church another,”’ Roger quoted.

‘But I—I can bear witness it is no Art Magic,’ the Friar went on. ‘Nothing is it, except Art optical-wisdom after trial and experiment, mark you. I can prove it, and—my name weighs with men who dare think.’

‘Find them!’ croaked Roger of Salerno. ‘Five or six in all the world. That makes less than fifty pounds by weight of ashes at the stake. I have watched such men—reduced.’

‘I will not give this up!’ The Friar’s voice cracked in passion and despair. ‘It would be to sin against the Light.’

‘No, no! Let us—let us sanctify the little animals of Varro,’ said Thomas.

Stephen leaned forward, fished his ring out of the cup, and slipped it on his finger. ‘My sons,’ said he, ‘we have seen what we have seen.’

‘That it is no magic but simple Art,’ the Friar persisted.

‘‘Avails nothing. In the eyes of Mother Church we have seen more than is permitted to man.’

‘But it was Life—created and rejoicing,’ said Thomas.

‘To look into Hell as we shall be judged—as we shall be proved—to have looked, is for priests only.’

‘Or green-sick virgins on the road to sainthood who, for cause any midwife could give you——’

The Abbot’s half-lifted hand checked Roger of Salerno’s outpouring.

‘Nor may even priests see more in Hell than Church knows to be there. John, there is respect due to Church as well as to Devils.’

‘My trade’s the outside of things,’ said John quietly. ‘I have my patterns.’

‘But you may need to look again for more,’ the Friar said.

‘In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.’

‘And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,’ the Abbot continued.

‘But thou knowest—knowest!’ Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. ‘Here’s all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things—from the fever across the lane to thy Lady’s—throe own Lady’s—eating malady. Think!’

‘I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.’

Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. ‘As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years—I thought it was a sin—but my dreams and Varro’s are true! Think on it again! Here’s the Light under our very hand!’

‘Quench it! You’d no more stand to roasting than—any other. I’ll give you the case as Church—as I myself—would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.’

‘But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man’s poor sake! For old friendship’s sake—Stephen !’ The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed.

‘What Stephen de Sautré knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St. Illod’s. Give to me!’ He held out his ringed hand.

‘May I—may John here—not even make a drawing of one—one screw?’ said the broken Friar, in spite of himself.

‘Nowise!’ Stephen took it over. ‘Your dagger, John. Sheathed will serve.’

He unscrewed the metal cylinder, laid it on the table, and with the dagger’s hilt smashed some crystal to sparkling dust which he swept into a scooped hand and cast behind the hearth.

‘It would seem,’ said he, ‘the choice lies between two sins. To deny the world a Light which is under our hand, or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo. And I know what doctrine they drew from it. Hast thou dreamed, Thomas? I also—with fuller knowledge. But this birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age. Therefore I, who know both my world and the Church, take this Choice on my conscience. Go! It is finished.’

He thrust the wooden part of the compasses deep among the beech logs till all was burned.

[zespiceybaguette]

Soul’s Opportunity: Chapter One

I’d like to say I’m okay but I’m not. It’s freezing. It’s dark. Empty. I feel dead inside. Clammy, white palms, perspiration on my forehead, laughing on the outside, curving up the corners of my mouth. Is this it? Is this all I get? Dying? Dying alone? Could it be true? Paralyzed from the waist down, I clearly understood how difficult it was to raise up. If there were people watching this gruesome scene they would only see the top half of me flailing their arms uncontrollably, while hysterically gasping for breath. But I’m dead, so it’s different. I violently thrashed around, having no control of my limbs. “Shit.” I whisper to myself, feeling floppy and disgustingly gruesome. I shiver when the cold wind hits my shoulders. I manage to stand using my hands, this position was awkward but the lower half of me remained motionless on the ground. “Having fun there, doll?” Cooed a voice from behind me. There was a sort of tone in his voice that had caught me off guard. It was not only scaring me, the way he stood, the way his eyes stared into my own made me uneasy. “Do I know you?” I asked, switching the weight on my arms back and forth, balancing my hand stand. “You have no idea, love,” he chuckled darkly. I watched him sway side to side, clicking his tongue, adjusting the hood on his fluffy black sweatshirt. “Do I know you?” She questioned him, my eyes averting from the other half of my body, then back to him. He shoved his bony hands into his pockets, quickly stepping around my lower half. He bent down to take a closer look. “Seems you’re having trouble.” He smirked slyly, throwing back his head and chuckling. “Creep.” I said aloud. He continued to stare at the other half of my body. “Hurt yourself?” He asked. “No.” I answered. He touched the pool of blood, that was unmistakably mine, rubbing it in between his fingers. “Not fresh,” He began, then as he played with the sticky crimson substance; his smile turning into a hard frown. He furrowed his brows. “Murdered. Sad, but obviously true. Nothing could cut a person clean in half except somebody aiming for murder.” He laughed, his hand clasping onto my detached right leg, he brought it up to his face, sniffing it. “Damn, you been out here for two hours?” I didn’t understand what he was saying, how could he know how long I had been out here? “Easy, I’m someone you would never guess.” How did he know what I was thinking? I instantly was impressed by this. Here I am, cut into two not so perfect slices, with this guy who thought himself tall. “At least I want to help you, and not him…” This mysterious man pointed his finger upwards, cocking his head to one side. Who was this weirdo referring to? God? “Correct!” He exclaimed, clutching onto my wrist, which threw me off balance, while he shook my hand violently. “I knew you could get that question right! Now can you guess who I am?” He says, batting his eyes . Lying on my back, arms crossed over my, well chest, I sighed. “Let me guess. Satan?” He croaks a sickening shriek, “Yes!” He became a lunatic, as he picked me up by the shoulders, swinging me around. The Devil himself was such a child in person. Yet, he had no horns, he wasn’t red, nor did he have hooves; no pitchfork. He resembled a normal human. He held me close, tight against his chest, wiping a fake tear from his cheek. “It has been awhile since a human recognized me.” He was hurricane and a plethora of emotion, hysterical and insane. Satan stopped, his eyes wide, brows raised outrageously high. The Devil whispered in my ear, “Your not strong enough to withstand the storm.” I whispered back to the Devil and said, “You’re.” “You know, you have the kind of attitude some would kill for, but , always a but, it kinda looks like someone already did that for you.” Burn. Major burn. But I wasn’t going to take his crap. “What? Am I going to hell or something? Unless this is my hell, and you’re just here to visit, do you mind leaving?” I pursed my lips, my hate for the Devil growing larger, while he poked fun of my loss of lower body. He scoffed. “I am generally offended. Lady, you have no idea why I am here, do ya?” Satan added a little country into his voice playfully. “I don’t care why you are here, I just want to know what you want.” He hummed, fiddling with the strings on his jacket. He huffed. “Okay. I’m going to help you now—but,” he drew out the “but” annoyingly, “I’m going to need chicken blood, salt, five candles and a bottle of New Amsterdam.” That caught me off guard. “Vodka, for a spell?” “Kind of nosy aren’t we?” He started. “What of it?” I shook my head, ignoring his sarcastic comments. He rolled his eyes, running his hands through his hair. “No, that’s just to make me feel better about helping you.”