#the yellow markings are all vaguely eye spots

[gobstoppr]

first draft at a john design..

some design notes in the tags

[qualsly]

the party as dragons!! from left to right, top to bottom: mike (sky), will (rain/night), lucas (sand), dustin (rain), max (sky) and el (night)

here's el with her horns grown out :)

[jeonstudios]

fontana di trevi | 02

you seek out a vampire to help you with something.

pairing: vampire!jk x sadgirl, blood donor!reader

genre: vampire au, angst, fluff (really a sadgirl fic lol)

word count: 9k

warnings: same as last time basically: blood, needles, suicidal thoughts and intentions

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 2/2

<previous | next>

© between takes is copyright jeonstudios. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

“Thanks,” you smile politely as you close the car door, hearing the Uber drive off behind you. The walk up to the house is no different than last time, yet it definitely feels different. Both because of what happened almost a week ago, but also since you’re hoping this will be the last time.

What certainly is different is the surprised look on the vampire’s face as he opens the door to see you standing there with your hands in the pockets of your winter coat.

He himself is wearing a black hoodie, and once again, black shorts. His hair looks a little messier than how you’re used to seeing it. Almost like he’s been sleeping. Vampires don’t sleep, though, do they?

“I… didn’t think you’d show,” he admits honestly, nonetheless opening the door wider for you, and as you enter, you can’t help but think that he looks… almost cuddly.

Of course, he still gives off the usual intimidating aura, and he should probably be even scarier to you considering what happened last time you met him, but… you don’t know. Perhaps you’re just so deprived of human touch that a bloodthirsty vampire’s cold embrace seems inviting.

This time, he waits in the hallway while you step out of your shoes and remove your coat. 

“Yeah, I still want this. I just… wasn’t prepared,” you explain rather vaguely, knowing that he understands exactly what you’re getting at anyway. You want to die but on your terms.

“It wasn’t my intention. To do what I did.”

You meet his eyes. It’s not an outright apology, but it feels eerily close to one.

“You were there to… feed, weren’t you?”

He nods. “Didn’t get the chance to on Thursday or Friday.”

It’s your turn to nod in understanding. For a short moment, you stand there, looking at each other. 

Until you break the silence. “So, can we start?”

“Sure,” he agrees, turning around to head toward the kitchen.

Like the first time you showed up to his house when he didn’t think you were going to, he has to bring the supplies from wherever he keeps them. You take your spot at the table, slip off your cardigan, and wait.

The vampire returns with his hands full, placing the stuff down on the table before he pulls out another chair and positions it the same way as always. But his focus lies on your skin.

“These are new bruises?” he asks, carefully grasping your hand and very gently lifting it to better inspect the yellowing marks covering your skin. “You always bruise like this after?”

You follow his gaze. There are currently three bruises on your right arm, none the same as the night he almost killed you. Two are yellow and from when you bumped into a dresser at home a few days ago. The third is purple but smaller and its origin a mystery. If he wanted to see bruises, he should’ve seen the ones on your legs after you fell when he attacked you.

“Not the first time, but yeah. Usually just from the needle site, but lately, it’s all over. I guess I’m a little deficient in something,” you joke quietly, but the vampire doesn't laugh. 

“Why does it interest you so much? Do you have some kind of medical degree?” you ask, thinking back to when he first asked you why you didn’t wonder about his apparent knowledge.

“Not officially, but being dependent on humans like we are to some extent, you tend to pick up on stuff, and having been around as long as I have, it’s even more unavoidable. But I’ve never seen bruising this severe from blood loss.”

Fair enough. Your body should definitely try to keep the little blood remaining inside your veins, where it belongs. 

He starts prepping your arm, but instead of looking away, you close your eyes. Are you imagining things or has he been… softer lately? Making sure you got home safely instead of leaving you to your fate, almost worrying about your bruises, and being gentler in the way he attaches the needle? Then again, he’s only making sure you can give him as much blood as possible, and he also would’ve probably killed you if he’d gotten ahold of you last week.

“I take it you’ve killed before?” 

There’s a few seconds of silence, but then he answers, and there’s nothing hidden in his words or voice that reveals something more.

“I have.”

“How do you…,” you start, unsure of how to phrase your question. “I mean, what do you do… after?”

“Are you asking…?”

“How do you… dispose of them? And… I guess, how will you dispose of… me?”

It’s not really a sensitive question for you, so you’re not sure for whose sake you’re so careful. You doubt the vampire really cares.

You hear him exhale. “I guess it depends on the circumstances. I haven’t planned anything.”

You wince when he sticks you, more painful this time for some reason. The ball is placed in your hand like always, and you start to squeeze it.

Your curiosity isn’t that dire, so you’re not disappointed by his answer. Maybe he’s not even being honest, and it’s for your sake? Which brings you back to why he’s being extra gentle. The only other explanation you can think of is that he feels sorry for you. Maybe he just truly wants to spare you unnecessary pain and worry in the last moments of your pathetic life? Because this is it. With how shitty you’ve been feeling these last couple of weeks and especially since last time, you know it won’t be long. Today’s the day.

One bag. He can take one bag and after that he’ll have to end it. That way, you don’t have to bleed out, and he’ll get as much blood as possible. If he takes your advice about how to drain the rest, well, that’s up to him.

You’re startled by the sound of knocking, opening your eyes to see the vampire rise from his chair, seemingly sharing your surprise. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Nodding, you close your eyes again, getting as comfortable as you can in the chair while wondering who’s at the door. A vampire friend? A vampire partner? Surely, he doesn’t hang out with humans on the regular? You always got the impression, both from him and vampires in pop culture, that they don’t really care for humans. In fact, a dirty human only pesters a vampire’s environment unless they’re actively dying.

Your heart hurts. It’s beating heavily inside your chest, a feeling you’ve grown somewhat used to over the weeks, but it feels undeniably worse. Like every beat is a painful and exhausting accomplishment. Your breaths grow heavier too. 

Surely, it’s been more than a minute. Is he on his way back? If he were a human, chatting with another human at the front door, maybe you would’ve heard them, but you can’t discern anything. 

It feels a little like your head’s in the clouds, and you’re not sure if your eyes are still closed or if they’re open and you just can’t see anything. You have a feeling that not only can’t you hear the vampire, you can’t hear anything anymore.

Realizing that this is it, you try to call for him quietly to tell him so, but although you’re pretty certain you’re dying, for some reason, you don’t want to interrupt whatever he’s doing with his visitor.

“Fine, alright, I’ll talk to him, but please, this is not a good time.”

“But he’s being an ass, and you were the last person he spoke to before he left for fucking Iceland.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes at his friend, Yuqi. With how much she and Taehyung love each other, there’s a surprising amount of drama. 

“I don’t wanna get involved. I’ll call him later.”

“Fine, get back to me after. If he doesn’t answer, I’m taking the first flight.”

“Vampire?”

Yuqi, who was just about to turn around to leave, stops in her tracks.

“What… was that?” she asks, standing still before discreetly scenting the air. “Is that… blood?”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen. He’s used to smelling blood whenever you’re there to leave it, but not this much. Quickly, and without regard to Yuqi, he turns to rush back into his kitchen, eyes going even wider at the vision in front of him.

“Vampire?” you call out quietly again from the chair, eyes closed and unknowing of his return. You seem out of it, bordering on unconscious, and it’s not without reason. Jeongguk curses himself for not double checking the blood bag when he knows that brand is prone to ripping because the bag isn’t full; it’s broken, and your blood is dripping into a big puddle of red on the floor.

You think… you’re being… carried? By someone firm and… warm. You like that.

“I’m not warm," a low voice comments. "At least I’m not supposed to be.”

“I’m dying… right?” you mumble, feeling how the vampire puts you down on something soft.

“Probably, yeah.”

He does something to your arms, and you can’t figure out what, but you realize it has something to do with collecting the remaining blood when you’re gone.

There’s another voice.

Next time you open your eyes, you feel… different. And upset. You’re not as dizzy as you’ve become accustomed to, and the room doesn’t spin when you sit up on the bed. Your body hurts, but it feels more like you’re simply tired and beat than extremely weak. Most importantly, you feel, which means you’re not dead.

As if he could sense your awakening—or just possesses superhuman hearing—a door opens to reveal the vampire. He's wearing other clothes, grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and his face doesn't give you anything.

“What happened?” you question, looking around the room that’s clearly a bedroom. “And where am I?”

“You passed out. There was a hole in the bag, so the blood was just leaking onto the floor. I had my friend steal some from the hospital, and I gave you a transfusion. Yuqi also brought some clothes and stuff for you, so you’re staying here at least until tomorrow. Then you’re free to leave whenever you want.”

“I… don’t understand. Why would you—why not just let me go then?”

“I changed my mind.”

You look at him, bewildered and trying to find the words. “What do you mean you changed your mind? We had an agreement?”

“I know, but I changed my mind. I’m not doing it. If the blood matters to you, the bags are in the freezer.”

“Why–what would I do with blood?” you question in frustration. Is he offering it back in case you want to drink it? Try to put it back inside your veins? Apparently, you’ve already had transfusions, so you have exactly zero use for frozen bags of blood. “Why can’t you just get on with it? Why not let me die?”

“I do not. Want. To,” he hisses.

You stare at him in silence, feeling confused and betrayed. He looks away but doesn't seem affected. No shame, no regret, no anything but a moment of frustration to breach otherwise calm determination.

“Here’s the stuff,” he gestures toward a duffel bag by the foot of the bed. “You have a bathroom right outside, and I’m gonna order some food for you. You should take it easy; I wasn’t able to give you as much blood as you really need, and unfortunately, what I’ve previously collected isn’t fit to give back. Since it’s been frozen and stored improperly for that kind of purpose, there would be a risk of clotting.”

You look at him from where you’re sitting on his bed, and he looks back at you. The irritation you feel grows beyond what you’re capable of conveying, and so it turns into defeat. It makes you angry, how he managed to back out of giving you what you wanted at the very last second. You spent months upholding your end of the deal, and when it finally came time for him to do the same, he didn’t. 

“Don’t bother,” you lie down slowly, your back facing him where he stands at the door. Silently, you curse your body for feeling so tired; ideally, you’d stomp out of there, slamming the door behind you. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Your own clothes are still wearable. The few stains of blood are relatively small and dried, and the vampire already placed you on his bed, so you don’t feel like you’ll do any more damage by sleeping in them. The house is quiet, but you don’t think he’s left it, which begs the question of where he is. And also if he sleeps and if he does, then… where? He never gave you a tour or anything, so you have no idea what the rest of his house looks like. Whatever; you don’t care, anyway.

His sheets smell clean, though, and it doesn’t take you long to pass out, truly exhausted.

When you wake up, you can’t find your phone, and without any other time measuring device, you don’t know what time it is. It appears like the sun rose not too long ago so that narrows your guess a little bit at least.

Sitting up slowly, you take a deep breath. You feel… okay. A bit sore almost, but more energetic than you have in a while. Unfortunately, it’s not necessarily a good thing in your book.

Sighing, you put your feet to the hardwood floor. They carry you with only a little dizziness, and you set your sight on the bedroom door. It opens smoothly, and you peer out, looking for the bathroom the vampire mentioned. There’s a door immediately to your left which you guess must be it, and so you head toward it. 

After successfully finding the bathroom and using it, you decide to continue the search for your phone. Since you thought last night would be your last and therefore arrived by Uber rather than driving, it means that without your phone, you have no way home.

You make your way down some stairs, recognizing the hallway as the one the vampire has led you through what feels like countless times. Last time you remember having your phone was in the kitchen, so that’s where you steer your steps.

As luck would have it, the kitchen is also where the vampire happens to be. Upon your entrance, your eyes immediately fall on the tall man where he stands, leaning back against the counter. Although he surely heard you approaching a long time ago, he only turns his head slowly toward you when you’re well into the room. He’s hard to read; doesn’t offer much.

“Do you know where my phone is?”

The vampire twists his body to look at the counter behind him, sliding something toward you. You take a step closer, inspecting the device when it’s in your hands. Three percent.

“Do you have a charger I can borrow?”

“Yeah,” he answers with a nod and pushes off the counter, leaving the kitchen. You wait, quietly wondering what exactly goes on inside his head. He seems unfazed by the whole ordeal, which doesn’t necessarily surprise you. But what you still don’t quite understand is why he claimed to have changed his mind. Could it be that he just didn’t want to deal with your body? 

The vampire returns with a white charger in his hand, his skin cold against yours when you accept it from him. Finding a fitting outlet near the table, you plug the charger in and sit down, gazing out through the window while you wait for the phone to charge enough for the trip home. The vampire has gone back to leaning wordlessly against the counter, and you ignore him.

Opening your phone, you find that the only unread notification you have is a spam email. Why are you surprised? With a small sigh, you lock the device again, hoping it’ll charge faster if you don’t use it. Forty percent should be enough.

It’s snowing outside, and you watch the big snowflakes fall slowly and silently to the already white ground. Waiting like this gives you time to go over all the things you’ve done wrong in your life.

Next time you unlock your phone, the battery has reached thirty-seven percent. You open the Uber app to see that a car can arrive in ten minutes. You confirm it, noting the time as eleven twenty-three. You’ll wait five more minutes before you start getting ready, which honestly is just putting your shoes and coat on. 

The seconds pass slowly one after the other. You wonder briefly how long it took the vampire to clean because, although you didn’t notice the blood dripping to the floor while it was happening, you understood that there was a lot of it. Must suck for him to have it wasted like that. The question is also why he would waste even more blood by giving you a transfusion? If he went through the pain of acquiring bagged blood, why not just drink that?

At eleven twenty-nine, your phone’s battery is at fifty-two percent. You unplug the charger from the wall, and as you stand, you place it on the table with a quiet ‘thanks.’

“Going home?” the vampire wonders, black eyes watching you. He looks casual, but there’s that hint of softness shining through again. 

You pass him on your way to the front door. “Yeah.”

“Reconsider,” he encourages, and you know he’s not talking about your journey home. 

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Yes,” he follows. “Whatever’s troubling you doesn’t matter. There’s so much for you to see and do, so many places to visit and people to meet. Your life is so incredibly short, and you won’t have time to see even a fraction of the world as is.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you say, bending down to put your boots on.

“Have you even been outside of this town?”

Why is he trying to control you? He doesn’t know you; he doesn’t care. It’s not like you’ll magically be fine after his ‘cheer up, pal,’ and ending your life is not a decision you have taken hastily or easily.

“No.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s out there?”

“Of course. But it’s not…” you straighten up to look at him, frustration dripping from your words. “Don’t you see that I’m all alone? I don’t have anybody, no one to experience things with, and much less the money to just up and leave. Sure, maybe I could get a loan and travel through Italy for two weeks, but then what? I’ll be miserable and in debt.”

The vampire tilts his head, looking at you with his black eyes but not saying anything. He just doesn't understand. You put your other foot into your boot and reach for your coat before he can try to persuade you again for whatever reason.

“Whatever,” you sigh, “I’ll be going.”

He doesn’t stop you from opening the door, and he doesn’t follow you when you leave, one boot undone and with your coat held to your chest. Irritation turns to sadness and defeat as you wait for the Uber to arrive, taking the opportunity to actually put your coat on and tie your laces properly. Snow falls around you, and when you're done, you stand there, waiting pathetically by the side of the road in the cold. You’re back at square one.

Despite having slept for countless hours at the vampire’s house, you head straight for your bed the moment you return home. For another few hours, you sleep, and then you spend a few more lying there in the dark, thinking. 

It’s seven p.m. on a Saturday. You’ve wasted a lot of time, months even, waiting for the vampire to get what he wanted and follow through on his part. But that’s over now, so what are you waiting for right now? 

Two and a half hours later, you put your boots back on and throw a lighter jacket over your shoulders, one that allows easier access to your neck.

Still not feeling your best, it takes you fifteen minutes to walk what the vampire did in six, carrying you on his back. You don’t understand him. He acted like he didn’t want you to die, but if he cared about you at all, he would’ve backed out earlier and not waited until his actions brought you within an inch of your life for what, the third time? Was he hoping you’d stay alive so that you’d hopefully continue donating your blood, even if less frequently? 

Although nearing his feeding grounds, you’re hoping not to run into him. He did state that he changed his feeding days to Thursdays, and last week, when you did run into him, it seemed like a coincidence. Besides, this place is your best bet tonight; even the vampire admitted that there were others there last time. Surely, they’re around here somewhere tonight as well. 

Since you assume vampires don’t want unnecessary attention, you stake out near the same club as last week, but this time, you hide in the shadows around a corner. Then, you wait for a victim.

Thirty minutes to midnight, a woman stumbles out through the door, a bouncer holding it open for her. She’s obviously had a bit to drink, and as she clumsily fixes her little cross body bag and sets off along the street, you look around from your hiding spot.

But you don’t see or hear anything; not a dark figure moving nor the sound of footsteps. Still, you follow her, hoping for the best. Wanting to keep your distance, you instead find it hard to keep up with her, which is saying something about your current health.

About two hundred meters from the club, she suddenly slows down, her attention seemingly drawn to something in an alleyway. You weren’t sure exactly how the vampires hunt, but by how the woman begins to slowly drift inside the dark alleyway of her own accord, you guess they do have some kind of pull. Most women, even when slightly drunk, typically try not to do… that.

You quicken your steps as much as possible without breaking into a sprint. Not only do you want to speak to a vampire; if you can take that woman’s place and leave her unscathed, it’s an added bonus. Before you’ve caught up, the woman slowly and quietly disappears, and when you turn the corner with your phone in hand and flashlight turned on, you spot a man holding her to his body. 

Evidently hearing you approaching, the man has placed them against the wall, halfway obscured by a dumpster and hoping you’d walk past them, which you would have if you weren’t so focused on the woman and your mission.

The man squints in the light, and you very clearly discern long fangs. You take another step into the alleyway, but what you didn’t expect was to be grabbed from another direction. 

Gasping, you feel strong arms hold your back against someone’s chest, effortlessly keeping you immobile. 

“What can we offer? Though you smell like vampire already?” The man who holds you says, sounding surprised, and your phone is taken from your hand and the flashlight turned off. 

Obviously, they assume you’re one of the freaky ones looking for vampires because any normal person would run. Your reason for wanting to find one is different, though. 

“I have a proposition,” you stutter, not too scared but uncomfortable with how the man noses at your neck. Despite knowing that if the vampire bites, it’ll most likely be your neck, you can’t help trying to pull away. It’s just another bodily reaction. 

Your words intrigue him, and he moves, creating just a tad bit more space between your bodies and looking down at you with a curious smirk.

“A proposition, you say?”

“You can have my blood—all of it—if you take it right here and now.”

“What’s the catch?” he asks, raising an eyebrow much like a certain vampire you know. “What’s in it for you?”

“There is no catch. I want to die.”

The other vampire, curiously listening to your conversation, whispers something in the other woman’s ear, and lets her go. She stumbles away from him and then casually leaves the alleyway, turning the corner calmly as if nothing happened. 

You meet the vampire’s puzzled yet curious eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my blood if you think I’m trying to trick you into something. Except that it’s apparently B positive which I understand is not that desirable, but—”

“You’re Jeon’s human?”

“Uh—what? Who?” you ask, confused but slowly putting two and two together.

“Fuck, should we?” the other vampire questions quietly.

“Jeon,” the closest one to you starts, “is the vampire you smell of. He’s been very persistent no one touches his human.”

“Yeah. Can’t blame him. If I was lucky enough to have someone offer to be a walking blood bag, I wouldn’t let them outside at all.”

“I’m not… I’m not anyone’s, and I’m not a walking blood bag,” you explain, feeling belittled. “He made me a promise that he broke. He was going to help me die in exchange for my blood, but he just used me to collect blood, and then he didn’t deliver.”

The two vampires look at each other, and you feel like they didn’t really pay attention to anything you just said.

“I don’t know, man. I’m not sure I wanna get on his bad side.”

“But he’s too arrogant,” the first one complains. “If I want something, why should he prevent me from getting it? He doesn’t own the supply here. I’m a thousand years old; I shouldn’t need to ask for permission.”

“Dude’s like three thousand years old, though? You don’t need to ask permission; you can literally choose anyone. Except this one, for some reason. I don’t think I would if I were you.”

“Our agreement is over,” you try to enter the conversation the two vampires are holding over your head.

“Well,” the one holding your arms peers down at you, “He said that under no circumstances is anyone allowed to touch you.”

You scoff, growing irritated again, “Okay, well, are there any vampires around that aren’t such wimps? If I can’t find anyone to just snap my neck, I’m going to the train tracks and then my blood will be wasted.”

That’s a lie, of course. There’s a reason you picked death by vampire; you’re too scared to do it any other way, and no matter how much you want to die, you can’t subject anyone else—like a poor train driver—to it. Vampires are cold and heartless. They don’t care.

“Hold on. Wait,” the vampire holds you tighter when you haphazardly try to wiggle out of his grasp.

“Look,” he says to the other, “He can’t tell us what to do. Besides, if he gets angry, we can just say that she said their agreement was over, and we did her a favor out of the goodness of our hearts.”

“You don’t have a heart; you just want to annoy him.”

The vampire grins. At first, it’s a boyish smile directed at his friend, but when he slowly tilts his head down to look at you, it turns almost sinister. “I think I’m gonna do it.”

You gulp. No matter how much this is what you want, it does scare you. Mostly because you’re afraid it will be painful.

“Is there a way you can kill me first? I don’t want it to hurt.”

The smiling vampire shakes his head. 

“No.”

You thought death was supposed to be a void. A void of darkness, devoid of physical matter, emotions, and thoughts. But it hurts. It hurts so much. 

Then, a void does take over.

Jeongguk knew you’d try again. If he wouldn’t kill you, you were going to find someone who would. And despite hoping that you would’ve changed your mind, he was unfortunately right. He spent an hour roaming the dark streets around the town’s attempt at a nightlife, but he didn’t come across you. Not until he visits the same place where you first found him, a place he wouldn’t take as your first choice since you ran into him there a week earlier. 

He’s spent hours and hours these last weeks with you on his mind; the little human who wants to die so badly. It’s just something about you and your willingness to die that doesn’t sit right with him, and you won’t leave his thoughts. It’s not his business, he told himself as he saw you curled up and unconscious in your car. Who is he to tell someone what they should do with their life? If anything, respecting your wishes and consuming freely donated blood is easier and more ethical than taking it from plastered people who aren’t really sure what’s going on, right?

The scenes replaying the most in his head are more recent. It’s the way you suggested he kill and butcher your body, saying no one would look for you anyway, and how you called for him, unknowing that your blood was dripping to the floor but still trying your hardest to squeeze that ball for him. Your fingers were barely moving, but you tried since he wanted that blood. 

He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, trying to convince you to live, but he guesses that he simply needs to know that you experienced some good things in life too. He can’t let you end it this way, as a lifeless body, discarded somewhere where no one will find you.

Anger, frustration, and an odd feeling of helplessness flood him as he takes in the sight of the vampire in the process of draining you dry. He rushes into the dark alleyway, the vampire looking up from your neck just as Jeongguk strikes. There’s not much of a fight after that. The first vampire stumbles backward, and Jeongguk grabs your lifeless body from him as the second vampire approaches, eyes wide and with his hands raised shoulder height.

“Easy, man.”

“I fucking told you to leave her alone.”

The dazed vampire grumbles something, but Jeongguk doesn’t pay him any attention. He places your body down on the snow-covered ground and looks at your pale face while searching for a pulse right under your jaw. 

“She wanted to die.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jeongguk growls. “How much did you take?”

There is no pulse.

“At least three fourths. Possibly more.”

Jeongguk shuts his eyes. There’s no coming back from that.

You’ve lost and regained consciousness due to blood loss one too many times by now, but this time, it really feels different. Opening your eyes, the sunlight filling the room irritates your eyes, forcing you to squint for a few seconds. 

Without moving, you focus on something. The vampire. Jeon, was it? You watch as he rummages through his closet, practically soundlessly, taking out a few items and looking them over before settling on what looks like two black shirts, one long-sleeve and one short-sleeve. Then he digs out a pair of shorts and another pair of sweatpants. 

You’re not used to seeing him in direct sunlight, but now, the rays filtering through the half-opened blinds paint him in a new light, and you let your eyes linger on his arms as he folds the clothes. The green t-shirt he wears is doing a great job at highlighting his veiny, muscular forearms as they work. Light and shadows play along those very defined muscles, accentuating them further.

Your first impression of him was a cold one, one that slowly warmed a little over time both physically and mentally. But in this light? Without even touching him, he looks… warmer to you. Inviting, almost like when he wore that black hoodie. 

You sigh quietly and pull the blanket that’s thrown over you closer. The vampire hears and turns around, placing the clothes at the foot of his large bed.

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

You take a moment to consider his question. Though you’ve certainly felt better in a lot of ways, you don’t feel the way you’ve come to associate with severe blood loss. 

“Cold. And tired, but in a weird way.”

Weird is probably the best way to describe how you’re feeling in general. You feel light, but not weak. Tired, but not sleepy. 

He nods understandingly, “It’ll pass.”

You catch his gaze, holding it for a quiet moment. “You changed me, didn’t you?”

It’s the only explanation you can come up with. That vampire was hungry, and you remember slowly losing control in his grasp, both over your body and consciousness. With how many near-death experiences your body has endured in the last weeks—all blood loss related—there just wasn’t any chance you’d survive another draining.

“Yeah.” He looks away, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I couldn’t…”

You think you understand well enough what he’s trying to say, although you’re not too sure of his reasons or how to feel about it. He couldn’t let you die. In a way, you’re disappointed because you were finally getting what you wanted, and dying has proved itself to be surprisingly difficult for you. 

But you’re not angry; not like you were after the vampire saved you the first time. He mentioned once that not even vampires are immortal, so at least you know that you’re not doomed to an eternal life in suffering; you can always try again if you want. However, you’d be back at square one when it comes to options, but you don’t really feel the urgency anymore. At least not at the moment.

He turns his head toward you, meeting your eyes with his deep, dark ones. “Let me show the world to you.”

Surprised to say the least, you mumble a quiet “What?”

He angles his body further toward you, and you see that despite the softer look on his face, he’s certain. “I want to show you everything the world has to offer. All the good things; the magical places and people.”

Not sure what to say, you just stare at him.

“Vampires are not immortal,” he continues. “If you really don’t want this, I’ll help you die. I promised. But please, think about it. No catch, no expectations.”

“But why… Why would you want that?” 

You’ve been alone for so long, unable to keep people around and interested, so why would this being be?

“Because I found that I really didn’t enjoy draining you of your life, especially when you were already so low to begin with. I want you to get the chance to experience the good things life has to offer, and I can’t help but want to be around when you do.”

“You don’t know me though.”

“I kinda want to,” he says, standing up with the cheekiest smile you’ve ever seen on him. “Think about it, okay? I’m not expecting anything from you other than that you consider.”

Still very much processing his words, you feel a cold shiver wreck your body, something the vampire notices.

“I’ll get you another blanket. Your body is still in the process of changing, and with that comes a decrease in temperature. It’s normal to feel cold.”

He’s about to leave when you call for him.

“Wait. What… What's your name? Your given name?”

He stops, and he smiles again. “Jeongguk. And I know yours already; it was on your door.”

You sleep for a little while longer, but when you start to feel better, you also start to think. You’ve been so certain for so long, and you still are—you think—but… either way, you’d like some answers; a clearer view of the whole picture.

“Jeongguk?” you call, unsure how loud you need to be. It feels strange to use a name for the vampire.

It doesn’t take long before the door opens. “Yeah?”

“I have some… questions.”

He nods, stepping into the darkness that is his bedroom and closing the door behind him. 

“Light sensitive?” he nods toward the window, where you’ve pulled the curtains closed over the blinds.

“Yeah… Is that normal?”

“It is. So is feeling sensitive to sound, touch, smell; basically all the senses. But it will pass pretty quickly.”

“Okay. Well, can you… tell me everything about being a vampire? I didn’t think you slept, but you do? Or why do I still sleep?”

He rounds the bed to sit next to you, and you feel it sink as he gets comfortable. Slowly, you turn to face him, watching him lean back against the headboard.

“So, basically, we can do all the things humans do. For instance, you’re still programmed to breathe, but it’s more of a habit and a way to smell than a means of survival.”

While he speaks, you try it. It’s strange, holding your breath and not feeling that strong, strong urge to take in air after a while.

“You can eat human food, but it’s not what sustains you, so most vampires don’t. It gets kinda boring after a while; you’ll see what I mean. Most also don’t sleep as they consider it a waste of time, but you can if you want to. I do pretty regularly. I find it… peaceful, and when you get older, it can be nice, getting a break between days.”

Hearing him talk so casually and almost… softly has you smiling slightly, unable to help it. So he had been sleeping when you knocked on the door, and his hair was all messy, and he looked so cuddly? You don’t know why, but you like that thought.

“You can exist in sunlight, you can consume garlic. Mirrors work for us as well. We don’t age like humans, but we can die if we’re pierced through the heart by something wooden—”

“—You mean staked?”

He looks at your wide, amused eyes and rolls his. “Yeah. Staked. Anyway, you’ll notice that your senses are heightened, and you’ll become stronger too. Not stronger than me, though,” he grins. “As for the blood, you can survive on any.”

“Any?”

What does he mean by that? Human and animal?

“Human, animal, vampire,” he says, the last one surprising you.

You blink, taken aback. “Vampires drink from other vampires?”

“We can. It’s not as common as feeding on humans as it’s mostly… a pretty intimate thing to do.”

“Oh, okay.” 

Thinking about it, you guess you can see why. Having someone so close, feeding on you without the power imbalance of prey versus predator that feeding on humans entails, must feel… intimate. More of a give and take. 

“You’ll need to feed in about a day or two, so you can choose. I have more human blood than just yours as it might be weird to drink your own blood, and I can get animal blood if that feels easier. Or… if you want to, you can drink from me.”

You look at him questioningly. “Didn’t you just say that it’s an intimate thing?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but if it would make for an easier transition for you, I don’t mind. I’ve taken a lot of blood from you, after all.”

“Okay,” you nod, briefly biting your lip. “I’ll think about it. About all of… this.”

Is death the thing you wanted above all else, or was it to get out of the life you were living? Now that your old life is, in a way, over, you’re not sure. Regardless, there are other worries still plaguing you. You look—almost stare—at his pretty face. 

“What?”

You bite your lip nervously again. “What if you change your mind? I’m assuming this was quite a rushed decision on your part. What if I don’t live up to your expectations? I barely knew how to navigate this world as a human, there’s no way I could… manage on my own as… as a vampire.”

Say you decide to give it a shot; what do you do if he grows tired of you?

“Changing someone is not something we take lightly. We don’t…” he looks around, seemingly searching for the right words. “We don’t change anyone if we’re not prepared to guide them, at least through the first years. Usually, vampires only end up turning their romantic partners, so for most, it means staying together for life. Regardless, it’s a big decision.”

Noticing your wide eyes, Jeongguk smiles and chuckles. “I’m not saying you have to hang around me for the rest of your life, and I won’t ask you to play my wife or anything, but I won’t abandon you.”

It’s surprising enough to hear that vampires not only regularly fall in love with humans but take changing someone so seriously. But you’re even more surprised to hear him use the word ‘wife.’

“Your wife?” you ask, truly bewildered that word was even in his thoughts. “You said vampirism doesn't make you much prettier?”

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “It doesn’t. But you didn’t need to become prettier anyway.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m telling the truth? Don’t you remember what I told you when I carried you home that night?”

‘You’re a pretty girl, you know?’

Of course you remember, but it doesn’t mean it was true.

You roll your eyes. “You were feeling bad for me.”

“Hm,” Jeongguk looks away, thinking. “Okay, do you remember the very first thing I said to you?”

“That you weren’t going to turn me?”

“For sex, yeah. But I said I’d still fuck you.”

The smile he gives you reminds you more of the vampire that took your blood once every fortnight than the one who saved you. You don’t know what to say, and he seems to realize that, his smile turning softer.

“Like I said, I would’ve fucked you because you were pretty even as a human. Also, about luring said humans in? You will not have a problem with that if that’s something you’re interested in. I kinda want to see you do that, actually,” he grins, sending a shiver down your spine. “Hot.”

Jeongguk is sitting spread out on the rented apartment’s low couch, reading the back of a bottle of red wine when you pass him. It’s hot—a lot warmer than what you’re used to from your little hometown—and you sigh as you open the door to the balconet wider and fresh air starts to play with your dress. The weather doesn’t affect you like it used to, but some aspects are still more enjoyable than others. 

“I think I like Rome,” you place your hands on the railing, looking down at the scene two stories below you. It’s just after ten p.m., and people are dining outside the restaurant below you, their happy chatter accompanied by the romantic sound of street musicians. The air is humid, and besides the moonlight, the street is mainly illuminated by lights from the restaurant and surrounding shops.

You hear Jeongguk put the bottle down on the glass coffee table and stand up, something your human ears wouldn’t have picked up.

“We can stay longer if you want,” he offers quietly from right behind you.

Turning around, you let your gaze travel over his white dress shirt, held together by two single buttons—the rest lazily unbuttoned—and exposing most of his drool-worthy chest. He smirks, looking down at you, and you’re hit by how he hasn’t changed that much since you first met him in that alley. You’ve just gotten to see more sides of him.

You hold your breath, carefully reaching your hand out to pinch the fabric of his shirt between your thumb and index finger, pulling a little on it and nodding.

“Then we’ll stay,” he smiles, slowly stepping back and taking your hand softly in his. His skin feels warm against yours, and it’s almost like some sort of electric current courses through you. You grin as he pulls you toward him, moving to the slow and sensual music drifting up from outside.

Jeongguk lifts your hand above your head and twirls you. It makes you smile even wider, and you decide to place your arms loosely around his neck. He doesn’t object, just looks down at you, still smiling. 

One thing you'll never get used to is how handsome he is. Soft, black hair parted across his forehead, dark eyebrows and eyes, and a dimple that pops out when he smiles. One day, you’ll kiss his nose, you promise yourself. He looks so carefree, peering down at you like nothing else really matters; a mindset not too difficult to follow with him.

“How come everything is so… easy?”

He tilts his head, trying to make sense of your words as he places his hands on your waist. “Well… do you feel cared for?”

You think about it. All the new people—vampires—you’ve met so far are very funny and kind. They see you, and they listen to you. Especially Jeongguk’s friends, and even more so, Jeongguk. He’s easy to be around, and he’s been incredibly sweet to you, understanding that you’re going through a big change and that your previous life wasn’t all that great.

So you nod.

“Do you have anything that worries you?” He continues. “A looming anxiety regarding something?”

“No.” Turns out that Jeongguk and all his friends are filthy rich and also very generous, which means that you have no rent to pay, no stuff to buy, or bills to pay. Nor do you have people to impress or time-sensitive achievements to stress over.

Jeongguk’s smile turns extra cheeky. “Do you perhaps… also care a little bit for someone?”

You’d blush if that was something you could do. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

He chuckles before he turns a little more serious. “Jokes aside, there could be many reasons. Like I said, not feeling lonely or overly anxious surely helps a lot, but also stuff like… the change of scenery and seasons. But also…”

“Also…?”

He looks at you with a searching gaze, as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Tell me, did you ever see someone about how you felt?”

You shake your head.

“So you never got a diagnosis or medication?”

“No.”

“Then, maybe… you weren’t ‘only’ sad, and vampirism corrected some chemical imbalance in your brain. It could also explain why things are easier.”

Maybe. You thought that your mother dying was the catalyst for your sadness, and without seeing the point of the world, you got “weirder,” and the few people in your life withdrew. Then it was just you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t connect with people anymore. But maybe, like he said, it wasn’t ‘only’ feelings. A small part of you wishes you would’ve tried to get help, but a bigger part—although sad for the years you spent suffering—thinks this ending might be better.

He continues to sway your bodies, and you rest your head against his chest. When you left with him three months ago, one month after he changed you, you weren’t entirely certain where things would lead, because despite definitely feeling attracted to him, you didn’t really know him. But as the days pass, you don’t regret it, and you’re pretty sure you’re more than halfway to head over heels. You can’t deny that he gives you butterflies.

Sighing, you catch the scent of his naked skin against your cheek, reminded of something.

“You smell good. I remember thinking that you didn’t smell like anything?”

He laughs as you move your face slowly over his chest and up to his neck, smelling him.

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathing him in and closing your eyes. There’s the same notes of laundry detergent, soap, and cologne, but also something unique to him. He doesn’t smell like a human, but… almost. It draws you in, that’s for certain.

“Are you hungry?” he wonders quietly. 

“Not sure,” you answer honestly. It’s turned out to be harder to tell than you imagined.

“Well, if you want it… go for it.”

“Like this?” you ask, pushing on his chest with a smile. He lets you walk him slowly back toward the couch, and when the back of his knees hit the edge, he sinks down onto it. 

“Mhm,” he hums happily.

High on the vampire equivalent of adrenaline, you straddle his lap, only to be caught off guard by his scent again. “No, but really, you smell so good.”

He chuckles. “Vampires who are more… compatible tend to smell good to each other.”

His revelation has you sitting back, curious but almost a little worried. Despite the details of your relationship being... a bit unclear—mostly due to his unwillingness to pressure you, you think—you can't help but want him to like you. “Does that mean that I smell good to you as well then? I mean, I remember that you didn’t like my blood?”

“You smell incredible to me. Almost addictive,” he reveals quietly, softly, resting his hands on your thighs, and you think your human heart would’ve raced. “And about your blood… I lied.”

Though grinning happily, there’s at least a trace of regret in his eyes.

“You lied? About not liking my blood?”

“Yeah. B is actually one of the more highly regarded blood types. I’m also B, but negative.”

You shake your head at him before carefully leaning in. With a soft touch of your lips, you locate the pulsating artery in his neck, gently angling his head away with your hands. Then, as you’ve done regularly for the last months, you pierce his skin with your fangs.

“I’m kinda surprised you still believed I didn’t like your blood,” he continues, though it sounds a little strained, like he’s trying to keep still. “If I didn’t like your blood, I wouldn’t have needed to change my feeding days to the day before you came. Nor would I have tried to attack you.”

You listen to his words, but you’ll have to process them better later because his blood is pretty much the only thing on your mind. His blood and his body. It took you a few times to get over the mental association with blood and drinking it, but now, it’s not something bad. It tastes and feels good, energizing you in a way food just doesn’t anymore. And it’s a chance to bond, making you feel closer to him. 

He likes it too, if his body language is anything to go by. You know he tries to stay still to give you the best chance to get what you need without distractions, but the little… almost purring sound that reverberates from somewhere deep in his chest is hard to miss. As is the way his hips shift almost unnoticeably, but you haven’t spoken about that.

Being smaller and recently changed, you don’t require nearly as much blood as he does, and as soon as you feel the urge filled, you run your tongue over the wound to close it, just like he’s taught you to.

“Good?” he asks when you pull back, and you nod, licking your lips. 

You keep your eyes on his skin, knowing that it only takes a second for the wound to heal but up to two weeks for the scar from another vampire's teeth to fade to nothing. 

“All of the vampires we’ve met, they’ve looked so… amused when they understand I drink from you. Why is that? I get that it’s ‘intimate’ but they were pretty much all couples, weren’t they? Not that we’re… you know…”

You haven’t spoken about that, either, really.

It confused you, more so since you last week stumbled across a local couple smiling very cheekily when they saw the scar on Jeongguk’s neck that he’d made absolutely no effort to conceal.

He laughs. “It’s because only I have marks.”

You look puzzled. Yeah, sure, but you don’t understand why that would be amusing.

He looks at your confused face and continues. “The fact that you drink from me but not I from you usually means that I’ve submitted to you. That I belong to you. Which is not very common when I’m so much older than you. It’s usually the other way around if anything.”

“Oh,” you exclaim quietly, lifting your hand to your neck. “Should I…? Do you… want to feed from me? Cause I’m not sure that I…”

You don’t like the idea of losing blood. You know that Jeongguk has said that as a vampire, you quite literally can’t run out, but you don’t like it. Thinking about someone biting your neck has images from the night you died flashing before your eyes. You don’t remember much,  but you remember being scared and how much it hurt. Surely, it would be different to let him bite you, but… you don’t know. You can’t help but feel like maybe you should? Don’t you kind of owe it to him?

“I want to, of course I do, but not that badly. I get that it’s an uncomfortable concept for you, so that’s why I haven’t brought it up. If you ever feel comfortable enough, we can try, because it’s very hot, but otherwise, it doesn’t matter.”

You lower your hand, smiling carefully down at him. He runs his hands over your thighs softly.

“So, you’re really just… ancient?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah? You’re literally older than Jesus?”

He rolls his eyes, still smiling.

“Jokes aside, doesn’t it get boring? You were kinda grumpy when I first met you.”

“Truth be told, it does. I’ve seen everything, mostly even many times over. But getting to see everything with you is like getting to experience it for the first time all over again.”

“That’s kinda… cheesy,” you chuckle, but you can’t deny that it makes you feel warm inside. “Yuqi said you probably needed a change of scenery as well.”

“So what if it’s cheesy? It’s true," he grins, and it's your turn to roll your eyes. "And, yeah, she might’ve been right. I guess vampires get lonely too sometimes.”

Although he's still smiling, you can't help but hurt a little, thinking about him feeling lonely too.

“So then, what’s next?" you ask. "When do we leave for Portugal?”

“Depends on when you want to. I’ll just tell Taehyung we’ll meet them later. As for now, you know Fontana di Trevi?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna take a dip?”

“What? Isn’t it pretty shallow? And probably… illegal?”

“What are they gonna do? Stop us?” He smiles a wide, happy smile, his white fangs almost glimmering in the romantically dimmed light.

<previous | next> author's note: i hope you liked it!! please reblog if you did <3<3<3

[adobe-outdesign]

have you reviewed the Christmas paintbrush colour?

(This is the only Neopet review in the inbox right now, so send requests if you have them.)

Christmas is kind of a weird concept for a colour, mostly because of its name—after all, the existence of "Christmas" on Neopets implies that there's a Neo-Jesus that died for your sins. The actual Christmas equivalent of Christmas on Neopets is called the Day of Giving (taking place during the Month of Celebrating, i.e., December). Obviously "Day of Giving" is too much of a mouthful for a paintbrush colour, but they could've gone for something like "festive" or "holiday" instead. This would also accommodate other religions, as not all Christmas pets are Christmas-exclusive (the Christmas Pteri is a European robin—which is associated with Christmas over there, but is also just, like, a normal bird).

Anyway, in terms of the actual colour, there's not a whole lot of visual consistency. However, there is a lot of thematic consistency, and enough repeated colors and elements that it still comes across as cohesive. Common colors are white, green, red, gold, and sometimes brown (for reindeer-based pets), and common elements include candy cane striping, holly, bows, Santa outfits, scarves, and more. When good, it's a surprisingly really nice colour with a lot of customization potential. When bad, it's...well, pretty terrible (there were a lot of contenders for the Least Favorite Species winner here).

In terms of customization, Christmas pets generally fared well because there's nothing there that inherently doesn't work well with the pre-made pet templates, and they got a major benefit in the form of being able to remove their accesories to allow for more base colour options. However, I have noticed TNT got a bit sloppy when converting these guys, and you'll notice things like eye colors randomly changing after conversion for no reason.

Favorite Species:

Peophin: Peophins are an inherently beautiful species of pet, and the Christmas Peophin is unsurprisingly one of the most beautiful Christmas pets out there. The dark green base is very classy and contrasts beautifully with the cream-color accents, including some extra fluff around the hooves reminiscent of a shire horse. The big red bow provides a focal point and a nice additional pop of color, and is accented by holly berries both by the ear and the face plate. As a bonus, the clothes are optional.

My only nitpicks are that the lines around the hoof fluff are colored, but the lines around the mane are not. Also, I wish the holly berry was wearable, as it's the only Christmas-specific element left on the base. Still, a very nice colour overall.

Zafara: The only Christmas pet to be religion-based instead of aesthetic-based, the Christmas Zafara is super simple but very pretty. The white body and gold accents are very pretty, and the inclusion of wings and a halo look surprisingly natural. Both are also unexpectedly wearable items, resulting in a base that's like a mix of a yellow and white Zafara. My only nitpick is that, once again, the lines keep switching between being black and being colored. Also, the nose would've been better black. Otherwise, this one's very pretty.

Gnorbu: Both the Gnorbu and Bori are great Christmas pets with white bases and red and green accents, but I had to give this spot to the Gnorbu just because I think the design's extra cohesive—white base with no markings except for the dark-green spots, which go along with the eye, ears, and mane, which has some Christmas tree-esq decorations. I do wish the bow and lights were removable, as it's a lot more limited customization-wise than most pets, but it's still very pretty.

Vandagyre: One of the few good Vandagyre colours, the Christmas Vandagyre has two great designs—the main design has an outfit that's vaguely Santa Claus-esq, but a bit more detailed and sophisticated with elements like a walking staff and a gold undershirt, while the base has black markings reminiscent of a snowy owl (though TNT have stated it's a actually a gyr falcon, the Vandagyre's namesake). Good stuff all around.

Least Favorite Species:

Usul: There were a lot of strong contenders for this spot (pets like the Meerca, Moehog, and Lutari were up there, for example), but I have to give it to the Christmas Usul for having no effort put into it whatsoever. The base is literally just a yellow Usul with a slightly darker bow for no reason, and the only festive elements are a badly-drawn elf had a pair of tacky ears. Couldn't this have been, like, a white body with a big red present bow and striped mane or something? Or at least a full-body outfit, if they wanted to go the elf route that badly? Bah, humbug.

[rotworld]

Where the Heart Was

once a year, you visit a memorial for a pack that no longer exists and mourn what could have been. this visit will not be like the others.

->sawyer/reader. contains grief/mourning, hurt/comfort, vague mentions of abuse and unspecified trauma, mentioned gore, murder.

.

.

.

You buy the bouquet before you leave town. Pink roses, white lilies and baby’s breath, cloying in your passenger seat. You used to wait until you got all the way to Quail Creek. You’d stop at that florist on the corner and fidget by the register with all your awkward smiles and survivor’s guilt, never quite making eye contact, never quite able to ignore the small town gawking from the old folks and teenage part timers watching you pass through like a haunting on repeat. 

So now you buy it before you get there. Your car will smell soft and sad like a funeral for days after, but the pain stays private that way.

You get into Quail Creek late. Sunset smolders on the horizon and stretches shadows across a long, lonely road. Past the little diners and antique stores, the gas stations and highway ramps to other places, all the way out here at the very edge of town, there’s a memorial. The city never put up signs to help anyone find it but you know the way by heart. 

Turn left onto the dirt road that peels away from town into dense woodland, the one that warns NO OUTLET on a yellow sign. Take it as far as it goes. There’s a circular patch of dirt at the end meant for u-turns, and a willow tree growing at the roadside. You park in its dappled shadow. The rest of this journey is made on foot. The path you take is not paved but worn into the earth by countless footsteps before yours, but the wildflowers steadily overtake it year by year. With the bouquet in your hand, you march the fading trail deep into the forest. 

When the day comes that the forest swallows any trace of it, you’ll still know where to go. You remember what he said, exactly how he said it. Smiling softly, squeezing your hand, whispers in the dark:

“Follow the creek ‘till you see three big boulders all in a line. Go west from there, towards the evergreens. The trees are marked. You can feel them even if it’s too dark to see. Three slashes, diagonal, a small fourth slash on top. Eventually, you’ll get to the stepping stones and they’ll take you the rest of the way. Remember that, okay? You’ll reach the end of the stones and I’ll be there, waiting for you.”

The last light of day trickles between pine branches. The stepping stones are half-hidden in dry and dead leaves but you feel the difference between your shoes, spots of solid rock amongst grass and soil. The air is cool and the sky is dark by the time you reach the memorial. Echoes of things that used to be here linger, patches of flattened earth where buildings once stood and crops used to grow. In the middle of a clearing, a large stone juts from the ground. Unaltered from its natural, slightly rounded shape, it is etched with two sets of carvings. The same message, written twice.

On one side are runic symbols. Not Old Norse but something similar, a close cousin. On the other:

Here dwelt brave wolves and beloved ravens of the Yarrow Meadow pack. May ye frolick spring fields ever after.

Below that is a list of names.

You approach the stone with slow steps. Crouching beside it, you trail your fingers over the cold, bumpy surface. You have to use the light on your phone to find it, but it’s there. The left-most column. Bottom row. Luke is the name there, with the silhouette of a bird carved beside it. You trace the indents of the letters with your thumb.

“I’m here. I’m home,” you say, hoarse and quiet. You swallow hard, swiping your sleeve across your face. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry this time. “I know I’m late this year. Sorry. You know I’m good at finding excuses.” You tug the ribbon off the bouquet and dismantle it crudely, crumpling up the plastic and jamming it in your pocket. You place the flowers at the base of the stone. “I meant to come in the spring. Those rose bushes you told me about, they’re still here. They’re not blooming right now. It’s just a wall of thorns.” 

It’s so quiet. There’s no one here but you and little things rustling in the underbrush. A squirrel chitters quietly on its way up a tree, returning to its nest for the night. The moon peeks through the clouds and you can just barely see the treeline like the bars of a cage. 

“I can’t stay long. It’s dark and I don’t know these roads very well. Might need to sleep in the car for a few hours.” You don’t get up. You mean to. You try a few times but you never do, your hand still resting on the stone. “Why am I such a coward?” you whisper. “I don’t want to go back. But I will. I always do. It wouldn’t matter if I was brave now because it’s too late. I wish I’d…I wish…” You bite back a sob and scrub furiously at your burning, tear-filled eyes. 

A branch snaps behind you.

You lurch to your feet and whirl around, eyes scanning the woods. That wasn’t some tiny twig breaking. It’s big, whatever it is, a bristling shape loping closer at a steady pace. It’s not a bear, is it? Your pulse hammers in your chest. You fumble with your phone, angling the lights towards it in the hopes of scaring it off or blinding it. 

Open maw. Teeth bared. Glowing predator light for eyes. Your heart skips a beat. The thing makes an irritated noise, somewhere between a growl and a whine. Its ears flick back and it wrenches its eyes shut. No, that’s definitely not a bear but it’s almost as big. It’s a wolf, covered in jet black fur. If you hadn’t heard it coming, you definitely wouldn’t have spotted it in the dark.

It lets out a whiny bark, like a dog complaining about being stuck indoors. It shakes its head, swiping one of its front paws in front of its face. Then it does it again, growling. Annoyed, you think. It’s such a purposeful, distinctly human gesture, a wordless, “Turn that shit off.”

Not a regular wolf, you realize.

“Sorry!” you stammer, flicking the light off. Your stomach lurches in terror at the sudden darkness that fills your vision, the shadows seeming to squirm as your eyes adjust. You know the wolf is still there. It lets out a huff and pads closer, its movements suddenly obvious and easy to hear. You can just barely make out the shape of it, head raised and gait slow. Is it doing that on purpose, stepping on every single stick and crunching leaf so you know where it is? It comes very, very close, but it holds still when you flinch.  Its eyes unnerve you, indistinguishable from the feral gaze of a wolf except for an uncanny sense of familiarity. Thinking, assessing, judging the world not quite you do, not quite like an animal does, but in a way that bridges the two. 

“Are you…visiting the memorial?” you guess. It bobs its head emphatically in a nod. “I just finished. I’ll give you some privacy—” 

It veers into your path when you step away. You move to the left and it follows. You shift your weight to the right and it does the same, mirroring your movements. 

“Uh. Excuse me,” you say. You try to leave again. Your only warning is a growl before it lunges. 

It happens so fast. The scream gets caught in your throat as the wolf comes barreling right into you, knocking you off your feet. Your heart is in your throat expecting to hit the ground hard, to feel teeth in your throat, but instead you fall into soft warmth. That’s fur against your back and beneath your fingers, velvety smooth. Your brain is still struggling to make sense of what happened, how it moved so fast that it could both topple you and break your fall, when the wolf shimmies out from under you. It’s such a smooth, graceful movement, angling its body so you slide gently into the grass. Its size is frighteningly apparent like this, golden eyes and open, panting maw angled down to study your bewildered expression. Its paws are easily the size of your hands, maybe larger. If you were standing, it would be eye-level with your chest. 

Clearly, it doesn’t want you to leave so you stay put. You watch it snuffle around the base of the stone, snout nudging against the flowers you brought before it glances at you questioningly. You’re not sure what it wants or what it’s thinking, but suddenly it shivers and curls in on itself. It trembles, ears flat and tail tucked in, making choked sounds. Fur recedes unevenly. Limbs and digits lengthen with nauseating cracks as bone lurches and slides beneath rearranging muscle. 

You avert your eyes, terrified. Is shifting supposed to take so long and sound so awful? Quick, canine panting turns to longer, deeper breaths. Now there’s a man crouched beside you, running a clawed hand through dark, messy hair. His eyes are still bright yellow and glinting like an animal’s when he glances at you in his periphery. 

“Shouldn’t wander around here by yourself at night,” he says, hoarse and winded. 

“Oh,” you say awkwardly. You try not to stare. He rakes his fingers through the fur on the nape of his neck, untangling a knot and dislodging a prickly seed pod. When you shift your legs under you, nervous and unsure of what to say, his gaze flicks back to you with magnetic speed. That look feels like a warning. You avert your eyes and tilt your head away from him, showing him your neck. Luke taught you that. Said it’d fix everything if a wild wolf ever looked angry. 

To your shock and amazement, the man—the werewolf—relaxes the second you do it. For a moment, his eyes widen and his lips part in wordless surprise. All the tension and tautness in his posture evaporates. A soft, rhythmic rustling draws your gaze to the ground behind him where his tail has just started to wag slowly. Still, he’s looking at you a little too intently, his focus making you self-conscious. He looks like he’s waiting for something. 

“Is, uh. Is it dangerous?” you ask, trying to break the ice. “I heard there are bears in the area but I’ve never seen one.”

He grunts. “They’re here. More of them now since the pack disbanded.” You hear more rustling, in front of you this time. He’s doing something with the plants at the base of the memorial. Plucking blades of grass, weaving them together. He catches you staring, huffing in quiet amusement when you quickly look away. “I don’t bite.” He spares you from trying to think of a response, picking up one of the flowers from the bouquet. “You brought these?” 

“Yeah,” you say. 

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything for a while. His eyes move down and up again, back to your face. He’s frowning. Did you say something wrong? Move too much? You can’t tell if he’s angry or if that’s just how his face looks. Luke said wild wolves can come across as a little intense without meaning to. “Would you like to use it?” he asks, his voice considerably softer. 

“Use it?” 

“Come.” He beckons you to him with a sharp nod. Reluctantly, you inch closer. “It’s what we do when we talk to the departed. You take pollen, or you grind up some petals, and you put it on their name. It honors them.” 

Your chest feels tight. You come a little closer, kneeling right beside him. Your knees bump into his, an apology getting stuck in your throat when he stops you from pulling back with a hand on your thigh. It’s such a quick, automatic gesture, done without any shame or hesitation. He only lifts his hand when you stop squirming, watching you through his shaggy bangs. “Could you show me?” you ask. “It’s Luke. His name’s all the way on the left, down at the bottom.” 

He’s giving you that look again. Brows furrowed, mouth pursed like he tasted something sour. His gaze rakes up and down again and you wonder what he’s looking for. After a moment, he nods. You watch him take the lily, rubbing the stamens between his fingers until they’re coated in fine, dark dust. He doesn’t need to look for Luke’s name, you notice. He knows right where it is, barely glancing at the stone before he rubs the spot once, twice, a third time, pressing the pad of his thumb into each letter.

“There,” he says. He rises gracefully to his feet, towering over you. He’s got long limbs, legs that bend a bit like a wolf’s, scars all over his body and—

You look away quickly. Yep, definitely naked. He walks around to the other side of the memorial and you hear him repeat the process. Crinkling petals, fingers whispering over stone. You stare at Luke’s name until your vision blurs with tears. The werewolf whispers something with hushed solemnity of a prayer. You hear him sigh softly and then he stands again, returning to your side. He sits in the grass beside you, staring again, not saying a word. 

“Sorry, just…give me a minute,” you say. 

“There’s no rush,” he assures you. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Sawyer.” He shifts closer. The fur on his arms is soft.

You sniffle, giving him your name. “Did you know somebody who lived here?” What a stupid question, you scold yourself. Obviously he did or he wouldn’t be here. But he just nods. Something moves across the forest floor right behind you and you jump, frightened until you realize it’s just his tail again. “I’ve never actually seen anyone else out here. I’m glad I’m not the only one. Some people—humans, anyway—they think it’s embarrassing. Knowing someone who joined a pack. Parents especially, they take it as some kind of judgement on their parenting. Sometimes it is.” 

His frown deepens. “There’s nothing wrong with becoming a pack human.” 

You laugh, which seems to startle him. His ears, still furred at the ends and more pointed than they should be, twitch. “Of course you’d say that.” 

“I say that because it’s the truth. It’s not easy, and it’s not something just anyone can do. Pack humans are exceptional. Selfless and hardworking, stronger than any packless human could ever understand—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. He looks almost embarrassed, sheepishly turning his gaze elsewhere. “You don’t have to convince me. I was never embarrassed of Luke. I actually…I’d promised him…” Your voice wavers. You clear your throat. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Sawyer hums in acknowledgement. He reaches out, stroking the names at the bottom of the memorial. “You blame yourself for something you never could have prevented,” he says.

You shrug. “What makes you say that?” 

“Because I did. For years.” He gets to his feet with that same eerie grace as before, a single fluid motion, and then he offers his hand. You hesitate to take it but he waits, unmoving and patient. When you finally reach for him, he makes a chuffing sound. Dog with a bone, you can’t help but think, a satisfied noise. “Let me walk you wherever you’re going.” 

“I drove here,” you tell him, a little flustered. He’s still holding your hand. 

“Do you live in Quail Creek?” When you shake your head, he huffs. “It’s late. You need rest.” 

You tug your hand out of his grip. You’re torn between being touched by his concern and irritated at being lectured. “I won’t drive all night.” 

“No, you won’t. Show me where you parked. Come.” 

“I’m not a dog,” you complain.

He walks a few steps ahead of you before he suddenly drops down on all fours and shifts back into a wolf. It’s a much faster change this time and doesn’t leave him panting. He huffs, shakes his body, and looks back at you. He barks impatiently when you don’t start moving and trots back, shoving his cold nose into your knees. 

“Alright, alright!” you sigh. Is this what sheep feel like when a herding dog snaps at their heels? Sawyer stays close the whole walk back, either behind you or right beside you. He growls at something in the dark twice, the sound making goosebumps rise on your arms, and hurries you along more insistently. “Well,” you tell him, fishing out your keys, “thank you for the escort. It was nice meeting you—” 

He leaps inside the moment you open the door. You stare in disbelief at the sight of him padding around in a circle in your passenger seat, sniffing everything as he goes. 

“Uh. Do you need a ride?” The only answer you get is a pawing motion. You don’t know what else to do, so you get in and start the car with a werewolf sitting next to you. You keep waiting for him to turn back and tell you where he’s going but he never does. He gets comfortable, sitting upright and tilting his head in a cute, dog-like way, examining whatever grabs his attention.

As strange as it is, it’s a quiet and peaceful drive. You turn on the radio very quietly, humming along under your breath. Sawyer is good company even when he doesn’t say a word. It’s reassuring to have someone with you and he’s endearing in wolf form, physically affectionate. He likes to rest his snout in your lap and lick your face at stoplights. 

It doesn’t stop the trip from weighing on you. You get quieter, smile less, taking deep breaths as reality sinks in again. “You’re right. I do blame myself,” you say. Then you laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, you don’t even know me and I’m just…”

Sawyer nudges against your shoulder. “Go on,” he seems to say. 

“You can’t even talk back, I’m not—” 

He does it again, nuzzling against you with the side of his face. He’s soft and warm, and his eyes are so big and sad, and the tears are coming all over again. 

“We started talking about it all the way back in high school. We didn’t really get it back then. It was just a fantasy. LIfe was so painful. Anything, anywhere would’ve been better than where we were. We held out because of that stupid fantasy. Promised ourselves and each other we’d find a pack someday, one that would take both of us.” The streetlights turn to smears of light through your tears and you quickly wipe your eyes. “We grew up. Things changed, and they didn’t. I gave up on the whole pack thing but Luke never did. And then one day, he was gone. Stopped answering messages, calls, everything. Worst week of my life. Then the first letter came.” 

You smile sadly just thinking about it: a musty, yellowed envelope, an antique that’d been collecting dust in some kind of pack storage building, wrapped with twine and labeled with a Quail Creek PO box for a return address. You only knew Quail Creek as a name you sometimes saw on a highway sign.

“Yarrow Meadow had picked him. I think he sent me seven whole pages, just talking about the commune and how it was everything we’d ever wanted and more. The wolves loved him. He said it’s rare that you get to write letters that early, or even at all, and he sent a lot of them. It took a few months before they let him visit because he was job training, basically. He was called a ‘hrefn.’ It sounded like a big deal. The next time I saw him, he was…”

Your throat constricts. He’d been so happy, smiling and misty-eyed like a newlywed, everything about him joyous and unburdened. You had always clung to each other so desperately but now he held you, steady and strong. He had shown you all of his marks like each was a trophy, bites and hickeys and suggestive scratches down his back. They were not like his old scars, the marks he always hid in high school with long sleeves and bulky clothes. He had asked for these. Had even begged, he whispered. He bore them proudly. 

That day, like every day he visited, you laid together in a heap of sweaty, tangled limbs and he whispered in your ear. Follow the creek. West from the boulders. Into the evergreens. I’ll wait for you at the end of the stones. He told you Yarrow Meadow was growing, that they wanted—needed—more pack humans. He’d gone wandering into those very woods where the memorial stands now, had sought them out and been welcomed with open arms. He had already told them all about you. All you needed to do was walk the same path. 

“I never went.” Your voice is a thin whisper. It hurts to admit. “I was so scared of being rejected. If they turned me away, then what would Luke do? Would he ruin everything for himself, just because of some stupid promise we made as kids? Would they even let him? Or would he stay, and I’d be all alone? I got cold feet every time I thought about it. Luke kept visiting. Kept telling me it’d be fine, it’d all be fine. I just had to go. I had to try. And I couldn’t. And the years went by, and the next thing I know, Quail Creek’s all over the news because the commune burned to the fucking ground, and Luke, he’s…”

His name was Samson Albinson. Twenty-four years old. Software engineer. Infiltrator-hunter. Every article and news show ran the same photo for a month straight of him being ushered into a police vehicle still covered in blood and ash. The trial had been excruciatingly long and highly publicized due to Albinson claiming membership with a prominent vigilante werewolf hunting group—a group which quickly denied any association, insisting he acted alone. To this day, you have no idea whether he was lying in the hopes of appearing righteous or if the hunters were just trying to save face. It doesn’t really matter. 

You’d gotten sick just listening to a journalist summarize his simpering argument in court, insisting he had gone to Yarrow Meadow to “inspire a revolution.” He’d waited until a busy festival night when the wolves were occupied, sharing his daring plan of escape with the pack hrefn in the hopes of rallying all of the pack humans, but the hrefn refused. There had been an argument. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone. It had been an accident. 

A fourteen stab wound, blunt force trauma to the head accident. A fire started in the main cabin’s den room accident. Six pack humans burned alive because the doors were blocked from the outside accident. Nine dead wolves ambushed from behind while trying to save them accident. Two more with intense facial trauma and defensive wounds on their hands and arms but no blood beneath their claws, as if they had been too shocked to fight back. An accident. 

Albinson fled from the commune in the commotion. He wasn’t familiar with the trail or how to get back into town, but one of the pack’s wolves found him. They might’ve been in shock, he recounted, or they might genuinely not have known he was responsible for what happened. Regardless, they fell back on instinct and guided him all the way to the road, staying at his side until emergency services arrived. He claims the wolf became aggressive when a police officer approached to take a statement. A paramedic at the scene disputed this. 

The wolf had been frantic but nonviolent, she said, until Albinson announced to everyone present that he was an infiltrator-hunter. She suspects he said this in the hopes of eliciting a response that would cause the police on scene to shoot the wolf. 

“Take the next exit,” Sawyer says. You jolt, startled by the sound of his voice. He’s in mostly-human form again, sitting tense and straight-backed in the passenger seat. He’s staring at the road ahead, lit by your headlights. “The sign said there’s a motel,” he clarifies, still not looking at you. “We’re going to stay there tonight.” 

“If I sleep in the car, I won’t have to pay—”

“I’ll pay,” he insists. 

You’re too tired, physically and emotionally, to argue. Sawyer doesn’t say anything as you pull off the highway and follow the glowing lights until you find a place to stay. He gets out of the car the second you kill the ignition and walks slightly ahead of you into the lobby. It only occurs to you that he’s not wearing anything when you’re under harsh fluorescent lights, staring at his toned legs and firm backside while he scowls at the front desk. The woman who comes scurrying out of a back room freezes mid-stride, stammering and wide-eyed until Sawyer clears his throat. 

“Region 12-A. Hoarfrost Falls,” he says. She nods stiffly and hides behind her computer. Sawyer looks back as if to make sure you’re still there, nodding sharply for you to come closer. You let out a sight and stand next to him. He strokes your head. Petting you, like a dog. 

You try not to think too hard about the weirdly pleasant feeling that gives you. 

“How are you paying for this?” you ask. 

He nods towards the computer. “Pack account. There’s a database with every registered pack listed. My alpha will get a notification and approve the charge.” His hand smooths down the back of your head and settles on your nape.

“And how many, uh, beds…?” the woman behind the counter trails off, avoiding Sawyer’s steely gaze.

“One,” he says. You have no idea how but he knows exactly when you’re about to argue and that’s when he squeezes, applying firm but gentle pressure to the back of your neck. You’re so startled that you lose your train of thought entirely. 

Sawyer takes the keycard and guides you to the room you’ll be sharing for the night. You don’t put up much of a fight when he steers you towards the bed, kicking off your shoes and collapsing without complaint. You watch with curious amusement as he inspects everything, pacing back and forth, sniffing the furniture, sticking his head into the closet like he seriously expects something threatening to be in there. “What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Making sure this is a safe place to sleep.” You hear him in the bathroom, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. He pulls back the shower curtain and opens all of the drawers. “Acceptable,” he mutters after a while. Seemingly satisfied, he comes back out and turns out the lights. The mattress dips beneath his weight. His eyes glint in the dark above you. He’s not laying down. 

“You’re not going to stand guard all night, are you?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as apprehensive as you feel. 

He doesn’t answer. You hear the slide of his fingers over the sheets, see his claws arch before he clutches his hand into a fist. Like he wanted to touch you, and then thought better of it. No louder than a whisper, Sawyer speaks your name in the dark. “I know who you are,” he says, hoarse like a confession. “I knew before you introduced yourself.” 

You sit up slowly. Sawyer watches you, gaze rising to follow your face, his expression solemn and unreadable. “What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Luke.” The way he says that name, the warmth and fondness and love he manages to convey in a single syllable, makes your heart ache all over again. “He told us all about you. All the things you survived together, all the mischief you got into together. What made you sad and what made you laugh. You were like a pair of doves, the way he told it. Inseparable.” Sawyer reaches out to cup your cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb so gently you don’t even feel his claw. “I promised him that the moment you set foot in our woods, you would be ours. We didn’t have the influence to hunt beyond our territory or I would have gone to get you myself.” 

He sees the guilt and misery start to bubble over, a sob tearing from your throat. He takes one of your hands and places it on his chest. You’re startled by the stiff, leathery texture of his skin, scars in streaks and patches that leave him hairless in spots along the shoulders and down his sides. He guides your touch across his old wounds, pressing your palm into every dip and ridge and bumpy spot, over his collarbones, down his arms, across his knuckles. You think of Yarrow Meadows and the night everything turned to ashes. You think about that werewolf who led Albinson all the way to safety, shielding him from blowing embers and burning branches, how it must have felt at the end to look him in the eye when he smiled with all that blood on his hands.

“You need to forgive yourself,” Sawyer says, each word spoken slowly, with solemn weight. He pulls you closer and you don’t fight, needing something solid and unyielding to keep you from falling to pieces. His arms wrap around you, your head cradled against his chest. You sob into his soft fur and scars. Sawyer says nothing but he makes soft, soothing noises, cooing and wordless whispers, his hand stroking up and down your back. You cry until you’re certain you have no tears left, wrung out and raw like an open scab. You can’t remember lying down but he’s wrapped around you, keeping you warm and protected.

“Sawyer?” you say, your voice reduced to a sad croak. 

He hums quietly, stroking your shoulder. What about tomorrow? you want to ask, but you never get the words out. You don’t want to think about it. Tomorrow, you go back home. But it’s not home, is it? It hasn’t been for a long time. “Get some rest,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?” You’re embarrassed by how needy you sound, but Sawyer kisses your cheek and hums again like it was the right thing to say. 

“Promise. I need to give you my alpha’s number. You’re going to text him, answer his questions.” Something dangerously close to hope quickens your pulse. Sawyer huffs and nuzzles his face into your hair. “In the morning,” he insists. “Time for bed.” 

But you push. You can’t help it. You need to know if this is real. “Why am I going to text your alpha? ” you ask.

“Because I have a promise to keep.” He pulls back so he can see your face, wiping the lingering dampness from your cheeks and pressing his lips to your forehead. The way he looks at you makes you feel delicate, like something truly precious.

But even now, doubt starts to creep in. Hesitation. Fear. Can you do this? After everything, all this time and all this hurt, can you still do this? Are they going to want you? “Where��where will—?” 

Your first proper kiss is heartstopping and over too quickly. Sawyer’s lips move against yours like he’s been waiting years to taste you, coaxing you to match his hunger. He pulls away with a teasing nip at your lower lip, just hard enough to let you feel the sharp points of his teeth. You hear him inhale sharply. He rests his forehead against yours and drinks you in, sight and sound and your breath with his saliva on your tongue. It both steadies him and ignites even more wanting in his gaze. 

“Things are different now. I hunt where I please.” The next kiss is chaste, a quick peck at the corner of your mouth, but you hear something like a growl rumble in his throat. You look into his eyes and you see everything you used to dream about, all the love and desire you and Luke swore you would have someday. 

You cling to him, afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Part of you is still afraid of this, afraid of how badly you want it, certain you don’t deserve it. Sawyer holds you like he knows, firm but gentle, keeping you against his chest so you can hear the steady certainty of his heartbeat. 

There is something both pained, almost mournful, and relieved in his voice when he whispers, “You’ll be home soon.”

[tmnt-soup]

I am convinced that frida is a yellow blotched map turtle, also known as a yellow blotched sawback here is my reasoning

- LOOK at the eye markings between the two that is so similar

- freshwater turtle like leo don and raph

- found in the same general areas that you can find red eared sliders, ornate box, alligator snappers, and spiny softshells, so it makes sense that drax would be able to get them all in vaguely one spot assuming he just grabbed some turtles off the ground

-primarily eats bugs which is just delightfully ironic considering shes w big mama

-less of an actual reason but the spikey spine stuff would be fun to draw and adds a nice visual difference from the others(mikey specifically bc their silhouettes are p similar rn), but now also has something in common w don and raph !!

[msklassickilla]

Delirious | J. Uso|R. Reigns One

Summary: When Titania buys an old typewriter from a closing thrift store, she thinks it’s just a vintage gem—until the words she types start coming true. However, the typewriter doesn’t just bring fantasies to life—it twists them. Giving Titania way more than she bargained for.

Pairing: Titania Marshall (Black OC) x Jey Uso x Roman Reigns

Author’s Note: This story is another AU thing. So, it might align, or it might not. I will try my best to keep it current enough. Nonetheless, it’s mash up of a few things: That one episode of Goosebumps. That one episode of the Twilight Zone. And that movie by the same title, Delirious featuring John Candy. I’ma make it work. Plus, I like mystical spooky shit with a bit of Jerry Springer type mess.

Warning(s): Will be updated each chapter. None for this.

Disclaimer: This work of art is fictional in nature including the original characters created by me. I do not own any of the existing characters or lyrics from songs referenced in this story (if any). All rights belong to their respective owners with the exception of my original characters. This work is purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended to cause harm.

One

The bell above the door let out a hollow chime as Titania stepped into the thrift store, shaking off the drizzle from her jacket. The air inside smelled faintly of old books, wood polish, and something vaguely metallic. She glanced around, taking in the cluttered aisles crammed with mismatched furniture, vintage knick-knacks, and dusty stacks of records. A handwritten sign taped to the counter read, “CLOSING FOR GOOD: EVERYTHING MUST GO!” in uneven black marker.

Titania wasn’t here for anything in particular. She’d wandered in out of curiosity after spotting the sign while driving home. Something about the words closing for good always tugged at her—like it was her duty to give a dying shop one last sale.

Her sneakers squeaked softly against the scuffed linoleum floor as she moved through the aisles. Worn lampshades leaned at odd angles, mismatched chairs huddled together like forgotten party guests, and a collection of porcelain cats stared at her from a shelf with chipped paint and blank eyes. It was the kind of place that felt haunted, not by ghosts, but by the lives of the people who had once owned these items.

Titania turned a corner and froze. There, on a small table near the back of the store, sat an old-school typewriter. It was a deep, glossy black with silver trim that gleamed faintly even under the dim fluorescent lights. The keys were round, their letters engraved in bold white, and a sheet of yellowed paper was still tucked into the roller.

“Wow,” she murmured, stepping closer. She ran her fingers along the edge of the typewriter’s cool metal frame. It was in remarkable condition, almost too perfect for a place like this.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said, startling her.

Titania turned to see the store’s owner standing behind her. He was an older man with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing, his salt-and-pepper hair swept back neatly. He wore a faded sweater that hung loosely on his wiry frame, and his hands were tucked into the pockets of his khakis.

“Sorry,” Titania said with a small laugh. “Didn’t hear you sneak up on me.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That one caught your eye, huh? Not surprised. She’s got a certain… charm.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Titania admitted, brushing her fingertips over the keys. “Does it still work?”

“Better than you’d think,” he said. Then, after a beat, he added, “Careful with that one. It brings stories to life—but not always the way you expect.”

Titania blinked, caught off guard by the comment. “Excuse me?”

The man shrugged, his gaze fixed on the typewriter like it was an old friend—or maybe an enemy. “Just saying, some things have a way of leaving their mark. Especially when they’ve been around as long as this one.”

She laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking or just eccentric. “Well, I don’t know about all that, but I’ve been looking for something to kickstart my writing. This might be just the thing.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, there was something unsettling in his expression—something too knowing. But then the look was gone, replaced by a pleasant smile.

“Let me know if you want it,” he said, turning to shuffle back toward the counter. “I’ll give you a good price. It’s not the kind of thing we sell every day.”

Titania hesitated, then glanced back at the typewriter. The keys seemed to glint at her, almost beckoning. It was ridiculous, of course, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man’s cryptic words carried some weight.

“Alright,” she said, half to herself. “Why not?”

A few minutes later, she left the store with the typewriter carefully cradled in her arms, her wallet twenty dollars lighter and her mind buzzing with ideas. She didn’t notice the way the old man watched her go, his hands folded on the counter and a faint, unreadable smile on his face.

As the rain picked up outside, Titania loaded the typewriter into her car and drove home, unaware of the storm she had just invited into her life.

---

Titania set the typewriter on her desk, stepping back to admire her new addition. Her bedroom was cozy but cramped, with books stacked precariously in every corner and her laptop perpetually charging on the nightstand. The typewriter added a vintage charm, standing out like a polished relic among her modern clutter.

She wiped it down with a soft cloth, though there was hardly any dust on it to begin with. The black metal practically shone, and the keys were smooth beneath her fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used a typewriter—probably not since high school when she’d taken a creative writing elective on a whim.

“Alright,” she muttered to herself, pulling the yellowed piece of paper from the roller. She held it up to the light, squinting at the faint, uneven typewritten letters. Most of the words were faded beyond recognition, but the last line stood out:

What you write is what you live.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Okay, creepy.” Titania tossed the paper into the small trash can by her desk, chalking it up to someone’s idea of an artsy tagline.

The typewriter sat there for the next few days, a silent observer in her room. She meant to use it—she really did—but life got in the way. Her freelance writing gig had her swamped with deadlines, and by the time she finished her work for the day, all she wanted to do was binge her favorite wrestling matches and scroll through Twitter.

Still, the typewriter was never far from her mind. Every time she glanced at it, a little spark of excitement flickered in her chest. She imagined herself sitting there, typing away like some old-school novelist, the clacking of the keys drowning out the world.

Sometimes, though, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the typewriter was watching her. Not literally, of course—that was absurd—but there was something about the way it sat so perfectly on her desk. It never seemed to collect dust, and the metal caught the light in a way that made it look alive.

Late one night, as she was lying in bed with her laptop propped on her knees, she thought she heard something—a faint clicking sound, like the typewriter’s keys being pressed.

She froze, the glow of the laptop casting long shadows on the walls. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving only the hum of her heater and the faint creak of the house settling.

“It’s just the wind,” she muttered, closing her laptop and pulling the covers over her head. Still, her dreams that night were filled with the rhythmic clatter of typewriter keys.

The next morning, as sunlight streamed through the window, Titania glanced at the typewriter and made herself a promise. “I’ll use it soon,” she said aloud. “Maybe tonight. No more excuses.”

She didn’t realize how soon that promise would be tested.

---

By late evening, the storm had arrived in full force. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder grumbled low in the distance, and occasional flashes of lightning lit up the room. Titania sat curled up on her couch with a mug of tea, trying to focus on a book, but the restless energy in the air made it impossible to concentrate.

The weather report had warned of severe storms rolling through the area, and the power had already flickered twice. Titania set her book down with a sigh, her gaze drifting toward the stairs that led to her bedroom. The typewriter sat up there, quiet and untouched since she’d brought it home.

She rubbed the back of her neck, her thoughts already spiraling. Maybe tonight was the night to finally put it to use. The storm gave the perfect excuse—it was moody and dramatic, and, honestly, she had nothing better to do.

Setting her mug on the coffee table, Titania headed upstairs. The house creaked beneath her feet as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows. In her bedroom, the typewriter seemed to gleam in the dim light, waiting for her like it had known she’d come.

Titania pulled out the chair at her desk and sat down. She ran her hands over the keys, hesitating. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” she murmured, cracking her knuckles.

She rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and adjusted it until it was snug. The satisfying ding as the roller clicked into place made her smile. The storm raged outside, the clatter of rain against the roof creating a backdrop of white noise.

Titania began to type, her fingers flying over the keys as words spilled onto the page:

The front door creaked open as Jey stepped inside, the scent of rain clinging to him. He carried his luggage in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other, his face tired but softened by a warm smile. He was home—finally.

The scene played vividly in her mind. She imagined Jey, the dark curls of his hair damp from the rain, his confident stride easing into something gentler as he stepped into the house.

Titania rushed down the stairs, her heart racing as she saw him standing there. She couldn’t help but smile, her voice breaking with emotion as she said, “You’re home.”

She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. A clap of thunder rumbled overhead, louder this time, shaking the walls. The power flickered once, twice—then went out, plunging the room into darkness.

“Seriously?” Titania groaned, fumbling around her desk for her phone. The storm wasn’t letting up, and the house suddenly felt colder without the hum of the heater.

A moment later, the lights snapped back on, almost startling in their brightness. Titania let out a relieved breath, but her stomach twisted when she noticed something.

The room felt different.

It wasn’t the mess of books on her shelves or the faint smell of burnt-out candles lingering in the air. It was something deeper, a weight pressing against her senses.

Then she heard it—the sound of someone fiddling with the front door.

Titania froze, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. It wasn’t the wind; it was deliberate, like someone was trying to open the lock.

Adrenaline surged through her as she jumped out of her chair. Her eyes darted to the corner of her closet, where she kept the old aluminum baseball bat from her high school softball days. She grabbed it without hesitation, clutching it tightly in her hands.

Moving as quietly as she could, Titania made her way downstairs, each step creaking underfoot. The sound at the door had stopped, but the faint hum of the storm seemed louder now, like it was seeping into the house itself.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the bat, bracing herself. She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the door, her breath catching in her throat.

The door clicked open.

The door creaked open slowly, the hinges letting out a low groan as the wind pushed it wider. Titania tightened her grip on the bat, her pulse hammering so loudly in her ears that it nearly drowned out the sound of the storm.

For a second, nothing happened. The doorway was a black void, rain falling in sheets behind it. Then, a figure stepped into the light.

Titania’s breath caught in her throat.

Standing in her doorway, soaked from the rain, was Jey Uso.

He looked exactly as she had imagined him. His dark curls were damp and clung to his face, beads of water running down his sharp jawline. He wore a hoodie zipped halfway up, the fabric sticking to his broad chest, and his luggage hung from one hand. In the other hand was a bouquet of red roses, the petals trembling slightly from the wind.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and familiar, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry for scaring you, baby.”

Titania’s heart stopped for a beat, then kicked into overdrive. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be real.

Jey shifted his weight, looking slightly nervous. “I tried to call, but I think the storm’s messing with the signal.” He gestured vaguely behind him toward the driveway, where his car was parked. “I wrapped up early on the road and thought I’d surprise you. Didn’t want to wait ‘til morning to see you.”

Titania blinked, her grip on the bat loosening as her arms dropped to her sides. “What—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and tried again. “What are you doing here?”

Jey tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean? I live here, babe.” He let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and easy. “You okay? Did I scare you that bad?.”

Titania’s mind raced, her thoughts colliding in a chaotic jumble. This had to be some kind of prank, right? But no one she knew could have pulled off something this elaborate. And the way he was looking at her, the familiarity in his voice and his expression—it wasn’t the look of a stranger.

“I…” She hesitated, her mouth dry. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting you. At all.”

Jey stepped inside, setting his luggage down carefully by the door. The bouquet of roses shifted in his grip as he reached up to push his hood back, revealing the full mess of damp curls laying on the top of his head. He held the flowers out to her with an apologetic smile.

“Here. They’re probably a little worse for wear thanks to the rain, but I thought you’d like ‘em.”

Titania stared at the roses, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to take them. The petals were soft and cool against her skin, the faint scent of them mingling with the rain and Jey’s cologne—a scent so familiar it made her knees weak.

“Thanks,” she said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He gave her a small grin. “You sure you’re good? You look… I don’t know. Stressed.” He took a step closer, concern softening his features. “Did something happen?”

Titania’s mind screamed for her to say something, anything, but she was completely out of her depth. This was Jey Uso—standing in her living room, acting like they’d been together for years. And the worst part was, he sounded so sincere.

Her eyes darted to the stairs, where the typewriter sat in her bedroom. The scene she’d written, the exact words she’d typed—they were unfolding right in front of her, down to the smallest detail.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

Jey’s brow furrowed as he reached out to gently touch her arm. “Tee, talk to me. What’s going on?”

The nickname hit her like a bolt of lightning, breaking her out of her daze. “I—I’m good,” she stammered, forcing a shaky smile. “Just caught me off guard, that’s all. You’re soaked—let me get you a towel.”

Jey hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but he nodded. “Alright. Thanks, babe.”

Titania turned and hurried up the stairs, clutching the roses to her chest as her mind raced. She could feel his eyes on her back, the weight of his presence grounding her in a moment that felt anything but real.

As soon as she reached her bedroom, she set the roses on her desk and stared at the typewriter. It sat there, silent and unassuming, as though it hadn’t just rewritten the fabric of her reality.

“What the hell did I just do?” she whispered.

Downstairs, she heard Jey moving around, his voice faint as he called out, “Hey, do we still have that beer I like in the fridge?”

Titania groaned, running a hand down her face. She had no idea how to answer him—or what she was supposed to do next.

----

Titania took her time coming back down the stairs, her mind racing in circles as she gripped the towel she’d grabbed for Jey. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of what had just happened—or what was still happening—was pressing down on her.

When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she found Jey standing in the entryway, casually tugging off his damp hoodie. Beneath it, he wore a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his rain-soaked skin, and his tattoos gleamed faintly in the dim light. He looked so at home it made her stomach twist.

“Here,” she said, holding the towel out toward him with a forced smile.

“Thanks,” Jey said, flashing her that easy, crooked grin that always made her heart skip a beat—even before tonight, when she only knew him through a screen. He took the towel and started drying his hair, his damp curls springing back to life as he ruffled them.

Titania stood there, clutching the banister for support, her mind still trying to process what was happening. He was here. He was real. And worse, he thought he belonged here.

Jey noticed her staring and paused, lowering the towel. “You sure you’re okay, Tee? You’re acting... different.”

There it was again—Tee. The way he said it was so familiar, so natural, as if he’d called her that a thousand times before. Titania’s mouth went dry.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly, her voice higher than usual. She cleared her throat and forced herself to relax, leaning against the banister like it was no big deal that Jey Uso was dripping rainwater onto her rug. “Just didn’t expect you to get home tonight, that’s all. I thought you’d still be... on the road.”

“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow, but I finished up early,” he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder and reaching for his luggage. He rolled it over to the edge of the living room, parking it by the couch.

Titania watched him move around like he knew the house—like it was his house. He glanced toward the kitchen, then back at her.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

“What?” she said, blinking.

“Did you eat?” Jey repeated, his brows knitting together slightly. “You get like this when you forget to eat, you know.”

“I—” Titania clamped her mouth shut, unsure how to respond. It was true that she often got scatterbrained when she skipped meals, but how the hell did he know that? She hadn’t written that detail into the story.

Her silence seemed to worry him. Jey stepped closer, his dark eyes scanning her face. He reached out and gently cupped her chin, tilting her head up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

The warmth of his hand on her skin sent a shiver down her spine. Titania pulled back instinctively, her heart racing. “No,” she blurted. “No, I’m fine. Really. It’s just... the storm. It’s been messing with my head all night.”

Jey studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, stepping back and letting his hand drop to his side. “Alright,” he said, his tone laced with gentle skepticism. “If you say so.”

He glanced toward the kitchen again and smiled faintly. “You still got that wine you like, or do I need to run out and grab some?”

Titania couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped her, though it sounded more like a gasp of disbelief. “Wine?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning now. “Figured we could have a little date night. Unless you’re too tired?”

Date night. He was acting like this was just another ordinary evening for them, like this was some normal relationship where he came home and they hung out like any other couple.

The sheer absurdity of it all nearly made her dizzy. She forced another smile and shook her head. “No, I’m not too tired. Wine sounds... great.”

Jey’s grin widened. “Bet. Let me unpack and get cleaned up, and we’ll chill for a bit.”

He grabbed his luggage and headed upstairs, whistling softly as he disappeared down the hall.

Titania stood frozen in place, the room suddenly feeling too quiet without him in it. She slowly sank onto the couch, staring at the towel he’d left draped over the armrest.

Her gaze drifted toward the stairs, her chest tightening. Upstairs, on her desk, was the typewriter that had brought him here. She could still hear the rhythmic clacking of its keys in her head, the words she’d written playing out exactly as she’d imagined.

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some weird coincidence.

She had written Jey Uso into her life.

And now, she had no idea how to undo it.

----

Read Chapter Two ...click here

Wanna join the taglist, let me know!

Taglist: @theusotwinzcom @yana3sworld

[cemoras27-but-writing-this-time]

Red's Robin. pt 1.

@im-totally-not-an-alien-2, hi I finished the first chapter :), spent way too long on it but Im happy at how it came out and fully intend on making more

@faeriekit since you were apart of that little conversation I assume you wanted to be tagged to, sorry if not!

Also the formatting may be off at the end, typing like texting is hard! I dont know how humans type other than me! And I've seen Tim typing like he doesn't know how to spell in fics before!

I hope you all Have a Great Day!!

Ao3:(to be added)

Tim sighs as he looks at his window sill. The small orange and gray bird that had perched on it stared at him through the closed window. Almost like it was asking him to let it in. But that's crazy! It's just a little bird, it probably just thinks he’ll feed it and that's why it's looking at him. But he’s not Damian and won’t adopt a wild animal the second he sees it.

It pecks at the window, and stares. Again it pecks.

Tap, tap, tap. It continues as if it's knocking. Tim turns back to his laptop, the Riddler is out of Arkham and has been suspiciously quiet. 

Tap, tap, tap. Tim doesn’t look. Tap, tap, pause. Taptaptaptap taptap tap. The noise doesn’t stop. Tim swings around and closes the curtains. And the noise persists, until it pauses. Breathing out a sigh Tim can finally make some progre-

BANG. The window shakes.

‘Did… did it just fly into the window? Can’t birds die like that?’ Tim peeks around the curtain to see the small robin-like bird shaking its head and turn to fly off. Only for it to slam body first into the window again. It takes a moment before it flies off. Tim opens the curtains and sees it quickly flying towards the closed reinforced window. He's able to open the window before it can kill itself and it rams into his chest instead. Which painfully sends him careening back onto his chair.

‘Ouch… it hits harder than expected…’ He looked down at the small bird that had moved down onto his lap, now that it's closer he notices that he has never seen a bird- robin(?) like this one. Its body is a light bluish-gray and slender with an orange head with little yellow markings next to its eyes, with tiny black legs with three talons. It stood barely a foot tall and its tail had odd white markings that vaguely resembled an arrow fletch. 

The bird adjusted itself and opened its wings, showing a white underwing, and flapped them until it was hovering next to Tim’s face. Small black eyes stare into blue.

“‘Chling!” it chirped and swooped up to land on his head, where it immediately started to peck at his hair. ‘Is it preening me? I thought birds need to trust a person to do that,’ Tim thought, his hair getting thrown into his eyes.

“Hey, stop that. Get off!” he gently batted at the bird trying to dislodge it from its roosting place, getting a stern peck in return. He looks at his laptop. He could just keep working but the bird would be a distraction. Damian might look at the bird, he had more information about animals than Tim did. But did he want to talk to Damian? Not really. He really needed to continue to track the Riddler, he's too much of a threat to be left unattende-

His stomach growls. The bird’s stomach growls. In a weird serenade the organs announce their mutual hunger. 

‘When was the last time I ate? When did the bird eat last?’ Tim thought, overwhelming hunger tearing at his abdomen and dizziness makes itself known. Ok snack then he can look into the bird and hopefully find the Riddler. His minifridge is empty, he knows that but still checks it -yep still empty, so he has to go to the kitchen. He grabs his phone from his desk and checks it.

9:49 -  Friday, June 2 - 26% battery

He still has about an hour and a half until he needs to get ready for patrol. He closes his bedroom door behind him quietly and pulls up the search bar.

‘What do robins eat?’

He's walking down the stairs, the search engine shows several articles, mostly about the most recent spotting of Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin outside Batburger with pictures showing the three with the fast food bags. Cass was there too but nobody saw her.

He adds bird to the search

‘Mealworms, insects, and berries. Steph ate the last of the strawberries.’ Tim reaches the Kitchen, thankfully no one is in there. The bird finally flutters off of his head and onto the kitchen island and starts hopping around. There’s no other ‘berry’ fitting fruits either. “Sorry little guy, I don't think we have anything you're interested in. Alfie would kill us if we brought any bugs in.” He speaks to the room and grabs his preferred snack, an Alfred made orange-cranberry muffin, and turns to the island. 

The bird is pecking at the banana stand. Tim had forgotten about the bananas, Alfred only gets them to brown for banana bread. Everyone besides Dick hates the texture, and the rest of the kitchen is always stocked with something else to eat.

“Oh I guess there is something.” he sets his muffin down and rips one off the bunch and peels it as far as he’s willing. He wipes his hand against his pants and continues with his muffin. 

The bird hops onto the yellow fruit and sticks its beak into the soft insides. And they eat quietly together. Tim watches as the bird snips the sides of the peel to open it up more. He pulls up the camera app on his phone and takes a picture of it when it lifts its head up. He then goes to google. 

‘Orange and gray bird’

‘Orange and blue gray bird’

‘Robin species’

‘Robin BIRD species’

‘Small birds species’

‘Thrush bird species’

‘Finch species’

‘Bird with orange heads and gray bodies;

‘Birds with white underwings and orange heads’

‘Birds with white stripes on tail with orange heads’

Nothing he searches comes close to the bird in front of him. He sighs and pulls up his messages, and throws away the muffin wrapper.

Demon Child:

lol lokat tis thig

Would you type properly, Drake?

no u

[Image of fletchling]

Unlike you Drake I do type properly.

What kind of avian is that? I do not recognize it.

Idk im ak u

Drake is that our kitchen? Did you let a wild animal into our home?

It was hungy 🥺

Aldo no one eafs the babfas anyway

I am aware of our family’s dislike of bananas Drake.

That does not excuse nor explains why there is a wild animal in our kitchen!

It wan ted insid

Kept hittting my windo

What did you use as bait?

My Good Looks

Drake.

IDK man

It jst wanted in

I think it’s hurt

Didn want you bothefing B over a ded borb outdid

So i open d the window

An it flewa in and won t leab

I won’t be able to look it over until I get home.

And that will not be for another hour. Keep it inside. I will look at it before I go with Father for patrol.

K

At this point the bird had finished with it’s snack and Tim had thrown away it’s peel. It perched on his shoulder looking at his messages to Damian. Tim took another picture of the bird on his shoulder and sent it to Damian and went back to his room. 

If anything, the bird seemed to like him, and he could use that to annoy Damian until he got home.

[just-pot-over-here]

THIS IS INSPIRED BY THIS POST, WHICH @pigeonwit REPOSTED WITH THE CRUTCHTRACK TAG LAST YEAR. THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOR AT LEAST 9 MONTHS. AUGH.

———

“‘Ey, freeloader, git up.”

Crutchie groans and turns his head away from the fingers digging into his temple, mumbling out some vague curse words as he squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“C’mon, Crutch, wakey wakey. I’m starvin’ an yer’ payin’ fer breakfast.” The offending fingers move down to prod into his side, and Crutchie jerks and throws out an arm when they catch him in the soft spot beneath his ribs. Judging by the impact against the back of his hand and the yelp to his left, he’s hit his mark.

He slowly blinks his eyes open, squinting out the windshield. The glass is fogged up and flecked with snow, thanks to Race’s busted defroster, but Crutchie can make out the lurid yellow of the Denny’s sign, bright against the starry sky. Now that he thinks about it, the moon should not be out during breakfast.

“Wh’t time s’it?” He interrupts Race’s sputtering, turning to level him with a stare that makes his mouth shut with an audible click. The sheepish look on his face speaks volumes, and Crutchie barely controls the urge to throttle the asshole to his left as his eyes slide over to glare at the neon green 3:42 blinking up at him from the dashboard clock.

“S’never too early fer breakfast.” Race pipes up from the driver’s seat. Crutchie turns to scowl at him, fully contemplating the drawbacks of beating Race over the head with his crutch. He knows assault is generally frowned upon, but he thinks maybe the police would give him a pass for this one.

Except, Race’s hair is falling in a mussed up flop over his forehead, his eyes are wide, and his bottom lip is stuck out ever so slightly. He is performing a truly masterful puppy-eyed frown. Crutchie feels the threatening spark of rage in his stomach wink out, replaced by that familiar, fluttery Race feeling.

Goddamnit.

—

The old door hinges screech as they push their way through into the lobby, and Crutchie stomps snow off of his trainers while Race asks for a “table fer’ two” like they’re at a five star restaurant. He grins at Crutchie brightly as he flops into the booth across from him, hands splayed across the grimy table like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever touched. The fluttering in his chest makes itself known once again.

Crutchie never said he was a strong man.

Race asks the waitress for waters as she passes their table. Crutchie’s pretty sure she either didn’t hear or didn’t care, because she barely glances at them as she pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen. He snorts.

“Pretty sure she was havin’ a nice nap before we came in.”

“Yeah, well, we aint gonna keep her long.”

“We better not. I was havin’ a nice nap before we came in.”

“Aww, cheer up, ya grump. They have pancakes.”

That quiets Crutchie, and he only offers a few more token grumbles as he watches the waitress come back with two waters. She carries an aura of cigarette smoke and flowery perfume with her, and it seems to perk Race up like smelling salts. She sets the waters down on the table in front of them and takes out her notepad, clicking her pen expectantly without saying a word. Race isn’t deterred in the slightest.

“Hey ma’am, g’mornin to ya! S’nice ta’ see a friendly face all th’ way out here.” He smiles charmingly. The waitress is unimpressed, and she seems to get more and more exasperated as Race rattles off their orders. Her masterful deflection of Race’s energy vindicates him a little. The smile Race blasts him with as she leaves is blinding, and it scrubs away any remaining annoyance Crutchie feels. God forbid he stop complaining, though. It’s one of his great joys in life.

“Y’didn’t let me order for m’self. How’d ya know what I want?” He takes a long sip of his water, crinkling his nose at the faint metallic taste that lingers in his mouth afterwards. Race, on the other hand, swirls his around in the chipped plastic cup like it’s a fine wine. He scoffs at Crutchie from across the table, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at him.

“C’mon, Crutch. I know you, stop pretendin’ like I don’t.” He‘s struck dumb by the smile Race sends him over the rim of the cup, warm and familiar. The fluttering comes back, butterfly wings beating against the inside of his ribs and making him nauseous at the way Race’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Jesus.

He ducks his head as his face heats, grunting noncommittally and taking a few more gulps of water. The waitress comes back and leaves them two coffees as he’s collecting himself, and by the time he looks up Race is holding his cup about an inch away from his face, basking in the steam.

God, Crutchie just can’t stop himself from staring.

He can’t help it. Race is practically glowing. His hair shines in the fluorescent light of the cheap ceiling fixtures, unbrushed and wild after a night of driving. His jaw is lined with three days’ worth of rough stubble, and there are the beginnings of some serious bags beneath his eyes. He’s wearing a gray Jets sweater that definitely belonged to Albert at one point. It’s faded and stretched to all hell, the decal cracked, the string long gone, the hood half ripped off the collar. In short, he’s absolutely unkempt.

Crutchie loves him.

It hits him suddenly, and if he were standing it would’ve brought him to the ground. He loves Race. Loves him so much it makes his hands tremble and his chest ache. Loves him so much it lives like a physical thing behind his ribs, clawing and beating its way up his throat as he watches Race pour milk in his coffee. He can’t control it, can’t tame it, he can only open his mouth as it nestles itself behind his tongue, ready to jump out and-

Race opens his eyes and meets his gaze, and his momentary rush of confidence is washed away in an instant. Crutchie closes his jaw with an audible click and swallows thickly, fumbling for something, anything to say.

“You’ve got somethin’ on yer’ face.”

Race’s brow furrows, and he rubs a hand over his cheek. “What? Where?”

Crutchie reaches out one hand towards Race’s face, oh so slowly, fingertips outstretched. He takes a deep breath and…

“Ow, dammit, Crutch!”

Race recoils, rubbing his forehead where Crutchie had flicked it. “Now what the hell was that for?” He glares as Crutchie leans back in his seat, pressing his shaky hand flat to the table and shrugging.

“Damn, guess it was just yer’ face. My bad.” Something in him is soothed as Race laughs at him incredulously. He watches him start tearing his napkin into pieces to make spitballs, and the thing in his abdomen quietly curls into a purring ball behind his sternum.

It’s okay, he thinks as Race lines up his ammunition on the edge of the table, running his mouth about how Crutchie’s started “a war he won’t win”. It’s okay to not say it now. It’s okay. We have time.

As Race starts a spitball war with him at 4:30AM in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, Crutchie knows one thing better than he knows anything.

There’s no place in the world he’d rather be.

[deathmoth-blog]

The name death's-head hawkmoth refers to any of three moth species of the genus Acherontia (Acherontia atropos, Acherontia styx and Acherontia lachesis). The former species is found throughout Africa and in Europe, the latter two are Asian; most uses of the common name refer to the African species. These moths are easily distinguishable by the vaguely human skull-shaped pattern of markings on the thorax. They are large nocturnal moths with brown and yellow or orange coloring, and all three species are fairly similar in size, coloration and life cycle.

The African death's-head hawkmoth (Acherontia atropos) is the largest moth in the British Isles (though not in Africa), with a wingspan of 13 cm (5 in); it is a powerful flier, having sometimes been found on ships far from land. The forewings are a mottled dark brown and pale brown, and the hind wings are orangey-buff with two narrow dark bands parallel with the hind margin. The abdomen is a similar orangey-brown, with a broad, dark dorsal stripe. The most notable feature is a patch of short yellowish hairs on the thorax that gives the impression of depicting a human skull. It is a striking insect, but is seldom seen because it flies late in the night.

A 2020 study describes how, when viewed upside-down, Acherontia atropos creates an illusion of a head with eyes: the mark on its thorax likened to a human skull is the "nose", with the skull's eye-sockets resembling nostrils. Spots on its forewings can be seen as eyes, and various other markings and features can be interpreted as ears, muzzle and lips. This illusion is also present in Agrius convolvuli (convolvulus hawk-moth) and five other species, with the study author suggesting that the function of the illusion of an eyed head is "almost certainly to deter, distract or otherwise deceive predators".

The caterpillar of the African death's-head hawkmoth is also sturdy and somewhat variable in colour, being some shade of buff, green or brown, with seven diagonal blue lines. At the rear is a curved, thorn-like horn. It can attain a length of 5 to 6 in (13 to 15 cm). The other two species of death's-head hawkmoth similarly have three larval color forms: typically, green, brown and yellow. The pupa is stout and reddish-brown, and is formed 8 to 10 in (20 to 25 cm) under the ground in a chamber the size of a large hen's egg.

These moths have several unusual features. All three species have the ability to emit a loud chirp if irritated. The sound is produced by inhaling and expelling air, which vibrates the epipharynx like an accordion, often accompanied by flashing of the brightly colored abdomen in a further attempt to deter predators. The chirp of the death's head hawkmoth takes approximately one-fifth of a second. A study by National Geographic found that the epipharynx was originally built to suck up honey, but later evolved to produce sound.

Adults of all three species are commonly observed raiding beehives of different species of honey bee; A. atropos only invades colonies of the well-known western honey bee, Apis mellifera, and feeds on both nectar and honey. They can move about in hives without being disturbed because they mimic the scent of the bees and are not recognised as intruders. If their disguise is discovered, the moth's thick waxy cuticle helps to protect it against stings.

Leaves of the potato plant contain calystegines, a group of polyhydroxy alkaloids, which are toxic. The larva of A. atropos feeding on potato foliage accumulates these alkaloids.

[thebelugawhalefriend]

Connection: Kris x Reader (P2)

CW: Y/N insert, Gender Neutral reader, Slow Burn (?)

Part One

Please Note: This will end up being a Kris x Reader! However, this IS a slow burn, so romantic elements may not show up until later. Thank you!

"So, if you've been watching us for a while, you gotta know the future." Susie nudges me for an answer.

"Not really. This is all new to me." Keeping up a conversation is one thing, but doing that while traversing an unfamiliar dark world? Yeah, not really an easy feat. First, we wandered through an oddly alluring wooden door painted green. Now that we're in, all I can really make out is a long yet familiar feeling hallway. The kind you'd find in a distant childhood home. Pictures of family hung from the soft maple walls, the floors creaked every few steps, and the scent of vanilla wafted through.

"Smells like..." Ralsei tries to pick up on the scent, but Susie is quick to bolt down the hallway, "CAKE!!"

"WAIT! Susie!" Ralsei is quick to give chase, both of them leaving me to wander the hall. Running felt like the right thing to do- I badly want to bolt after them! But the sense of home slows me down to a sensible walk. There isn't really any rush, is there? A soft melody plays through the corridor of someone else's hall of memory.

It... Even reminds me of a familiar home. A stable one.

It took but a few minutes to arrive at a three way split. "Are we really doing split off stories again?" I shake my head. As if the last chapter didn't spend enough time away from the main cast... All three have different footprints down their halls. The left has tiny hoofprints decorating the floor, the middle has frantic boot marks, while the right looks smeared. As if someone had struggled through.

I try the left path first. That's probably where Ralsei went, right?

"Ralsei? Bud, where are-"

"Chu!"

!!!

Battle music began- but no battle screen shows up?! All I see is a pair of eyes on a vaguely bunny shaped dust cloud. Despite what size dust should realistically be, it's just about as tall as me! How am I supposed to fight this thing?

"I-I'll... Defend?"

I try my best to say my action and cover my face with my arms. And yet, nothing truly shows up to indicate I've taken action. Rather, the grey cloud of rabbit makes its move. Removing a carrot shaped duster, it reaches right over my head and-

THUNK!

...

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Connection [FOUND]

...

The feeling of space isn't nearly as cold as I thought it would be. It's like being inside a big warm tub of water without drowning. I can't see much around me, mostly blues and dark purples swarming around and a distant blackened figure.

"Are you... There?"

My voice isn't my own. No words even leave my mouth. And yet, as if they were a psychic, two hesitant ruby red eyes look up on the other side.

"What are you doing here?" A raspy, masculine voice answers with their own question.

"What do you mean? I thought this was my dream!"

"You aren't dreaming. You died."

A cold fear runs through my body. Died? But- I just barely got to live! I haven't even started my real life outside of this game! I want to scream, cry, and plead with any God out there to hear me... But nothing musters up my body to act. And so, the figure continues.

"This is where I first met you... When you took over my life. If you had ANY sense, you would have never taken interest in me!" The figure stands from their spot, peering down towards me from their distance. Now it's crystal clear- That yellow and green striped shirt, that brown hair...

"And now you're dead. But, not really, are you? You actually get chances to come back. Again and again. So when you come back..." They take a few steps closer just to look over me.

"D o n ' t f i n d m e."

Connection [TERMINATED]

"(Y/N)...!" I can barely hear the soothing voice calling to me. "(Y/N)! Are you okay?" I'm almost there. Almost able to answer...

"(Y/N)!"

"I'm here-! I'm-" I sit right up, feeling my body all over. That's... Right. I AM here. Alive again. But, I don't remember pressing on...?

"Thank goodness you're okay! I found you being eaten by a dust bunny, but... They don't exactly HAVE stomachs... Somehow, it did leave a nasty mark on your head. When I used a healing prayer, it left... A scar. I apologize for that-"

Before he can even finish, I pull him in for a tight and shaky hug. Whether it was my own choice or Ralsei's quick thinking, I can actually get another chance. Find out just where Kris is and find my way out of here. If a dust bunny can kill me in one blow, I hate to think about what could happen later...

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Madness

Summary: Dean wants EVERYONE to know that you belong to him.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Smut. Smut. All smut. Rough sex. Public sex. Brief, slightly degrading talk, Unprotected P in V sex, voyeurism mentioned, breeding kink if you REALLY squint, possessive!dean.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N

A/N: I saw this tiny post from @b3autyfuldisast3r and immediately this smutty little idea came into my head, (even though, I changed the idea a bit) So I thought I'd share my depravity with all of you. 😁 I wrote this quick, so there may be lots of mistakes. Sorry!

The beautiful divider at the bottom was created by @talesmaniac89

Masterlist || Tag Lists

It's madness. Throbbing, pulsing, slick and dripping madness.

The glass is cold against your bare skin, you know people can see you; you're in plain view. Height doesn't hide you - you're in a ground level room. Darkness doesn't cloak you - the yellow glow from the light in your room burns bright, and easily illuminates your writhing, shuddering body to the parking lot and street beyond.

The curtains offer no protection, spread wide on either side of you, and you know he's beckoning the world forward to watch him consume you, destroy you. Dean wants them to see how he owns you, wants them to watch him shatter you into molecules of pure bliss.

He's stripped you completely naked, while he stays in his jeans and t-shirt. He's not the focus of attention. He doesn't want them to see him. He only wants them to watch you - to see what he owns, to be jealous of his prize.

The glass presses at your back and you can feel the eyes on you. You know you should feel ashamed, embarrassed, but you don't. You can't. There's no room left in your body for anything but burning, pulsating pleasure.

He pushes you harder against the window as his head dips to pull your nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard, biting it, marking you. His hand is buried in your cunt, slamming all four fingers deep inside you over and over, forcing your heated screams to echo through the thin single pane of glass and out to the people listening and watching, rapt and rabid.

"Please…" You whisper through a hoarse throat. "Dean, please. I need to come."

Dean shakes his head. "Not yet, baby." He orders you, even as all four fingers press hard against the spongy spot deep inside you, making you scream again and squeeze your thighs tight around his hand.

"We're gonna put on a proper show for these people first."

With that, he whips you around so your heaving, sweat-slicked body is facing out towards the group that's gathered a little ways from your room. You don't know who they are, other guests? Truckers parked in the lot overnight? With the light behind you and all of them out in the dark, you can only make out vague shapes, but they can see every line of you.

When Dean enters you abruptly, slamming himself home in one hard thrust, they can see the way you grab onto the curtains on either side of you, holding on for dear life. They watch your face spasm in pleasure and pain as his massive cock rips you in two while simultaneously doling out thick, heavy, pounding waves of ecstasy.

He slams into you, deep and almost violent again and again, urging you on. "Fucking take it, baby. Every inch. Let them see what a good little cockslut you are. Show them how I own this pussy. Tell them."

He slams into you again, hard enough to raise your feet an inch off the ground. "Fucking, scream it out! Who owns this pussy?"

"You." You croak out.

But Dean cracks his palm down over your ass, making it jiggle. "Louder. They can't hear you. Who owns this fucking pussy?" He shouts, reaching around your body to lightly spank the soft mound.

"You!" You scream out as he slides in a finger from the same hand to rub against your clit.

"Say it again!" He shouts harshly, his voice all growl and grit, and you feel your slick running down your thighs. "Who does this pussy belong to?"

"You!" You scream out as he slams his cock into you, perfectly hitting your g-spot and making your eyes roll back in your head. "Fuck, Dean, it's yours, yours. I'm yours."

His big hand wraps around your throat and he pulls your head back so he can bite the hinge of your jaw and then down your neck.

"That's right, sweetheart." He whispers and then growls, "Mine."

He raises his hand from your throat to clutch your jaw and twist your face towards him. You can still smell your arousal on his thick fingers as they press into your skin.

He ravages your mouth, sucking on your tongue and bottom lip in turn. His fingertips dig into the soft flesh of your cheeks as he holds you in place.

Your entire body is shaking as you fight to hold off your climax. As Dean slams into your sweet spot again, his hard middle finger swirling mercilessly against your clit, you begin to unashamedly beg him for relief.

"Please, Dean, please."

Dean's hard body softens against yours and his lips become pliant and teasing as they skitter along the curve of your shoulder.

"Okay, baby." Dean shifts to wrap one arm around your waist and sets his lips just behind your ear. "You can let go now."

He slams into you one more time before the earth around you shatters and narrows to nothing more than Dean's lips, hands, warmth, the press of his fingers and the slow slide of his cock through your tight channel, the scent of his sweat and the gushing heat of his come as he spills deep and thick into your womb.

As you come down, you turn to jelly in his arms, bones liquefied, and Dean pulls out of your body and holds you tight against him as he slowly closes the curtains, shutting out the witnesses to your utter annihilation.

He scoops you up and you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"You're all mine, my beautiful girl. All mine." He says as he lays you out on the wide mattress and quickly strips away his clothes.

He moves over you, and his flesh is warm and comforting.

He presses his mouth to yours, gentle now and coaxing. "Tell me again, sweetheart. Tell me you belong to me."

But it's not a demand this time, its a question.

"Always." You promise and Dean smiles before he dips his mouth back to yours and the madness builds again.

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays.

@lyarr24

@deans-spinster-witch

@impalaslytherin

@maggiegirl17

@akshi8278

@candy-coated-misery0731

@nt-multi-fandom

@deanswaywardgirl

@slytherinlyn314

@globetrotter28

@jensensgirl

@perpetualabsurdity

@tristanrosspada-ackles

@djs8891

@muhahaha303

@kayyay1219

@emily-winchester

@recoveringpastaaddict

@mimaria420

@sacriceria

@envyaurora95

2 - Dean Winchester Fics Only

@saikosheadcanons

@lgranger67

@carryonwaywardgirl

3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.)

@sunshineandwings86

@kazsrm67

@sexyvixen7

@alexxavicry

4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well)

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men

@awkward-and-indecisive

@maliburenee

@supernatural4life2022

@spn730015

@b3autyfuldisast3r

@kickingitwithkirk

@waywardbaby

@foxyjwls007

@deanwanddamons

@deandreamernp

@deanwithscissors

@myloversgone

@snowlovespie

@leigh70

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@charred-angelwings

@hopefuldreamers-world

@mysherlock221b

@jensensgotyoudean

@stixnstripesworld

@thoughts-and-funnies

@magssteenkamp

@norman1967

@princessmisery666

@eevvvaa

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy

@b-i-t-c-h-i-e

@twirpbunwarrior

@mysweetlittledesire

@waynes-multiverse

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@bernasaurus

@jensenslady79

@courtn92

@avanatural

@ellie-andthemachine

@this-is-me19

@roseblue373

@katbratsupernaturalwhore

@fanfic-n-tabulous

[redux-iterum]

Hi I have a request if you’ve got the energy/time!

I’m thinking of an art project and making char designs, and I’d like to have more to look off, as I try and make them.

If you’re able, can you give more detailed write up/designs/ visuals ((height chart?) for some of these chars (listed in order or importance for potential art project) Firepaw/heart, Tigerclaw, Bluestar, Goldenflower, Lionface, Graypaw/stripe, Ravenpaw/wing, Redtail ?

No pressure at all, don’t need to do all the cats or any, something as simple as “they look like canon but this is changed” can help!

Tentative thoughts are focusing on Fire’s relation to Tiger and Golden, and the politics and how that changed the emotions!

Thank you!!

Sure thing! This is mostly just how I see them – I try to leave it a little vague for readers’ interpretations, even if I have my own idea for what everyone looks like. I do encourage you to take some liberties as you’d like to, of course.

Fireheart: The shortest of the cats described here, and a little short even for the average house cat. Canonically to this series, he’s part Somali, so he’s a richer ginger than usual and whatever tabby stripes he has are faint, with his back being darker than his underside. His eyes are a verdant green and have a brightness to them that never seems to go away. His fur is short and smooth and he’s always been skinny, but thanks to regular exercise, he’s quite wiry and is stronger than he looks. He has a perpetual babyface, even with the harshness of the wild, which adds to his charisma.

Tigerclaw: Hulking and just a bit taller than his mate, making him the largest cat in this list. His shoulders are abnormally broad for a cat – almost doglike, really – and his tail is thick even without the long hair on it. His eyes are amber, and this, combined with his hard, haggard face and dark brown coat, makes him look quite intimidating. He’s got huge paws with claws that are just a bit too long to completely stay sheathed, even when withdrawn. His stripes are thick and black, standing out even with his darker brown coloring, and his underside is paler, though he doesn’t have any white markings.

Bluestar: Tall, thin and blue-grey with pale yellow eyes, her face is less hard than her Clanmates’ despite her age (which is shown by her gradually greying muzzle). She is long-legged and the fur on her body is sleek, longer than you’d expect without being overly furry. A long, thin scar marks behind both of her shoulders, and it’s hard to see unless you’re behind her and her fur isn’t draped over it. She has a melancholy face, her ears are longer than usual and she has a look of perpetual weariness barely concealed with regality. I imagine she’s not the most muscled cat in the world, but she’s got strength in her body just as her apprentice does.

Goldenflower: Enormous in height and fluffiness. Her eyes are nearly the same shade of gold as her coat (just darker), which has spotted markings instead of the regular tabby. She’s barely shorter than Tigerclaw, and though her paws could be described as “soft”, they are quite large. Her chest and belly have a broad streak of white on them, and her face is gentle and maternal. She’s got a general look of comfort and sweetness – it feels like she would be an excellent pillow, and be more than happy to provide that service.

Lionface: He would be best described as a “harder” version of his sister. He’s got regular tabby markings, though faint, and his face is easily likened to an actual lion’s – long and grave. He’s big in all aspects, and his fur is long especially around his neck, creating a mane. He’s got green eyes, which I personally see as a big dark and dull; certainly not as vibrant as Fireheart’s. He notably does not have scars on his face, though he most likely has some hidden behind his fur across his body (this is a point of vanity for him). He’s as tall as Goldenflower, but he feels spikier and less comforting. I would say he’s the square to her circle, if that makes sense.

Greystripe: He’s a big boy! He’s just a bit shorter than Goldenflower and Lionface, but his width makes up for that small discrepancy. Bulky shoulders and chest (for a cat, of course), wide paws, puffy, thick fur that makes him look even bigger, so on and so forth. He’s about medium grey, and his tabby marking (which I think of as classic) are nearly black, with a broad stripe down his spine. I feel like he’s got a dark tail-tip, though he has no white marking. His face is round, but it gets harder and harder as he ages, until he’s as haggard as everyone else as a senior warrior. He definitely is plump, though not too overweight, and his eyes are a stark, bright yellow.

Ravenwing: Actually described him here!

Redtail: Probably the second shortest, though he still has a good deal of height on Fireheart. He’s a dark ginger tabby; classic, of course, which I imagine would have such broad stripes that he’s more red than ginger. All four paws are white, with the back feet having that white stretch a bit higher than the front. Long body for sure, to make up for his shortness (again, he’s just smaller compared to ThunderClan’s usual – he’s still bigger than the average cat). He’s got yellow eyes that edge on amber – just as warm and friendly as the rest of him.

Hope this helped!

[adobe-outdesign]

Have you reviewed Ekans and Arbok yet?

Ekans is, shock of all shocks, a snake; probably a rattlesnake of some kind given the tail, though it also looks a bit like a ring-necked snake given the markings.

Visually, it's a least fairly striking. The purple makes for a nice base color and reflects its poison typing, while the high-contrast yellow neck, tail, underbelly and eyes compliment it well. I like the eyes a lot too, which are stylized to have a single vertical line as a pupil.

I will say that in some earlier art all of the ring on its body were yellow, and honestly I prefer it like that. It gives there a reason to have the otherwise random lines (Arbok has them but there it's more of a texture so it's not as odd), and it makes the design all the bolder. I do think it's a bit much combined with the underbelly, but I would've just dropped that entirely in favor of the stripes; it's curled up most of the time, so it's not like you see that element a lot.

Also, I think the mouth is a bit weird; no fangs (not that all snakes have fangs mind you), round shape, and a weirdly human tongue instead of a snake-like one. It doesn't need to have all three, but I do wish it had at least one of those elements, as the shape just looks strange and it comes across almost as more of a worm.

Unfortunately it doesn't have much going on with it conceptually yet, which isn't a huge deal given the design is decent. That said, I do wish they could've figured out a way to work the idea of a false face into this design as well, like if it had two false eye dots on the back of its head or something

also side note, what the fuck was going on with its early backsprite

Arbok immediately differentiates itself from its pre-evo by becoming more of a cobra and adding a theme by having a giant face face on the underside of its hood. This is a nod to how some cobras have vaguely face-like markings on their hood (though usually on the back instead of the front):

The face adds an immediate theme and something to remember it by, and it's a pretty neat design too: two orange eyes with yellow eye spots and a black outline along with a black mouth and black angry eyebrows. However, the biggest disappointment here is that for a few gens, Arbok was stated to have up to six different face patterns. We even have examples of some of them:

For some reason all of the different face variations were dropped around I think gen 4, and nowadays we always get the same face pattern. This was such a fun idea and it added a lot to the line, so why drop it? It's not like we haven't had Pokemon with different patterns before (Alcremie, Vivillon, etc.).

Anyway, face aside, the rest of the design is good too. The body is simple so it doesn't distract from the hood, and I really like the shape of the head and the way it has entire rows of teeth instead of just fangs (some early art, like what's shown above, does show it with two sets of fangs, but they seem to have decided against that). I just wish the colors were bolder, as this purple seems washed out. Some of its sprites show it as being much more vibrant, so I don't know why they didn't stick with that.

Anyway, a pretty decent line. Ekans is decent even if it's lacking in concept, and Arbok has a pretty neat thing going on with its hood, only hampered by GameFreak's insistence on not giving it different forms.

As a side note, this line seems like it would perfect for a mega. It's not unfinished as-is or anything, but it feels like there's a ton of potential for more cool designs here.

[blood-darkened-moon]

Alfred, Alexia, and the Dragonfly

The infamous video of Alfred and Alexia torturing a dragonfly and feeding it to the ants can be found twice on Rockfort Island. The first time, you see it in the room with the Lugers and then again in Alfred’s office as the startup of his PC. Of course, it has a deeply person meaning to Alfred. We know about his obsession with his sister, and Alexia is in there as well. Maybe the video is the only one with her or the last one that was taken before her cryogenic sleep. It makes sense that Alfred would hold dear something like this. But is it just about Alexia, or is there more to it? After all, we even have to watch it twice.

The twins do not talk the entire time and barely interact during the video. The only noteworthy interaction happens during the last scene, in which Alfred and Alexia share a knowing gaze. The way they look at each other makes it clear that there is more to the whole scene than what meets the eye. It had a deeper meaning, which only they could understand. A secret they share with each other. Words are not necessary.

When I first played Code Veronica X, I assumed the video mainly existed to show the cruel and twisted nature of the twins, while it also foreshadowed what Alfred would become. But after replaying the game last year, I changed my opinion. The video isn’t about Alfred and Alexia’s general cruelty or torturing of defenseless creatures. The content represents something more personal to them - their revenge on Alexander.

It was never said when the video was recorded, but the twins aren’t small children anymore. Based only on their appearance, I would estimate them to be between 10 and 12 years old. Now, considering the content of the video, I think it was recorded after Alfred discovered the truth about their origin and after they came up with a revenge plan as the earliest possible date. However, it is more likely that they had already executed their plan some time before.

Let’s take a closer look. First of all, the visual language. The ants symbolize Alfred and Alexia. Alexia sees herself as an ant queen and refers to Alfred as a soldier ant. The dragonfly is Alexander. It is more obvious for Alexia’s third form, but Alexander’s mutated form resembles a dragonfly too. He has three appendages on his back, similarly arranged like three of four wings of a dragonfly. Additionally, these appendages are long and thin, like insect legs. In Darkside Chronicles, he even uses them to move around. Also, Alexander’s real legs are bound together with the rug, which makes his lower body look vaguely like the elongated abdomen of the insect. The belts even give it a segmented appearance.

The last similarity isn’t related to the real animal but to an item. To activate the self-destruct system, you have to assemble a dragonfly key. On the underside of this key is a prominent red jewel in the middle of its thorax, similar to Alexander’s exposed heart.

The dragonfly in the video is rather large. It has a blue abdomen with black markings and a yellow thorax. I tried to find out what dragonfly species we see there and found three possible candidates. One is the green hawker (Aeshna viridis), another is the southern migrant hawker (Aeshna affinis), and the last one is the emperor dragonfly (Anax imperator). (I’m not a dragonfly expert, though. Maybe there are other ones that fit better.)

The abdomens of the green hawker and southern migrant hawker are also blue, the thorax is yellowish-green, and they have black markings on their bodies. The emperor dragonfly has an apple-green thorax rather than a yellow one, but it would fit the other criteria. Other dragonfly species with a similar color palette have either more black markings, differently colored spots on the abdomen, a different body shape, or are too small. In all three cases, only the males have this coloration. The females are green or yellowish green instead of blue. Selecting a male dragonfly specifically could be another reference to Alexander. As for the emperor dragonfly and the southern migrant hawker, contrary to the green hawker, they also inhabit Great Britain, which delivers another connection to Alexander. And while Alexander is, of course, only an earl, not an emperor, an emperor dragonfly could still refer in a wider sense to his peer status.

From left to right: green hawker (male), southern migrant hawker (male), emperor dragonfly (male).

The general events of the video reflect what happened to Alexander. Only Alfred interacts with the dragonfly. He was also the one who initiated the revenge plot after discovering the truth about himself and Alexia, as well as the one who suffered subjectively more under his father. Alexia stays passive the whole time and only watches her brother, while in real life, she is the one who has carried out the experiments, not Alfred. However, even if she does not join her brother here, Alexia still contributes by providing an instrument to execute the allegorical revenge - her ants (and the virus in reality).

Instead of simply killing the insect, Alfred rips out its wings, making it incapable of flying away. Like the dragonfly, Alexander was still alive when he met his fate. The twins tranquilized their father before Alexia injected him with the virus, which caused his transformation. Afterward, Alexander’s confinement continued, and he was chained for years in agony, probably awaiting his death if he was still capable of having coherent thoughts.

The dragonfly’s death is not in vain. Feeding the insect to the ants serves a purpose. The ants can feast on it, and the colony can grow. Alexander’s life wasn’t wasted either. Alexia directed Alfred’s revenge plans from simply killing their father to using him for research purposes. Their “useless father” could contribute for once to Alexia’s research and the Ashford family. Even though the experiment was a failure, Alexia was still able to use the data she required from it for her benefit.

Why all the effort with the cryptic symbolism? Alexander was a terrible father. Probably not intentional, but this isn’t an excuse. He took the childhood of the twins for the sake of his own ambitions. He used Alexia to fulfill what he could not achieve and disregarded Alfred for not being as intelligent as his sister. Finding out that they were the result of a genetic experiment was the final straw, especially for Alfred. Their father then got what he deserved, according to them. Alfred hated Alexander with a passion. It must have been a great feeling to get rid of him, and to celebrate it, he (maybe Alexia too) wanted a keepsake. Direct photos or videos of their father were out of the question. Alfred even wrote in his diary that they have to be careful so that Harman (their butler) doesn’t discover what has happened to Alexander. The dragonfly video works well. It is cryptic enough that no one could understand its meaning without more background knowledge. People who see it randomly would assume it is a disturbing and slightly eerie home video. Alfred and Alexia, on the other hand, know exactly what it is about. It’s so important to Alfred because it does not only show Alexia but also their victory over Alexander. The insects are nothing more than involuntary actors. The real dragonfly and what is happening to it is secondary. The symbolic meaning behind the dragonfly’s death struggle holds significance.

Some notes as a closure that didn’t fit in the rest of the text: What makes the video so creepy, except for the circumstances you find it in, is the twins’ acting. Without them and out of context, the dragonfly video wouldn’t even be that unsettling if you consider some facts. The video was recorded in the Antarctic base. Dragonflies do not inhabit Antarctica. This means the dragonfly was bred there. The twins did not randomly catch it for the purpose of torture. What’s the purpose of breeding dragonflies? I assume it’s for (virus) research. We know that Umbrella performed experiments on other invertebrates. So, if dragonflies are bred in the lab anyway, why not use some as a protein source for the ants as well? More common insects for feeding ants would be mealworms and meal beetles, house crickets, flies and fly larvae, roaches, and plant lice, though. Also, dragonflies are predators and attack everything they can overpower, including other dragonflies. And unlike ants, they can fly. It makes sense to remove the wings first to prevent it from flying away or attacking the ants. Sure, ripping out its wings and not killing it first is still cruel, but at least the ants will take care of this soon.

[boyswhowawa]

Artificer Design!!

Or at least me working on it!!

This is the last drawing I did, and I think it really shows off the design well!!!! I really love this design I came up with, and it's with heavy inspiration from @snickerdoodlesart, so a bit more on that, and the design! under the cut

First things first, the reason I chose to take inspiration from Snickerdoodles' design is, because it's just super fucking rad and gender, ajsd;flkkjas;fkldjadkl;sfja

HOWEVER, I understand completely if taking inspiration like this is not okay, and I would be fine with deleting this design and restarting should you say so, Snickerdoodles, genuinely

regardless, some fun stuff!

first things first, I did some studies of Snickerdoodles' design, just simple ones, because I wanted to figure out what it was that I really felt was so like... fantastic about it???

(the answer ended up being "god everything comes together so well, the shapes and the dynamics of the scars and how the explosive things interact with it all just make for such a wonderful design that is like, the PURE energy of the character it comes from, in such a sincere way that I feel like this IS the character in every facet of what they could be")

but what I learned was that like, I wanted to try to have fun with the scars! so that's what I went for!

So then I started sketching, and I had this idea with the face

I wanted the eye scar to be like, totally bright similarly to Snickersdoodles' (admittedly a lot of the face scar comes from snickerdoodles...)

but I knew with some bits *around* the eye I wanted to have these extra little cuts, that sort of just... idk i like doing cheek markings and I thought this was a creative way to do it!! also the eyebrow is just three lines that are sometimes meshed together<3

I really really liked this face, so I keep it going forward

this is the next sketch I did, to figure out where I wanted the scars to be placed!!

this is kind of where I slightly decided I wanted Arti's head kind of hunched forward at all times, big huncho boyo, she's great

I also wanted just, a BIG burst spot on their tail, and like...

then I was like "oh i'm gonna finish this sketch actually"

then I--- inked on the wrong layer. aj;sdlkfja;klsdfjakl;j

so it got stuck like this and I couldn't do anything about it....

I think when I do color my arti properly again, I wanna have it lean over to a reddish dark purple rather than this

also i think the cherry bomb thing being like woven into the spear cloth was too much, and doesn't really work for arti's bomb spears ?

i just messed up a lot, basically

Oh! Also this is where I was like "oh I can put extra little light spots in Arti's scars...."

then I did this to sort of vaguely show what an explosion from Arti might look like, or more accurately, Artificer 'Igniting', rather than just doing bursts, I imagine this Arti revving up and just being extremely hot for a while, letting out bursts of energy still, but not able to do it as easily from a neutral, unignited state

this was SO fun to do, using pink and yellow is really fun when i'm trying to do something with strong energy

this also is where I feel I figured out everything I felt I needed to still figure out with the design, the scar placements, the scar styles, the shapes I wanted, etc. etc.

and then finally, I did a sort of pseudo ref for Arti!

and while I am super happy with this, and super proud

more importantly than that, I want to be sure that this is *okay* with Snickerdoodles, it wouldn't be right of me to just, steal things from your design for my own sake, and it's not like I'm starving for design ideas, I can probably think something else up if I try hard enough, so there'd be no harm done, and if you're at all uncomfortable with me taking inspiration like this, just let me know as soon as you can