#trying to make him learn a pattern that’s unnatural to him

[mariasont]

I know youre working on a fic right now but can you sometime make a fic where a new agent comes to work at the bau (the reader) and early seasons Spencer catches her interest, to which he's completely oblivious? Like just a cute little fluffy fic where two genius idiots can realise they like each other throughout their case together.

(also a lot of jokes from Morgan lol)

Reading Between the Lines - S.R

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x reader

warnings: reader just being in love with dr. reid

wc: 1.2k

The two of you were alone in the police station break room, which had become something of unofficial workspace for the team during the case. You'd been sitting there for a while, mostly pretending to read through a file while Spencer, across the table, actually read his — flipping through pages faster than should be humanly possible.

You'd been watching him out of the corner of your eye for the last ten minutes, trying (and failing) to keep your focus on your own. You couldn't help it. He was enthralling to watch. His long fingers moved smoothly over the paper, turning each page with that ridiculous speed-reading technique of his.

And when he tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning the words so quickly it looked like he was barely reading at all, you were sure you'd never seen anyone more unfairly attractive in your entire life.

And you did mean unfairly in the purest sense. It was undeniably unfair — no, unnatural — for a man to possess such a perfect plethora of qualities, like Spencer Reid did.

You hated how obvious you were being. Every time Spencer glanced up at you, your face grew hot, and you had to fight the urge to duck your head like a nervous schoolgirl. It was absurd. You were a grown adult — a professional in the FBI, for gods' sake. You had no business mooning over someone this hard. But... it was Spencer. How could anyone not?

Eventually, you gave up trying to work and leaned forward on the table, resting your chin on your hand. "How do you do that?"

Spencer glanced up, blinking. "Do what?"

"Read that fast," you said, gesturing toward the file in his hands. "I mean, it's like you're just flipping through the pages for fun, but you're actually... reading them, right? You're not just pretending?"

Spencer tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smile. "No, I'm not pretending. I'm absorbing the information. It's called speed-reading."

You raised an eyebrow. "And you just... taught yourself how to do that?"

He nodded, setting the file down in front of him. "It's not as hard as it looks. Anyone can learn it with enough practice."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," Spencer said, leaning back into his chair. "It's all about training your brain to recognize patterns in the text and absorb information in chunks rather than word by word. It's just a matter of rewiring how you process what you're reading."

You stared at him for a moment, then a grin spread across your face. "Teach me."

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Teach you?"

"Yeah," you said, sitting up straighter. "If anyone can learn it, prove it. Teach me how to speed-read."

For a second, he just stared at you, like he wasn't sure if you were serious. But then his expression morphed into something that looked almost... excited. "Okay. I can teach you."

You tried not to look too pleased as he reached for a book sitting on the nearby counter and slid it across the table toward you. It was some dry academic text about linguistic patterns across extinct languages — typical Spencer reading material — but you figured it didn't really matter what the book was. You weren't here for the content.

"Alright," Spencer said, pulling his chair closer to yours so he could see what you were looking at. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours, and every single coherent thought you had ever had evaporated into thin air. You swallowed hard, staring at the page but unable to actually read anything. "The first thing you need to do is stop subvocalizing."

"Sub... what?" you asked, already lost.

"Subvocalizing," he repeated patiently. "It's when you say the words in your head as you're reading them. Most people do it without even realizing it, but it slows you down. If you can train yourself to read without subvocalizing, you'll process the text much faster."

You nodded slowly, though you weren't sure you entirely understood. "Okay. So... how do I stop?"

Spencer smiled. "It takes practice, but one way to start is by using your finger to guide your eyes. Like this."

He reached out and gently took your hand, guiding your index finger to the first line of the text.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. His hand was warm, touch light as he moved your finger along the page. Did he notice the way you tensed up? Did he feel how clammy your palm was? If he did, he didn’t mention it, his focus entirely on the page. Meanwhile, your focus was entirely on him.

"Try to keep your eyes moving with your finger," Spencer said. "Don't focus too much on each individual word — just let your brain take in the whole line."

Every time you inhaled, you caught the faintest hint of soap and coffee — clean, warm, him — and it was becoming impossible to think straight.

"Okay," you said softly, moving your finger along the line as he'd shown you. "Like this?"

"Exactly. Now, try to pick up the pace. Keep your eyes moving."

You tried, but your focus kept slipping — not because of the text, but because of the way Spencer was leaning so close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watched you. You could feel his breath, soft and even, against the side of your face, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that this was probably the closest you'd ever been to him.

"Am I doing it right?"

"Mostly," Spencer said, his hair brushing his forehead as he leaned even closer to point at a section of the text. His long fingers hovered just above yours, and your heart stuttered at the proximity. "But try not to pause at punctuation. Just keep your eyes moving in one fluid motion."

"Okay," you said again, though honestly, you weren't sure how much you were actually absorbing. Your brain was too busy screaming Spencer Reid is touching me. Spencer Reid is this close to me.

For a few more minutes, Spencer guided you through the process, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he helped you adjust your pace. You couldn’t tell if you were actually improving or if you were just doing your best to survive the moment without completely embarrassing yourself.

"You're doing better already," he said. "It just takes time to get used to."

You smiled back at him, cheeks warm. "Thanks. You're a good teacher."

Spencer’s ears turned pink, and he glanced down, his fingers brushing idly at the edge of the book. "I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. A good teacher, I mean."

You couldn't stop smiling.

"Maybe next time, you can teach me," he said suddenly.

You laughed. "I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you that you don’t already know, Spencer."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost teasing. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and for a second, his eyes met yours, before flicking back to the book.

Correction, you wouldn't be able to stop smiling for the next 3-5 business days.

Morgan was leaning against the hallway wall just outside the break room, holding his phone and scrolling casually, when you finally stepped out of the room.

You didn't see him at first — you were too busy floating on a cloud, practically glowing as you replayed the last few minutes with Spencer over and over in your mind. You were smiling so much your cheeks hurt, and you could still feel Spencer's hands on yours.

"Well, well, well," Morgan voice cut through your daydream, startling you so badly you almost tripped. You snapped your head toward him, your heart jumping to your throat. He was grinning like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "What's got you all smiley? Pretty boy say something sweet, or are you just thinking about those magic hands of his?"

You felt your face burst into flames. "What? No! It's not —"

Morgan held up a hand, shaking his head as he chuckled. "Save it, girl. I know the look of a lovesick rookie when I see one. Trust me — you've got it bad."

You sputtered, desperately trying to come up with a convincing rebuttal, but Morgan was already walking away. "Better make your move before he speed-reads right past you!"

You groaned, burying your burning face in your hands as Morgan’s laughter faded down the hall. Lovesick rookie? Was it really that obvious?

Yes. Yes, it was.

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[littlepeach-world]

Stranded Hearts - (Hwang In-ho x Fem!reader)

Next

Summary: What will happen when the daughter of a VIP ends up stranded on an island with the mysterious Frontman?

Warnings: Family drama, grief, Toxic parent, Parent being condescending and controlling, boat crash, slight injuries, Strom, CPR, Survival Situations, Shipwreck, Isolation, Dangerous Wildlife, Psychological Strain, Angst.

Word count : 2.5k

Notes : Hello! This is my first series I am writing for In-ho because I am a whore for him 24/7. I am really excited for this. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist. Thanks 💙

You stand at the edge of the dock, your arms crossed and your expression reluctant. The brisk wind tousles your hair as you eye the imposing vessel before you. This trip was your father's idea, and you hate every bit of it.

As you board the boat with your father, he keeps a controlling hand on your shoulder. "Remember, this is business. Try not to embarrass me," he hisses quietly.

You give him a brief, humorless smile. "Wouldn't dream of it," you reply sarcastically.

As you walk across the deck, you are met by a tall, imposing figure dressed in all black. The Frontman. His face is concealed by a mask, and his presence exudes an intense aura of authority and mystery. Every movement he makes is deliberate, calculated, as if he commands not only the people but the very air around him. You can't help but be intrigued by him; there's an unsettling power in his silence, a strength in his stillness. Though you just met him, you feel an inexplicable pull towards him, a magnetism that both fascinates and unsettles you.

Your father takes notice and directs you toward him, his grip tightening slightly. "Don't say a word unless spoken to," he mutters.

As you approach, the Frontman turns to greet you. "Welcome," he says, his voice distant yet commanding.

You take a deep breath, offering a nod of acknowledgment. In an act of rebellion against your father's controlling nature, you speak up. "I'm Y/N, I've heard much about your endeavors," you say, even though you don't know a damn thing about them. You hope to convey both respect and confidence, and maybe needle your father just a little.

The Frontman gives you a slight nod in return, his gaze shifting almost immediately to your father. "I hope the journey will be smooth," he remarks.

Your father quickly steps in front of you, brushing you aside as though you are nothing more than an inconvenience. “Y/N tends to act on her own,” he says, almost dismissively. “She needs to understand the importance of staying in line.”

You clench your jaw but don’t respond. After years of dealing with your father's demeaning attitude, you have learned to pick your battles. Instead, you turn and walk away, seeking refuge in another part of the boat.

Away from the main deck and the discussions you find stifling, you lean against the railing and close your eyes, letting the sound of the waves soothe your fraying nerves. Absent-mindedly, you play with the locket around your neck, the delicate piece of jewelry, the only thing you have left from your mom who passed away. 

You eventually find solace in your headphones, the music providing a refuge from your dad’s overbearing presence. The gentle rhythm calms your nerves as you look out at the expanse of the sea. 

Finally, you felt a moment of peace—until chaos erupted.

You notice the birds first. They’re flying erratically, their usual graceful patterns disrupted. The odd behavior catches your attention, and you pull an earbud out, curious.

A sudden chill in the air prickles your skin, and you glance at the sky. What was once a serene blue has shifted to an ominous gray, swirling with dark clouds that seem to gather with unnatural haste. The wind picks up, whipping your hair around your face as the temperature drops even further.

Suddenly, the sky darkens further, and a violent storm emerges out of nowhere. The wind howls, and thunder rumbles ominously. The boat begins to lurch and tilt as waves crash against its sides, each hit sending shudders through the vessel. Panic breaks out among the passengers and crew alike, their fear palpable.

Your father grabs your arm forcefully. "We need to go! Now!" he shouts, his voice panicked and urgent.

The Frontman, maintaining a semblance of calm, is coordinating the evacuation. He directs some workers towards the emergency boats, his authoritative presence a stark contrast to the chaos around him. His eyes then fall on you and your father, and with a swift motion, he gestures for you both to follow him.

"We must get to the lifeboats," he commands, his voice steady despite the tumultuous surroundings.

Gripping tightly onto your father's arm, you are led towards the lifeboats stationed at the side of the rocking vessel. The wind howls fiercely, and rain lashes against your face, stinging your eyes. The air is thick with tension and fear, every passenger scrambling to secure a spot on the lifeboats.

The Frontman reaches one of the lifeboats and urgently ushers both you and your father to climb in. "Get in, quickly!" he orders.

Your father steps into the lifeboat first, turns, and reaches out for you, his hand outstretched. "Come on, grab my hand!" he yells over the cacophony of the storm.

But the storm has other plans. A massive wave crashes against the boat, sending you and the Frontman stumbling. The deck tilts dangerously, and in the chaos, you both lose your footing. The Frontman falls beside you, and in that terrifying moment, both of you are teetering on the edge. You reach out, but there's nothing to grasp.

"Y/N!" your father screams, his eyes wide with terror as his hand misses yours by mere inches.

The turbulent ocean rises up to meet you, and with a scream, you and the Frontman are swallowed by the cold, unforgiving water. The last thing you see is the shadow of the boat above, the lifeboat with your father struggling to stay upright and the Frontman falling alongside you, before the waves close over your heads.

The water engulfs you completely, the overwhelming cold shocking every nerve in your body. Disoriented and fighting for breath, you try desperately to swim upwards, but the relentless current pulls you deeper into the dark abyss, with the Frontman beside you struggling against the same powerful force.

As you begin to lose consciousness, you catch a glimpse of the Frontman. His mask has been torn away by the violent waves, and for the first time, you see his face. Despite the terror and chaos, you can't help but think how beautiful he is. His features are strong yet gentle, his eyes filled with an intense determination.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind — you're probably going to die. But in a strange way, you're okay with it. The thought of being reunited with your mother brings a sense of peace. As your vision slowly fades to black, you hold onto that comforting notion, a small smile forming on your lips despite the cold embrace of the water.

Unknown to you, the now maskless men who faced the same tragic end were also battling against the ocean's force.

He saw you being pulled underwater and acted quickly, swimming towards you with determination. A huge wave crashed into him, dragging him back. Regaining his control, he surfaced and frantically looked around, but you were nowhere in sight.

Through the howling wind and the roar of the waves, he could barely see more than a few feet ahead. His eyes strained against the darkness, scanning urgently through each crest and trough. Then, he saw you. Your silhouette, barely discernible, was being tossed around like a ragdoll by the unforgiving sea.

With a burst of adrenaline, he surged forward. Each stroke was a battle against the icy cold and the relentless pull of the undertow. As he drew near, he saw that you were barely conscious, your movements weak and uncoordinated. He called out to you, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the storm.

“Hold on, I’m here!”

Using every bit of strength he had left, he reached out, his fingers grazing your arm before he managed to grasp you firmly by the wrist. At that moment, a towering wave crashed over both of you, threatening to tear you apart. He tightened his grip, refusing to let go. His other arm encircled your waist, pulling you close to him. You were cold, your breath shallow, and your eyes fluttering weakly.

The weight of your limp body added to the challenge, but his determination was unyielding. He positioned himself behind you, one arm around your chest, and began to swim using powerful, measured strokes. The waves continued their assault, but he fought back with a primal tenacity, kicking hard against the current.

As you both struggled through the darkness, the world around you was a chaotic blur of frothing water and screaming wind. Every muscle in his body burned with effort, but he pressed on, driven by a singular focus: to keep you safe.

After what felt like an eternity, he spotted the faint outline of a lifeboat, its small frame being tossed by the waves but miraculously still afloat. His heart pounded with renewed hope. Fueled by desperation, he pushed forward with everything he had left.

Finally, you reached the side of the lifeboat. With painstaking effort, he used one arm to hoist you over the edge and into the relative safety of the vessel. His muscles screamed in agony, but he couldn’t pause. He clambered up after you, collapsing onto the floor of the boat beside you.

Gasping for breath, he turned to you, who remained unconscious. Your face was pale, and your lips were tinged with a worrying shade of blue. Fear gripped his heart, but there was no time to dwell on it. He needed to act, and act fast.

Positioning himself carefully, he began CPR, applying firm, rhythmic compressions to your chest. “One, two, three...” he counted aloud, each push a desperate plea for you to come back.

Minutes felt like hours as he continued the compressions, his arms growing weary but his resolve never diminishing. His urgent counting continued, voice hoarse but determined. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty...”

Then, suddenly, you gasped. Your eyes fluttered open and you coughed, expelling water from your lungs. Relief flooded through him. He let out a deep breath he didn't realize he had been holding, words of reassurance spilling from his lips. 

-

A few hours later, you stir, your fingers curling instinctively into the warm, grainy sand beneath you. The tiny particles slip between your fingers, a comforting and familiar texture amidst the disorientation. You blink against the bright sunlight filtering through the canopy of palm leaves overhead, the dappled light creating a mesmerizing pattern on the ground. The radiance is overwhelming, and you shield your eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden brilliance.

Disoriented, you struggle to piece together what happened. Fragments of memories flash through your mind—violent waves, a desperate struggle to stay afloat, the feeling of being pulled under, and finally, the sensation of being washed ashore. Slowly, you sit up, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. Sand clings to your damp skin, sticking to your clothes and hair, a reminder of your recent ordeal.

As your vision clears, the first thing you notice is the Frontman. His mask, always an imposing and enigmatic symbol, is now absent, revealing a chiseled jawline and sharp, handsome features that draw you in. His intense and observant eyes hint at an underlying turmoil, a complexity that is both intriguing and unsettling. He is sitting nearby, his posture tense yet composed, his eyes focused intently on you with a mixture of concern and relief. The dichotomy of his expressions is striking; it’s rare to see his face, let alone read such raw emotion on it.

“You made it," he says softly, his voice hoarse and raspy, as if he has not spoken for hours. "We’re on an island. We’re safe… for now."

His words hang in the air, a fragile reassurance that offers a moment of respite. You take a deep breath and look around, allowing yourself to fully absorb your surroundings. The expansive beach stretches out before you, the golden sands glistening in the sunlight. The sound of waves crashing softly on the shore is calming, a rhythmic lullaby that contrasts with the chaos you endured. Just beyond, the thick jungle looms, a verdant wall of foliage teeming with the promise of both wonder and danger.

Despite the uncertainty, a glimmer of hope flickers within you. The realization that you had survived—against the odds—brings a surge of strength to your exhausted body. 

Exhausted but alive, you understand that you now faced whatever came next together. His presence, once a source of intimidation, now provides an unexpected comfort.

You search his eyes, desperate for clarity. "What are we going to do now?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. The uncertainty in the air settles like a heavy fog around you, amplifying the urgency of your question.

He averts his gaze, staring out across the endless expanse of the ocean as if the answer might be hidden in the distant waves. After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. "We survive," he says simply, the words offering little comfort and even less detail.

Frustration erupts within you, bubbling up from a place of deep fear and helplessness. "Survive? No shit! That's your grand plan? Unbelievable!" you retort, your voice rising with every word. "Wow, what a fantastic strategy!"

He absorbs your outburst in silence, his face a mask of calm that only serves to infuriate you further. Slowly, methodically, he gets to his feet, the weight of his experience evident in his measured movements. He turns to face you, a flicker of resolve in his eyes. "Come on," he says, his voice steady, "we need to find some food and shelter before we lose daylight."

You cross your arms defiantly and shake your head. "I'm not going anywhere with a stranger! For heaven's sake, I don't even know your name!"

His posture stiffens, and his gaze snaps back to you, now intense and unyielding. "Names won't change our situation," he replies, his voice edged with a steely resolve that makes it clear he won't entertain any further arguments.

He takes a step closer, his presence commanding and authoritative. "Now let's go," he says more sternly, his eyes narrowing as they bore into yours. The finality in his tone leaves no room for negotiation.

The desperation of the situation begins to sink in. The sun is already dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand. The prospect of being stranded here, alone and vulnerable, without food or shelter, overshadows your fears of trusting a stranger. With a heavy sigh of resignation, you nod reluctantly and begin to follow him, the path ahead uncertain but the necessity of survival driving you forward.

[hotluncheddie]

I'm on that autistic Steve shit!!!! (sorry no hc of Eddie.... can only focus on Steve ❤️)..... my favorite favorite favorite autistic Steve hc is that he is so so charming so charismatic so cool but it's entirely an act..... like he learned it from books and movies and watching other people and like his emotional / social intelligence is thru the roof bc of that.... I think I saw it described in a fic once as "he knows exactly what people want to hear"..... and I think he does revel in being a chameleon and doing that but of course it's draining!!! my fav is him letting the mask down in front of Very Important people..... I'm writing a fic rn where when Steve tries to mask around hopper he's like "boy stop that you know you don't have to do that here"..... I get such such terminal Nothing Face after a long day and I like to think Steve does too and he's worried Eddie will find it off-putting the first time he shuts down and still wants to hang out with him..... but Eddie is so so endeared by it and is very gentle with him "you ran out of faces, huh baby? that's alright" .....

2jug2head “you ran out of faces, huh baby? That’s alright.” That honestly melted my heart. I had to curl up in a little ball to deal with that.

It’s !!!!! So !!!!!! Sweet !!!!!!!!!

and omg having Hopper be like that with Steve, letting him know in that blunt, simple Hopper way I'm !!!!!! thats so good !!!! I will love love love to read that fic when u finish it !!!! pls tag me if u post it !!!!

but yeah I really really hc Steve as being super high masking, very capable socially, very able to read people. he's used so much of his life to think about others and be what's best in any possible situation. he always wants to be perfect in his interactions with people, wants to 'win' at it. wants to be the best version of himself for every person that he meets. and he mostly does. he's good at it, he's smart and a lot of people follow the same sort of conversions, expect similar things. he’s been around enough people and been in enough situations to have scripts and reactions to most scenarios. he can recognise patterns well and so he does that, but with people, over and over and over. so much so that he doesn't even think about it now, doesn't really even realise what he doing.

he’s very capable, very good and smart socially, but it's to his detriment. it means no one really knows him. it means he doesn't really know himself.

it's like he's a little perfect puppet and when he's alone it feels like this freak monster comes out; with all these feelings and thoughts and emotions that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know if they're normal. and he doesn't know how to tell anyone about it either, how to express it or talk about in the right way.

because he's so so scared of being made fun of, or being alone; of being told off, or being weird. and sometimes it makes him so sad, because he doesn't always know how to stop - he's so quick to respond wth his scripts that he forgets to think about what he really thinks, really feels. and he can't stop.

to unmask, at times, most times, feels herculean - to show someone who you really are? that feels impossible. terrifying. to ask for time to think? to risk saying something wrong? being honest feels deeply unnatural somehow - to be honest about how he feels, what he thinks, what he needs. he just, he's never done that before...

so when he's navigating these people, these relationships he so so cares about. with Robin and Eddie and Dustin and Hopper, even.

this is the slew of feelings he has to wade through when trying to be close to them, to keep them, to do what they ask of him. this is what he has to work through. and sometimes, sometimes they act as if it's so easy. as if it is so easy to say the honest truth when asked 'what's up?' or 'what do you think?' or 'what do you want?'

that's not easy, its never been easy. and it makes him feel like a freak once he realises it should be.

-

yeah idk that got kind of sad, sorry. but like. this is where I imagine him, when you get to the good, lovely, cozy, wonderful parts. I just, I think this is the thing, my lovely wonderful high high high masking Steve - this is what he's going through to get to the good. and its hard.

[lilbasthet]

I can't get over how Alfie and Neige mourn Casper so differently, but it makes so much sense for them respectively.

On one side we have Neige who is so old that losing loved ones is as natural to him as breathing once was. He has lost so often and in such horrific ways. He has gone through all the stages if grief so many times. He has learned that there is no point in bargaining or denial. He jumps to rage immediately, wishing for revenge but not enough to drag Alfie into that pit with him.

He gets to the point of acceptance so fast. No wonder that seems unnatural to a young person with not even one lifetime of experience. Neige immediately skips into memory mode, telling stories about the man he lost, remembering the good times.

And at first glance that seems like healthy grieving, but if we look closer, we see what Alfie sees and calls him out on regularly. Neige can seemingly skip so much of the grieving process because he started it long ago, and not just for Casper, but for every relationship he is in. Neige looks at everything in his life through the lense that sooner rather than later it'll be gone.

And that makes so much sense for a being so old, who has lost thousands of things other people can't even experience in one lifetime. I think this is why he clings to the notion that he IS ALIVE so tenaciously, because his entire existence has been shaped by endings and death and loss. All Neige can do is keep living and finding joy in spite of it.

And of course it makes sense that this distance, this skipping ahead in the process is what he does especially in Casper's case. He had given up on Casper already, had already done so much work to get over him, only to be confronted with the fact that he was not over Casper at all the moment he found Alfie and listened to the recordings.

I'm not even starting with the fact that turning Alfie and putting himself in that nurturing, self-sacrificing position is both a mirror for Neige indirectly clinging to Casper and at the same time relegating him to memory in order to embrace change and this new connection. That could be seen as healthy if it didn't feel so much like Neige just doing this regularly to distract himself from his feelings of grief.

And at the same time, as Alfie calls out repeatedly, Neige does not live in the moment of this relationship either. He's keeping his distance by acting as if it is clear that he will definitely lose Alfie, either to death or to ideological differences.

And I love to see how Neige has started to kind of try to break this pattern and let Alfie in. But they still need to do so much growing, and who knows if someone can just change their ways after centuries of coping like this. But I see that Neige is trying. For Alfie. And that gives me so many feels.

And this podcast is messing with my feelings so much. Sorry for ramblimg.

I guess I'll talk about Alfie's grief in a later post.

[koeqmm]

Leonardo Guillero for @someone-elsa‘s Something About Chanthira

Age: 40

Occupation: Unemployed

Sexuality: Straight

Past: Leonardo grew up in a wealthy family from Nuevo Corazon, Ciudad Enamorada, where everything was handed to him on a silver platter. His father never committed to one woman and always brought new ones to their house. These women never stayed for more than one month, causing him to grow up with some mommy issues. Because of all this his father spoiled him non-stop. Leonardo can get everything he wants and he knows that, but he is never afraid to try new things, even if he doesn't commit to them all the way; all of this bringing him to his latest career, being a spy, a place he has been working in for the last 5 years, the longest one he has been interested in something. Leonardo can spot a lie from miles away, his training and acceptance into the career being paid off by his father. Though recent rumour is he tried to leave the job, making his dad reach the boiling point, calling him out for being spoiled and telling him he is “a non-committal, money robbing leech”, finally disowning him and leaving Leonardo without a job he can jump on too next.

Leonardo's relationships don't last that long. He genuinely tries to find a connection with the women he meets, but always fails, something he probably learned from his dad. He is always the one dumping the other person. The one time he was the dumpee was when a girl broke up with him because he treated her too much like she was his mom, but Leonardo just thought that was crazy. Recently he turned 40 and finally thought to himself that it was enough. He needed to find a girlfriend and stick with her, even marry her. Maybe in this challenge he will finally find the true love he deserves, someone that gets him and likes the same things he does. After all, he says he's “in-between jobs”.

Likes: Camping, bowling, working out, spicy food, playing guitar, staying up late partying, buying lots of clothes, fishing, gossiping, electronica music.

Dislikes: Getting into arguments and disagreements, being forced to do something, soup or any type of liquid food, being on the phone for too long.

Turn-ons: Red hair, blonde hair, athleticism, a sense of humor, ambitiousness, nature enthusiasts, tattoos, preppy and polished style, costumes.

Turn-offs: Ambitionlessness, being too knowledgeable, rocker fashion, any hair that has an unnatural color.

Dealbreaker: Not being exclusive in the relationship.

What is Leonardo looking to get out of this experiment? He is looking for someone who will sweep him off his feet, maybe someone who will finally break the pattern of girls that, in Leonardo's words “don't really get him”, and share a life of trying new activities.

Questions for Chanthira:

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

What is a fun fact about you nobody knows?

Posepack and hair used, also for his party outfit I used this

[happyk44]

Here's how it goes. You are five children in tight quarters. Four of you have never known life without another person by your side. The oldest of you remembers and hates it. It is hot and humid. There's a rock. The rock is pretty nice. You were expecting a sixth kid.

Good to see your mom finally learned something.

You play games together. You have dreams about the world outside the darkness and the tiny light of flame from your oldest sister's fingertip. Then you go up and out. Splattered on the ground in ickiness. Your father is is throwing up and some boy holding a gold plate is standing in front of you with wide eyes. Your youngest sister punches him out the way and you run.

You run and run and run and run until there's nowhere left to go. You get clean from a river. The youngest boy soaks in it deliriously. You are all happy for him. He's found what he dreams of - even if only a small version of it. You pull clothes from a clothesline and get dressed. You cut your long messy hair with knives instead of lowering your head into stomach acid and it is quicker than you've ever known.

It is blisteringly bright outside. You are unfamiliar with light, and distrusting of heat, but it's still pleasant. You can see the trees and the sky and the grass.

The light gives proof you are free.

You hide when the darkness comes. The moon is bright, but you are haunted by years of sitting in pitch black. Is he swallowing you up again? Is the darkness his threat? Your oldest brother doesn't mind the darkness, has never truly been bothered by it, and watches you while you sleep. Your oldest sister builds a fire from branches and leave and the flame on her hand.

You know they will protect you. They are more a mother and father than you have ever known.

You awake and regroup. The boy comes back. His hands are raised above his head and he tells you what he knows. He is your brother, the youngest of you all. He was hidden by your mother. Replaced with a rock so he was not swallowed whole. He is the one that freed you from your father's belly. He wants you to join him, to battle your father, your family, to win and truly be free.

Disbelief hits you first. Then jealousy. Why did he get freedom, and you did not? It does not much approach the older two - your mother could not have known. Swallowed one, but surely he wouldn't swallow two. Swallowed two and set a pattern.

He never should've swallowed three.

It takes a while but you agree, following tensely behind this boy. Your mother sees you and cries. She is so happy. You are not. You do not know this woman. The oldest two do not have parents. The younger three only know the oldest girl and the oldest boy. But you all smile and tell her that you missed her too. You did not. You never knew her. All you know is that she handed you over and let him swallow you, one, two, three, four, five.

Still you stay and prepare to fight.

---

You are the oldest of six teens. Your life did not begin with kindness, but still you are kind. You clean your siblings' wounds from battles fought, and make dinner for them. You listen to their fears and pains and hold them close when they are scared. You fight with fire-laden hands meant for warmth and cooking good soup. You yearn for the day you can run across plains, barefoot and happy, to discover new places, instead of to fight.

Loneliness was a bitter thing when you were born. Alone you sat in darkness until the first boy fell. He was tall for his age, and unnaturally quiet. You found solace in him. A companion. He is your closest friend, the first you seek out.

But now he sits in shadows and sinks into dirt. He hears whispers that no one else can, and brings home pulsing orbs he leaves in his room. None of you can touch them. They pass right through your fingers when you try. When you ask, he tells you that they have been calling to him, asking him to take them home. He tells you that they are still asking for home.

"Where is home?" you ask, afraid of the answer.

"Not here," he says. He looks down to his bare feet and curls his toes into the stone floor. "But I think it's down. Deep down."

The deep down is dark and frightening. You remember it, walking to find allies in your imprisoned uncles. It is different from your father's belly, but encompassing all the same. It is not warm. It is not soft. It is not comforting. It is not home.

But you hold back your protests and squeeze his hand. You are scared of loneliness. It is a cold and empty thing. But you love your brother, and he desires the dark. Your middle brother desires the wet of the ocean, which you cannot stand, and the littlest one wants power and a throne. Your youngest sister will stand by him, creating structure and order and perfectly positioned paintings in the aftermath of this war.

Maybe Demeter, the middle sister who digs her hands deep into dirt and talks to trees and dandelions, will come with you. Surely she will want to travel across plains. Discover new nature. Discover new worlds. Meet new people.

Never to be alone again.

--

You are the oldest boy, the second born of six children. You have never known loneliness. Not physically. You have always had someone by your side. But they do not understand you. Even in the darkness you knew you were strange. Your dreams did not line up with theirs, covered in shadows and whispers and confinement.

Your older sister holds your hand and you smile, thinking of how she will not come with you to where you must go. It calls to you. It always has. These people that roam may not know about you yet, still worshipping the old gods, the ones who have faded away, but when they fall, it is you they call to. Of course they do. Your predecessor isn't around to take them in anymore.

You have not know quiet in all your years. The sounds of dying and dead never ends. In the night, you go and find them. You bring them back to a quiet hutch and set them down. You are not ready for your post yet - the battle has not been won. But it sits waiting, far beneath your feet.

It is a secret you will tell no one, save for a young girl with flowers in her hair and smile brighter than the stars. You will tell her because she will understand what it meant to be given a name that is not yours. Your mother named you in hope and awe, yet when your sister whispered, "Who are you?", you did not answer. You waited in silence.

And quietly and suddenly, you knew. With brilliant clarity, you knew.

"Hades," you said, and years later, people, both the ones who worship the old gods and the ones who your youngest brother has made out of dirt and clay to know nothing but the six of you and your victories - they will confess to one another, "I am scared of Hades", and they will mean both man and home.

Your family fears the darkness. You oldest sister and the following three knew nothing but the pitch black. They still do not trust it. And your youngest brother shines brightly static yellow light. He gazes upwards to the sky. You gaze down to the depths.

They will not follow you.

But you have a duty to follow, the calls to answer. You are not afraid of the dark, and when the war is over, you will descend and finally feel alive.

--

You are the third-born of six children, the second girl, the one who should never have been swallowed. You remember the pity on your older siblings' faces when they held you close in the darkness, only illuminated by the flames of your oldest sister's fingertips. The pretty light calmed your crying and fear.

You remember how it felt to escape the castle. To feel the earth beneath your sticky feet. It swells with you. Everything breaths. You talk to plants and they do not answer, although your family thinks they do. But you talk because they are alive. Because they respond. You can feel it in your veins.

Your oldest brother understands. Your second brother does too. But they are so different from you. You don't know how, but you can just tell. Something is different.

People call you Gaea, the earth, and you think, No, that's wrong. You are the earth, but you are not the earth. You are Demeter.

And you are unsure.

You fight militantly. Distance is your friend. You can feel the enemy patter against the ground, feel the way the trees sway and move. When you pull back your bow, your uncle isn't even in your sight. But the arrow lands dead center and he falls.

The arrow splits and wood crests and grows. Roots drag him down. Spilt blood is drank, water consumed. The very air in his lungs his stolen from his chest as he is devoured by your nature. Every nutrient in his body is taken as the roots spread within him and the tree grows.

You are not the earth. No, the earth fuels itself. You are a separate creation. Like your sisters, you think. Your brothers are different. They are limitless. But you, your sisters - you follow rules. A plant needs water and air to grow. You could not force it to grow without it.

It is in your victory do you consider what you will be. Your garden is not pretty. It is practical, important. Each row of plant exists within structure. Too close and one may steal from the other. Too far and they cannot share. Include certain herbs to deter bugs. Till the soil to renew the earth. Do not overwater.

Bury your uncle and let the grain feast.

--

You are the fourth of six kids. The second boy. The middle child.

Like the ocean, your moods are everchanging. Your oldest brother is the only one who can always quell them. Your youngest brother riles you up too much. It's his fault, you think, when they yell about your fighting. Look at the wind on the sea, how it builds the waves to fight.

You love your oldest sister. Of all your sisters, she is your favourite. She opposes you, warm and calm to your wet and wild, but still she sits with you and soothes your wounds.

Sometimes you worry something is wrong with you. You do not feel pain the way they do. And you are needy. Even more so than the oldest, who was alone for so long until your brother came along. You have known people all your life. Even freed of your father's belly, they have not left your side. And yet you cling. You hold on. They struggle to escape, but you hold them tighter and tighter.

Your older sisters are tactile, but they do not cling the way you do. They do not pull the others in and demand they stay.

Years later you will sit on the rocks and watch as a riptide drags a poor child down and you will understand why you cling.

Your siblings are more elegant than you, more firm, and steady. You run across the earth and struggle to stay upright. It's like your feet were not made for the ground. They fight sharp and deliberate. Each strike is pointed.

You do not fight.

You play.

It's all a game, the whim of the tides. Despite your stocky shape, you are fluid and flexible. Let them run then drag them back. Let them breathe then let them drown. Or spear them viciously. Rip them to shreds. Make them watch the others die in terror, knowing their time will soon come and you do not care how much they beg.

It's your laughter they hear last, booming loud like the crash of the waves in a storm. It's not your fault. You don't know what pity is. You cannot understand it. The ocean does not give life to those who live outside of it. The ocean is salty impure heaviness. Survival must be fought for in the cold and wet.

In the time that comes, when the war is over, you will feel languid and calm for the first time in your life. You all have won. There is no pious uncles, no bitter father to destroy. But soon your oldest brother, the only one who can calm your destructive moods, disappears into shadows and darkness. It appears open and endless to the eye, but you felt the confining walls the day you stepped in.

You do not like confinement.

But the others are still here in the house you've made a home, so you remain a lapping tide. But your littlest brother and sister leave to the mountains and the skies and you cannot follow them that high. Your earthern sister who came just before you leaves for the inland. For pure water wells and settled dirt and people willing to learn. You try to follow but she bats you away in horror and disgust.

You don't know how to handle this. This isn't what is supposed to happen. They are not supposed to leave. You cling to them, and they stay. Their skin grows heavy with your weight and they stop fighting.

They don't leave.

All you have left is the oldest of you all, and you follow her diligently. She tries to still your shifting moods, but it's hard. People get hurt and you cannot care. But she does. She cares so much and you do not understand why. One day you wake up and she is gone. The fire is out, and the people you were with have vanished too. You call out for her and she does not respond.

You scream, angered, that those who were yours have left. They have escaped your wet hands and dried your dew off their skin. They have vanished to places you cannot follow.

They have abandoned you.

You sink into the deep and dark and free and build a new life. Your uncle, a crochety man who did not fight on his brother's side, will tell you it is your time, that the age of Titans has ended, long live the age of the Gods. He will crown you king. The kingdom stands before you, a rule you have never wanted, but now crave. These people belong to the ocean, to you. The water holds them down, gives them life.

They can never leave.

--

You are the youngest sister, the fifth born. People call you strict and cruel. However, your oceanic brother adores your vengeful nature and watches eagerly as you fight. Blood hits your clothes and you grimace. You prefer when things are clean and neat. Tidiness is important.

Your siblings are all entrenched in nature - fire, death, earth, ocean and sky. But you do not see nature. It is a pretty thing in the background of the picture. Today you are violent, but in the future, you will have more meaning.

Women are not well seen in this world, often ignored unless desired, dismissed and put to the side, unless important. Your brothers stand out too much, and your sisters are too entranced by their nature - the oldest to comfort and give warmth, the second to nature and grain. So you are the one who ventures out to the villages that your enemies peruse. You are the one who blends in with the castle staff, who listens in on war plans, and steals secrets.

You are the one who leads your brother to your father.

You are the one who watches him die.

You know that when the war is over and your time has come, you will be much more than a quiet face ducked down and scurrying across halls. You will do much more than drag men to their knees in the thick of night and make them bleed across your knuckles for disgracing the name of family with their lecherous ways.

In the years that come, you will have a warring son and people will laugh at his bloody ways, assuming he comes from his father, the man who won the war. But you know that he comes from you, blood across your knuckles and carrying battered women safely home.

--

You are the youngest of six. When you are but a babe, your mother holds you on her knee and tells you of your siblings. In the darkness of your father's belly, you know that they wait for you to rescue you them. You think of them often. You wonder if they know of you. You imagine how grateful they will when you save them.

When you take your first steps your mother hands you a sword. It is bigger than you are and your fist is small and chubby. Still you learn. You train every day. You learn every weapon you can. Your mother visits and reminds you of your duty - save your siblings, destroy your father, inherit the world.

You rarely leave home. It's dangerous, the nymphs say. Be careful, your mother whispers. Tell no one of your truth, the Kouretes demand.

Fear comes crawling in swift and unbearable. Your mother leaves you with texts for your future, so you may be a good and honorable king. The nymphs tell you of your father's nature, so you will not make his mistakes. Every day you train, every day you learn, and every night you stare empty at the cavern ceiling, terror building a home in your head.

What if you fail? What if you cannot win? What if your siblings do not think you should be king? What if you do something wrong and you are overpowered like your father? You reassure yourself every morning. Of course, you will win. Of course, your siblings will believe you to be king. You will be a good and honorable king. Your people will love you. No one will wish to knock you off your throne.

But still every night you fear.

You meet your father in person for the first time, dressed as a lowly cupbearer. He is not as fearsome as you once imagined. He looks normal. Part of you is distressed by this. Your fear eats it up.

Still, confident and sure, you hold out his goblet and watch as he drinks. Your siblings come up, unclothed and covered in grime. They are all pale and horribly thin. Their hair is matted and unclean, chopped strangely at the ends, as if burnt instead of cut.

You prepare to speak, to usher them to safety as your father still vomits behind them. But the tallest girl, taller than you, throws a fist you were not suspecting, and down you go, and off they run.

Chaos ensues. Evasion is easy but still takes time. By the time you are free of the castle and your father's roaring rage, the sun has set. You climb to the top of the mountain you've lived your entire life under and call out to Selene. She rides her chariot across the sky and returns with helpful news.

Your siblings do not trust you. You don't understand. This is nothing like how you planned it to be. The plan was simple: you tell them of yourself, they are grateful and come with you, you prepare them as you have been prepared, and the battle commences. They obey your every word and listen thoughtfully to your plans.

They understand that you are a great leader, and will be a good and honourable king.

But they are not doing what they are supposed to. They are whispering amongst themselves, while the shortest girl hold fire in her hands and the tallest boy keeps a steady eye on you. They are not coming with you. They are not following the plan.

They are not listening.

It takes too much time for them to agree. They meet your mother and seem... strange. Surely, they should be more excited. She has told you about them in deep detail, from every hair on their head to the specific colour of their eyes, to the way they looked when they fell, and the horror she felt for being unable to protect them. She loves them dearly. Why are they standing so stiff in her hold?

Your siblings are nothing like you expected. Every day they continue to ruin the carefully crafted dream you put together. Your brothers are strange and different from you. They don't feel the sky in their lungs, or appreciate the birds. The oldest is too silent and unsettling. He is stronger than you expected, and makes enemies fall to dust beneath his fingertips.

His capabilities terrify you. Your fear eats it up. What if he desires the throne? it whispers. He is the eldest.

I will be the one to kill our father, you argue. I will inherit the throne.

Surely he would be more fit to kill your father, your fear laughs. He is entrenched in death and darkness. You are bright and loud. He will see you coming, but your bother will be a surprise.

Luckily, the oldest seems uninterested in ruling. But the others listen to him in a way they do not listen to you, and it angers you. What if they tell him to take the throne? Would he do it? Would he demand it?

Would he kill you for it?

Your other brother is a nuisance. He doesn't stay within the lines. He is wild and wicked and never listens. You repeat your plans over and over again. Everyone agrees. Then he runs forward, laughing loud and giving away your position each time.

He is vicious and angers easily. A simple disagreement turns into a bloody fight in a minute. Then he laughs it off, easygoing and calm, before clinging to your back like an octopus. It is baffling and bizarre. The others shrug and tell you he has always been like this. You cannot understand.

Your sisters are better. Although the youngest argues with you on everything. When your plans fail, she cuts in and creates a new one. Days pass, plans fail, and suddenly she stands tall and demanding, telling you that you are wrong. Her plans work. It makes you bitter.

You have planned and plotted for this war since the day you could walk. You know that your plans can win this battle. It is not your fault that your siblings do not listen.

But you grit your teeth and accept her assistance. She's rigid and off-putting sometimes. But she's pretty in the early moonlight. Fascinating when she's focused. Sometimes you feel you are the same - order, neatness, structure.

Justice.

You follow her once and watch her threaten a wealthy man for forcing his young wife to acknowledge his concubine's children as proper heirs and care for them as her own. You do not know which upsets her more - the concubine or the husband's actions. But you feel warm when she drops him to his knees and threatens to return if he does not make it right.

Truthfully you don't understand what she sees so wrong about the situation. But the fire in her voice and the fearful trembling of her victim invigorates you nonetheless.

The second-born sister is better behaved, albeit more stubborn. Still you get along fairly well. You do not understand her fascination with bread. You understand she starved for many years, but... it's just bread.

The oldest of you all is most soothing. But when she stills the fights that break out, she does not default to your opinion. She wants to hear everyone, both sides of the argument and witnesses. Even when the nautical one is involved, despite the fight nearly always being his fault. It is not your fault he doesn't listen and must be corrected every time.

She tries to relax you in your frustrations, but you do not understand her conviction to hear everyone out. And you do not understand it when she tells you you were wrong.

You do not understand many things about your siblings.

You begin to fear you do not understand many things about the world.

Still you win. Your father is defeated by your very hands. You cut him into pieces and box them up to bury across the plains of Tartarus. Even if he escapes, he will have many long years to piece himself back together. And even if he manages that, he will have no chance of escaping Tartarus.

You retire to the home you have made with your siblings in these last few years of war and it is strange. There is nothing on the horizon, no impeding responsibility to look towards. Your destiny has ended. The crown on your head feels too heavy. You hold it in your hands and stare at the glistening metal. Your reflection is warped and distorted.

You don't know what to think.

Is this how your father felt, you wonder. Did he destroy his father and take his crown only to find it felt too heavy and he could not see his face in the glistening metal? Did he feel hollow and strange inside? Did he not understand the world either? Is that what made him cruel?

You place the crown aside and dispell those thoughts. You are not your father. You are better than him, greater than him. His defeat by your hand proves that.

Careful, your fear laughs at the back of your mind. Your father likely thought that too.

[popatochisssp]

happy late thanksgiving, poppy!!!! i hope you spent your day relaxing! also, has nobody asked for the full transcendtale story yet? if not then consider this my formal request lol! xx

I had almost forgotten about it, but you're right! So here it is!

Transcendtale

Monsters are at war with humanity.

Or at least, with one human.

A sadistic, single-minded human has set their sights on the Underground, locking the monsters within into an endless cycle of RESETs.

In the beginning, most monsters were only peripherally aware that something was wrong—recurring déjà vu, nightmares that felt like memories, knowledge of things they didn’t remember learning.

But as the RESETs persisted, this awareness grew stronger and stronger, compiling across many, many repeated timelines until people really were remembering things.

The natural change in their behavior only seemed to encourage the human to keep repeating the cycle, almost as if to see what would be different this time—strengthening the awareness further.

Monsters began to talk to each other about it, realizing they’re all experiencing the same; realizing that the looping of time is actually something that’s happening.

A lot of secrets end up out in the open, once people start talking.

The machine back behind Sans’ house is one such secret, actively recording data on the anomaly that seems to be tampering with the timeline and providing solid proof that what they’re all going through isn’t a shared hallucination.

No one blames Sans for not coming forward with that information earlier, of course, being that his memory transfer across RESETs is so poor.

The guy can pick up context clues and read a room fast as anything, and being able to check on that data when he felt something odd was going on helped catch him up to speed, but in terms of actually remembering…

Well, it seems that the strongest recall of memory across RESET timelines is linked to levels of Determination, and there are many things to be said about Sans but ‘determined’ is not one of them.

Still, his data is helpful.

Monsters begin to try to organize, trying different strategies to combat the human’s relentless assault against them.

Gradually, the Underground becomes a siege, or something like it, a handful of the same days repeated over and over again to the point that the monsters living them—now remembering them all—feel like years are passing.

In spite of trying everything they can think of, the human manages to thwart them at every turn—or if they do manage to turn the tide for a short while, the human comes back again and again until they force their way through.

Potential solutions escalate, from attempted diplomacy to guerrilla tactics to the height of desperation.

It would be one thing if it was only the (repeated) extinction of their species they were fighting against, but another entirely to know that when the human finishes with everyone else and kills Asgore, the entire universe ends—not a single timeline in thousands extending past that point.

No one’s been left alive to see what happens, but inevitably everything ceases and goes right back to the start, for the killing to begin anew.

It has to stop before then, whatever the cost.

The human is far too strong for any one monster to handle, even groups of monsters, and they know that because they’ve tried, and the human will always come back, learn their patterns and break through.

It’s no job for any monster.

They consider that they may need a god instead.

Asgore, the strongest boss monster of their number, absorbs the six human souls, becoming something terrible and powerful and deeply unnatural.

………

It takes the human under a hundred tries to get through him.

The monsters are at a loss, for awhile.

Their biggest and strongest boss still isn’t enough…

…can they make a stronger one?

Normally, this would be a ludicrous thought—just making a stronger monster—but Sans isn’t the only one whose strange secrets are out, now that everyone remembers RESET timelines.

Flowey’s busted too—at least, to the extent that he’s an artificial monster brought to life by dust and DT.

Initially, he was on the human’s side for………reasons………but being killed a few hundred, thousand, whatever times has a way of changing one’s loyalties, and he’s been (begrudgingly) siding with monsters for awhile.

So when the suggestion is laid on the table—make a new bigger and better monster—Flowey has a couple cents to throw in on the matter.

That still wouldn’t be enough.

He fought the human once before, and even something like him plus all the human souls they have couldn’t keep them down for good. If they want that to work, they’re going to have to find a way to make it really tough, and good luck with that because it’d probably take the equivalent of all monsterkind to have a shot at taking that killer down.

…The equivalent of all monsterkind.

That…is an idea.

A terrible idea, horrible, unthinkable, no one wants to discuss that further.

Until.

The RESETs continue.

Death, again and again and again.

Suffering, with no hope of an end anywhere in sight.

Desperate times…do call for desperate measures, and eventually even the most ghoulish way out of it is given its due consideration.

So…what if they do use all of monsterkind?

What if everyone pooled all of themselves—their magic, their souls, their hopes and dreams—everything, together with the human souls.

Could that be enough?

With the few faint memories Flowey has of a pacifist timeline, he posits a less than confident, “Maybe?”

It’s not a no, and it’s the best they have to go on.

They have to try something.

A vessel of some kind will be needed, something capable of containing all of monsterkind. They have an excellent roboticist in Alphys, who has already made one robotic body for a monster to occupy and is relatively confident she can do it again.

The logistics will be different from that, of course. It was simple enough to make a shell for a willing ghost monster to occupy, but they’re all out of ghost monsters capable of taking on a body, so…

It’ll have to be piloted…the way Flowey occupied his vessel.

Monster dust laid onto the vessel and brought to life by DT.

Someone needs to volunteer to do it, to be resurrected into a soulless body after their death, to give intent and sentient function to the vessel of everyone’s hopes and dreams and use their power to bring an end to the perpetual terror hanging over monsterkind.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Undyne is the first to volunteer.

…Then Asgore.

And Toriel.

Papyrus.

Mettaton.

Many others.

It won’t take.

The human runs through several presumably confusing yet intriguing timelines where the Underground has gone empty, save for Flowey trying to distract them and Alphys in her lab trying desperately, fruitlessly to get her mysterious project to work.

At least, before they kill her and begin it all again.

Eventually, Alphys manages to at least figure out what the problem is, why the vessel keeps malfunctioning and the volunteer monster’s dust never seems to properly take.

She determines that when DT extract is introduced to the volunteer’s remains, it awakens and joins with whatever existing DT that monster had in life. This amount is typically small, as most monsters can’t handle high concentrations of DT, not the way humans can.

But this time, it happens to be doing the same to the vessel��a construct made of nearly every monster in the Underground.

Flowey was a different equation, monster dust added onto an inanimate vessel with zero DT of its own, and now with a vessel overbalancing the amount of the unstable element, it’s not working.

But it could.

If…

If the volunteer monster were someone with extremely low DT, so that there would be less to activate when the extract was introduced…

Suddenly, everyone in the room is looking at Sans and he is less than enthused.

Dying over and over again was one thing—he was just about used to that, at this point—but dying and living again? As something neither monster nor human? With the grand responsibility of avenging the entirety of monsterkind, nearly literally carrying everyone’s hopes and dreams on his shoulders?

That sucks.

There was a reason he didn’t volunteer, but now it seems like he’s being voluntold—nobody’s saying it, but…he has to, there’s no one else with DT as low as his and everyone knows it, the numbers from the machine being what they are, the human already bearing down on them for yet another assault, they’re all counting on him to agree.

So, he says—

“NO.”

Papyrus refuses this option point-blank.

There is no way in hell that he is letting his brother do that alone—he will have to be there too!

He is spoken to and encouraged and pleaded to be reasonable. All of monsterkind’s peace is at stake, of course he cares about his brother, but he must see that everyone is making sacrifices to end this horrible cycle once and for all.

And yes, certainly, Papyrus can see that. Obviously, he can—he’s made a lot of moral concessions himself over the past few time-looped years, he and Sans both have fought and been killed and willingly sacrificed themselves, and all manner of other terrible things, over and over and over again.

And they’ve been happy (for a given definition of ‘happy’) to do so!

But this is the line.

His, anyway.

He will not let Sans do this thing unless they can find some way for him to be there too, and he’s not budging—so figure something out.

(Sans could’ve protested and just willingly damned himself, but grateful for Papyrus’ interference, he…didn’t.)

So fine, apparently this is the hill that everyone will die on—again and again and again and again—if they don’t ‘figure something out.’

The problem is now how to make it so that Papyrus can ‘be there’ after he chronologically needs to have been incorporated into the vessel with all the other monsters.

Well… his soul needs to be there.

Does he need that to exist? To be present?

Sans won’t have that and he’ll be around, if this works the way it’s supposed to.

Flowey doesn’t have that and he’s around.

Maybe…

Maybe there’s a way to take a snapshot of a living monster—a scan of their knowledge, their memories, their experiences and thoughts and personality—and save it, like a program, or…an AI?

It wouldn’t have a soul but clearly that isn’t a requirement for sentient life, functionally it should be all but identical to a person’s continued existence.

…It raises a whole lot of ethical and philosophical questions, certainly, but if it can be done, it could be a very, very good thing.

After all, monsterkind was more or less going to be gone after this, a Pyrrhic victory to finally end their never-ending nightmare at the cost of all their lives.

This way, they could be preserved, in a digital space or a virtual reality, after their physical bodies and selves were gone, and that’s worth something, isn’t it?

At least a notch above total, permanent extinction.

Many monsters agree, previously resigned to total cessation and hopeful to carry on in some form, to have scans of themselves done when the tech is sorted.

Papyrus is of course among their number, and entirely too smug about it since all this was his idea…or at least, Alphys wouldn’t have developed it without his ultimatum, so it’s basically the same as being his idea!

And ultimately, with the assurance that he won’t be alone on the other side…

Sans agrees to volunteer.

The human’s final timeline is a very different experience than what they’ve become used to.

Sans, resurrected into a body filled with truly godly power, is their only opponent, one they never would have had a chance to beat.

With ease, he removes all of their options—refusing to allow them to FIGHT or to use MERCY. He blocks their path, corrupts their SAVES, and severs their connection to whatever entity has granted them to power to do what they’ve done…permanently.

The human falls, like a puppet with its strings cut, and simple as that…

It’s all over.

The barrier is broken, almost as an afterthought, and the few remaining monsters that can go up to the Surface.

Monsterkind itself exists almost entirely virtually now. As a species, they’re on the down-low with regards to humanity, off the grid, as there’s only (currently) three among their number who exist physically and trying to establish anything official with so few feels…trivial.

Some monsters are looking forward to obtaining robotic bodies of their own to begin interacting with the surface world, but others are content to remain digital.

It’s not exactly a happy ending…but it’s not an ending, and monsterkind has transcended from one phase of existence to the next, and will adapt accordingly.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans)

A soulless consciousness inhabiting an exoskeletal body that at least mostly resembles his old one—a favor from Alphys—shining chrome and white plating with prismatic flecks of rainbow that catch in the light. Heavily dysphoric about his body and averse to seeing ‘himself,’ he's always covered up and tends to avoid reflections.

No longer reality-bendingly strong, without the power of the human souls, but still in possession of the condensed power of all monsterkind and fully capable of unleashing terrifying strength and magic if needed. …He would rather not.

Because he lacks a soul, his emotions are distant and muted, and because he was resurrected and not scanned in great detail, his memory is mostly intact but can be spotty—especially with regards to things that happened between RESETs.

Spends a lot of time thinking about personhood and existence—is he who he was before, now that he doesn’t have a soul? Can he claim those memories, that self, or is he too different? Does he even count as ‘alive’?

Trying to find meaning in his current state of being, roaming the Surface and seeking small pleasures and maybe the hope of some kind of inner peace out in the world.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus)

Technically not The Original, a scanned digital copy of everything that made Papyrus…Papyrus—and completely fine with it, entirely bypassing the philosophical questions his brother dwells on. As far as he’s concerned, he’s himself: he has all of his thoughts and memories and feels like himself, so he is! Easy, why make it so complicated?

Exists mostly in a virtual state and can traverse through and access most any electronic device, but he can also manifest physically as a hard-light projection via any device that emits light. He has access to most of his brother’s systems and can communicate or project himself through him as a conduit…unless said brother has intentionally blocked him out

A bit different than he was before all the RESETs, a little looser with his moral code and more of a wisecracker—he lived a lot of years under siege and had to adapt to an enemy that really couldn’t be better and didn’t want to try, and filling in for the jokes his brother had become too downtrodden to tell

Spends his time everywhere and nowhere, surfing the ‘net and making a splash as a holographic DJ and periodically checking in on his brother to make sure he’s as okay as he can be—basically doing everything he wants to do, whenever he wants to do it

…Possibly nurturing a slight god-complex, but mostly just enjoying a new phase of his life with near-limitless access to anyone, anything and anywhere, totally untethered by all of his previous mortal limitations (…okay yeah, it’s a god-complex, but it’s fine, don’t worry about it)

[brainrotgoverner]

Cinderella boy pokemon AU; #1

~Buddy~

Liepard ♀️

Starter. Ex Libris gives a pokemon egg to everyone once they hit the age of 10, the same age they are allowed to start collecting narratonin, so the pokemon can assist the key bearer. Buddy hatched a purrloin which later evolved into a Liepard.

Liepard's are elegant and sleek pokemon with gorgeous fur, despite their apperences, Liepard's are generally vicious and moody.

Buddy's own liepard isn't any different with generally unfriendly attitude towards strangers. She doesn't shy away from scratching her own trainer if he happens to displease him yet will act like a kicked lillipup if she doesn't get hourly kisses and pets from Buddy.

She is also Buddy's stylist and personal trainer as every morning she spends 15 minutes grooming his hair to perfection and all the excersize Buddy really needs is carrying that spoiled apex predator, which is almost the same height as him, around when she feels like getting babied.

Arbok ♀️

Tamed pokemon. Ekans is a regular pokemon in the abondened corners of the ex libris dungeon, before he got his first pokemon, Buddy used to spend hours trying to befriend this one. Getting poisoned countless times in the progress. The second Buddy got his first pokemon and pokeballs, he ran to the dungeon to finally catch her. He was so excited that he fumbled the pokeballs so the Ekans headbutted one herself.

She enjoys eating lots of treats, getting tiny scratches with a tiny toothbrush and regularly committing to Buddy's life by wrapping around him as he sleeps.

In her defence, she really loves cuddling and doesn't realize she is squeezing too hard in her sleep. Buddy doesn't mind it one bit.

Ariados ♀️✨

Shiny (I couldn't miss the chance to make her purple) and Buddy's first catch. The abondened corners of the dungeons of ex libris attract many small wild pokemon and makes it a prime spot to train. Spinarak's prefer forests so Buddy never saw one before catching her.

It wasn't until a whole month later that he learned his spinarak was shiny.

She enjoy creating eleborate patterned lace webs to decorate with and seeing his trainer add them to his clothing. Ariados' has extremly sturdy webs so Buddy regularly wears them and uses them to accessorise. (And, well, she gets sad when he doesn't.)

Salazzle ♀️

Rescued pokemon. Buddy found her as an injured salandit and sneaked her inside the Ex Libris headquarters until she healed.

But she never left and now Buddy has a giant poisonous lizards bigger than him.

Salazzle is an extremely affectionate pokemon. Combined with her natural strength, you get a pokemon who can easily pick Buddy up and carry him around despite his protests.

Nidoking ♂️

Caught pokemon. When Buddy first met him, he was an unnaturally large Nidoran that he first mistook as a Nidorino that had a knack for knocking down trees. It took three hours and countless pokeballs before Buddy finally added him to the team and learned that he was still just a Nidoran.

His unnaturally large proportion continued on as he evolved, allowing Buddy to ride him when he was just a Nidorino with no trouble. As a Nidoking, he can easily tower over other of his kind when he is on two feet. But because of his mass, he can't support his weight for too long and always walks around in 4 feet. He almost always has at least one of his teammates hitching a ride on his back.

He is extremely aggressive and territorial. Lashes out easily at strangers which forces Buddy to spend every waking hour keeping him in check. Thankfully, he seems to accept his trainer and teammates as his pack. Showing incredible patience to their shenigans.

Galarian Slowking ♂️

Stolen pokemon. Buddy saw him at a night fair he snuck out to. He was dangerously underweight and overworked as his trainer used him for 'shows' and neglected to give him breaks or water. After seeing the Slowking pass out from exhaustion, Buddy sneaked backstage and stole him.

After feeding and tending to him, Buddy released the pokemon and went back to ex libris. Around 2 months later, he woke up to his Liepard snarling up a storm and the same Galarian Slowking standing in his room. After that, he never left.

He generally prefers to do his own stuff but hates to be left alone. Carrying his stuff to whatever room Buddy is in so he can tinker with his stuff and bask in his trainers presence. He also enjoy getting fed by hand and claimed the end of Buddy's bed as his own.

[inardescere]

"You said it yourself, some things cannot be learned from books."

Rafayel grins and nods, glad he remembered what he had said. It wasn't as if he found the concept of learning from texts unhelpful-- he knew they were how people continued to pass on legacies and stories of everything around them to the next generation, be it about architecture, sciences, or even people. They were knowledge, wisdom, and things that couldn't be said verbally that people wished to pass on, be it cruel or kind. He can't quite explain it in words right now, but while there are those who can observe the world and write it into books to pass it on to the next person, share their vision for others to experience in their own time... there is him, who wants to live in the moment and be seen for who he is by everyone with their own eyes. Sometimes the powerful and wise God that protects the city, sometimes the playful and silly Lemurian who jokes around with his friends, sometimes the still young child who gets scolded by the elders or even the ladies in town. Sometimes, an individual soul that shines at being seen and wanted.

As he traverses the plane of his neck, kisses his shoulders, and touches with lips where he can reach, he starts to yearn for his lips again. Rafayel feels those tender feelings of affection as he kisses his body and the other more sticky, sweet desire as he listens to the other's soft breaths and touches with his hands, but there is a different sort of delight when their lips meet and Caleb immediately responds to it, joining him in his slow and deliberate exploration of his lips, mouth, teeth lightly clacking and breath hitched. A soft laugh into the cavern of his mouth, his thumbs rub at his jaw, where his hands sit on his nape, happiness filling his chest as he feels not just desperation that comes from a smoldering passion that he fears will never last, but a curious touch, one that tries to learn about him even without the promise of more, trying to see him for who he is. Even Rafayel starts to learn more about himself just as much as he finds new things about Caleb. The hand warming his neck is gentle, and he arches his back when the hold slides a bit, shivering. The blinding pain from his bite on his tender scales is now a comforting touch when it's this light, the warmth relaxing his shoulders and his mind goes numb with pleasure every time his fingers caress them by accident or intentionally, only this warmth and the slick glide of their tongues keeping him present.

Everything feels unnaturally light, his body and mind floating like the sway of a mild current in the sea. Rafayel chuckles when he realizes they're floating again, lips and shoulders in light tremors as he continues to peck and draw his tongue over Caleb's, letting out a satisfied groan when he pulls away, back on his bed, his hair swaying at the movement. He looks so shy, with a meek smile and his admission-- that he lost control because he was kissing him, feeling so dazed and light he had accidentally manifested those feelings into physical form. Adorable, pride swelling at the fact that Caleb was enjoying himself, that he could bring him to that point. Rafayel whispers soft words as he kisses his hand, Lemurian phrases that he's sure the other doesn't know. It's a secret of his to keep for now as he presses affection on his skin, the pink of his eyes bright as he peers down at his mate. Oh... yes, an intriguing idea. His moan sounds sweet in his ears as he starts to tease, humming in response as he makes his way down his arm. The inner side of his forearm is smooth, his elbow rough, the muscles on his upper arm soft until they tense and harden under his lips. Do you want more?

"I do," Rafayel admits honestly, lifting his head and taking the other neglected hand, kissing the back, following the same pattern as he kisses up till he's at his shoulder, mouth opening to give a tender bite, only the sharp canines of his teeth causing light red indents, not yet piercing the skin. "But I'm not done. Lay down and relax, I will take care of you." He makes do with his words, a firm hand pressing Caleb to the bed as he trails his lips down to his chest, keeping away from the peaks and just kissing around them, giving equal attention to each side. Then he crawls down, mimicking his actions from before when Caleb had given pleading noises, but this time he's much slower, tongue licking a strip from the indent right beneath his chest to where it dipped in at the lower end of his stomach, kissing over it, and he's just going at random, sucking at the skin on the left of his stomach, somewhere far lower just before he's at his hips, then far up he might almost feel the way his heart leaps. Until he's got most of his skin mapped, noting the speckles of dots in places, giving them a little bite. "You're beautiful." Maybe not in the way Lemurians are soft curves and ethereal, but in the way he's sculpted sharp, dips of his skin and muscle a textured canvas, an intriguing piece to study and adore.

The Lemurian shifts lower, kissing the side of his hip and to his thigh, completely dismissing the heat between his legs as he makes a trail down the side of his leg. He reaches halfway down his thigh when he stops, kneeling between them again and he smirks. Rafayel easily lifts his legs above his shoulders, letting them hang over to his back as he gets down on his elbows and stomach, nosing the inner side of his thigh with a breathy sigh. "Relax, sunset. I'm only going to kiss you." His lips move against the tender skin as he murmurs, kissing the flesh and muscle as his hand goes up and down the outer side of his thigh, soothing him. He starts as high as he could go, sucking skin as he goes down and very soft nibbles left in his wake, switching from left and right. Maybe he was teasing him a bit too much, but his lips never stopped the affectionate touch he gave before, simply adding on to his worship some more pleasurable touches. "Almost there." But he didn't want to be done, lips lingering on his thigh much longer than his already slow touches, kissing the back of his knee and rubbing his nose on his soft flesh and sighing. His grip loosens, lowering his legs back down on the bed, moving back in a kneel to give him space. "Want to turn around for me, sunset?"

he has never been treated with such affection that it feels foreign to him. there are moments in which he feels undeserved to it, shadows of his past whispering that love is a luxury that he cannot claim, so this is a reminder. a reminder that this new kind of intimacy that makes him feel cherished in contrast to everything he has through in his long life, it's something he truly deserve, even in his brokenness. it's the first time he feels human, with each small gesture and unexpected smile, a gentle touch along with words of reassurance that leave him both stunned and unprepared. it is as if rafayel is slowly unraveling the armor he has worn for years, exposing the vulnerability he thought he had buried forever. he no longer feels like a weapon, but as a person worthy of kindness. it overwhelms him, leaving him at a loss of words, yet, it fills the void he didn't know existed, bringing a sense of belonging he never dreamed he could experience, a fragile but powerful assurance that he is more than the sum of his scars.

caleb swallows hard, his gaze flickering in awe as he takes rafayel's words, each one threading deeper into his hear. his hands, still tentative, rise to trace the line of rafayel's jaw as his thumb brushes lightly over his cheekbone. "you always know what to say." he murmurs, leaning into the touch, feeling his palm against his own cheek and feeling the warmth that it provides. "as if you're reading my soul instead of my face." his voice drops to a whisper, a faint smile curling on his lips, even as the blush threatens to spread at the corner of his ears. "you are the first one to make me feel this wanted." his fingers trail to the back of rafayel's neck, pulling him closer as he leans up, foreheads nearly touching as they tangle on the purple locks. "i don't need treasures or poetry, you don't have to prove anything to me. you said it yourself, some things cannot be learned from books." caleb's eyes close briefly, allowing himself to melt in the touch and warm that rafayel offers. "all i want is this... you, here with me. knowing i'm safe and that i can trust you with every part of me."

caleb lets out a shaky exhale, feeling his muscles relaxing under his touch as his lips start exploring every corner of him. his body, once so rigid, now feels as though it's floating, held together only by the warmth of rafayel's touch and the sound of his voice. there's a subtle chuckle coming from him as rafayel's tickle him, leaning more into the touch and intimacy, feeling happy for once.

and then, when he feels rafayel's lips coming back at his, he leans into the kiss, his hands clutching at his sides to anchor himself in the moment as his hearts starts thundering in his chest. it's as if he is still learning how to accept and return such tenderness. his movements are gentle, lips soft and slow against rafayel's, but as the kiss deepens, he feels his restraint fades, replaced by an unspoken need to pour everything he feels but can't always say out loud. his hands, calloused yet careful, find their place at his waist and the back of his neck, afraid to let go. the kiss becomes more purposeful, his lips parting to match the rhythm of rafayel's, his breath mingling warmly with his partner’s. there’s a quiet urgency to the way he tilts his head, his fingers tightening slightly as his confidence grows. when their tongues meet, it’s not rushed or forceful but deliberate, savoring every second of it, committed to learn as he previously stated. he doesn't realize when his evol subtly activates, almost instinctive and born from the depth of his emotions. the pressure around them grows lighter, a gentle hum of energy surrounding their bodies as they being to rise. the sensation dreamlike, a soft, weightless drift as if the world has vanished, leaving only the two of them suspended in their own gravity. their bodies hover inches above the bed, entwined, turning gently in the water as though cradled by an invisible current, steady, fluid and graceful as the kiss itself. and when he realizes, he slowly concentrates to go back to the surface of the mattress, not breaking the kiss until he feels his back against the soft cushion of the bed, breaking the kiss away with a breathless laugh, his cheeks flushed. "guess i got a little carried away."

he offers a shy smile, feeling embarrassed for a second as he looks back at him with puppy eyes. as rafayel sits on his hips, he simply stares at the way he brings his hand closer, kissing it, cherishing it. his palm cradles rafayel's cheek, thumb brushing softly on his lower lip. his breath hitches involuntary as his fingertips are licked, then rafayel just gets closer to his neck, closing his eyes as he cannot muffle the sounds passing through his lips. a soft moan, mostly as he was caught off guard. "more than comfortable, actually." his voice is shaky, growing confused at to what rafayel truly wants, as he keeps sending mixed signs. "i want everything from you. but i am willing to follow your pace." though, he cannot help showing his playful side again, chuckling softly as he nibbles his wrist. "why? do you want more?"

[astrailblazing]

Ehren Krantz

BASICS

Name; Ehren Krantz Species; Gamilan Age; 48 Gender; Male, he/him Sexuality; Aromantic demisexual Callsign/Alias; "Stray" Rank; General, formerly Ship; The Yamato

-

APPEARANCE

Physical Basics; Pale blue skin, dark burgundy eyes, very dark brown hair worn in a short undercut and typically neatly combed, though he used to wear it longer. He's tall and lean, which makes him look thinner than he is, just enough to make him seem slightly unnatural. Tattoos/Scars; No tattoos. His only significant scar is from the same incident that cost him his memories, a series of shrapnel scars that go from just above his right eye socket up into his hair. His hair won't grow where the scar is, which is why he wears it short now. Posture; Military-perfect, almost always, though it's based solely on muscle memory. Even when he's somewhat relaxed, he's still rather stiff.

ATTITUDE

Personality; Considering he has amnesia, he's still sort of figuring out who he is. At times, he can be very sharp and ruthless, while at others, he's very gentle and almost sweet. He's trying to decide which of these sides is the 'real' him, even though both are. As he remembers nothing about his past, he also has a not-inconsiderable amount of anxiety over what he might have forgotten. Likes; He likes to watch the stars go by, and he's discovered a sweet tooth since trying Terran food, and that he enjoys strategy games. Other than that, he's still learning. Dislikes; Emotional vulnerability. He's not having a fun time rediscovering himself on Yamato. Strengths; He's discovered he has a good head for strategy, and his aim is impeccable, but he hasn't learned much in-depth yet. Weaknesses; The amnesia, in his opinion. Also, he sometimes spaces out completely, just disconnecting mentally, and there's no pattern or predictability to when it happens. Motivations; He wants to know who he is. Once he's learned that, he wants to know who he was. After that, he intends to find a way to reconcile those two things, and then... well, he'll go from there. For now, he's just tagging along with Yamato because they saved his life, and though he knows they're supposed to be his enemies they don't seem so bad, really.

KIT

Dress; He's not really comfortable wearing a Yamato uniform, but his only uniform was pretty badly damaged, so he doesn't have many other options, as he's equally uncomfortable in casual clothes. He makes do with uniform pants and a long-sleeved undershirt and his old uniform jacket made into a vest. Weapons/Tools; He's not trusted with a gun, which he knows is a smart decision but still is mildly hurt by, but he does carry a stun baton to defend himself with. Skills; Though he's still learning what skills he knows from 'before', he's found that he's very skilled at maintaining weapons and hand-to-hand combat, but he can't cook to save his life. He's good at making do with what he has, and can jury-rig a lot of things when needed.

BACKSTORY

As an amnesiac, he doesn't remember much of his past. What he knows is this; he was a General (from the rank tags on his uniform), he is a Gamilan (from the shade of his skin), and he is currently in enemy territory (though he's less and less sure of that one).

What happened, as far as he can piece together, is that he was on one of the many ships that challenged Yamato on her journey, and was summarily obliterated. Somehow, he'd gotten into an escape pod, and survived the otherwise complete destruction of the ship with only a head wound.

(What actually happened is that he was one half of a set of twins, and his twin knocked him out and shoved him in an escape pod so that at least one of them would survive. The amnesia was not part of the plan.)

Anyway, his escape pod got picked up by Yamato, and since he was injured, they patched him up... and that's when things get complicated. They wouldn't just throw him back out, of course, as humans are frustratingly compassionate, but they couldn't exactly just leave him to his own devices, either. And the amnesia both simplified and complicated things.

Eventually, after some uneasy walking on eggshells, a sort of mutual respect started to form, and gradually he went from an unconventional prisoner to a guest that's under a closer watch than most. Sometimes he consults on strategy- nothing vital, but side projects or hypotheticals.

Who knows what will happen when Yamato reaches Iscandar, though... something will have to give.

IMAGES

Sorry for the shitty photo quality...

[kintsugiscars]

-; autonomy

Lex has very little autonomy within the Scions, and that's by choice. He learned very young that the only way people wouldn't be scared of him was if they perceived him on a leash.

It was when he and Alphinaud fled to Camp Dragonhead that he made his first choice. He was 16, Alphinaud 14 - both of them hardly more than children. When they finally got their bearings inside from the snow, Lex realized he had a choice to make. He could break down, give into terror and grief and loss like the scared kid he was; or, he could become the Warrior of Light - a beacon they both needed. One of them had to be strong, and it wasn't going to be Alphinaud. So, he buried his fear and grief and became a smiling, helpful hero. He didn't make choices - all he did was go along with whatever Alphinaud needed and supported his little brother.

Around then, Lex tried to sneak back across the border. He had just lost G'raha to the Crystal Tower, and wanted to apologize to Rammbrose for the injuries he caused. Being a kid, his disguise wasn't the greatest. This didn't stop him from being able to go through Mor Dhona, as the Crystal Braves who recognized him were terrified of what he could do. The Warrior of Light was a force of nature, now untethered to a single cause.

That very real fear, that people were scared of him just because he was a fugitive, made Lex realize that there was only one way he was going to be able to survive. And that was to give someone his leash.

After that point, and once the Scions regrouped, Lex makes noticeably less decisions for himself. He defaults to what the Scions what, or more specifically: what Alphinaud, Alisae, G'raha, and Tataru want. He plays along with every ploy, with every desire they have. Even when Urianger betrays him multiple times, he's okay with this. He played his part as a pawn well - the only part he allows himself to have anymore. His speech patterns also change to reflect this. When he is the "Warrior of Light" he speaks formally, and with proper enunciation. He mimics some of Urianger's speech patterns, as well as Alphinaud's. This is unnatural for him and something he actively does.

This does frequently conflict with his desire for a pacifist solution, but he justifies his "disobedience" with the script he lays out for himself. The "Warrior of Light" is someone that would try for diplomacy and pacifism anyway so it would be "allowed".

His sense of needing to be kept on a leash only increases after his body changes post-Innocence fight.

[running-with-kn1ves]

A/N: Hello! Due to popular demand I decided to write a continuation to The Masked Intruder fic ! I really enjoyed writing it. Please excuse any grammar problems, I'm a bit under the weather :> btw you dont really need to read the OG in order to read this. I'll get to notes soon😭

TW:yandere themes, obsessiveness, stalking, (past) breaking and entering,

Synopsis: you've grown accustomed to the man hanging out in your walls, but it appears his clinginess does not rest even well into the night. 

word count: 2000

It was nearly three in the morning when you finally decided to get up. You had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, too stubborn to go on your phone out of fear that you'd become even more awake. But you finally caved when you heard the wall across from you begin thumping. It gave a muffled noise of exasperation.

Letting out a small sigh, you got up from the tangle of hot bedsheets and blankets. You were on the verge of sweating from rolling around so much; it was difficult to find the right spot when you were so fidgety. Your back cracked as you got up, making you feel even more alert. But though your brain was active, your body was slow to move. Each leg felt like a weight dragging you down, your pajamas suffocating you as they made you feel ten times warmer.

Blindly you searched for the door with your hands. From muscle memory you knew it was somewhere nearby; it clearly was from how it smacked you in the face. You let out a pained groan, grabbing the door slowly to open it.

You followed the glow of the moon in your kitchen window and the green flickering light of the stove. It read 3:03, flashing as if it mocked your restlessness. You traveled over to the fridge sluggishly; small thumps could be heard from behind the wall as they moved at the same pace.

But the sound didn't terrify you. Not as much as it did before, at least. It was still eerie and unnatural to hear something so close and purposeful, but you knew where it came from now. Or rather 'who' it came from.

Pulling out the milk from the fridge you headed to the cabinets, two bowls and two spoons waiting there perfectly for you. You grabbed them apathetically, not fretting the screech the sliding glass made against the cupboard. After all there was no one it would disturb-- the only other person in the house was already awake with you.

You grabbed the box of cereal on the way to the table and prepared to make your feast.

Pouring the cereal you tried your best not to spill too much, despite your tiring hand. You were doing quite well avoiding the small crunchy pieces from spilling, until a figure appeared at your heels. Its noise was silent to you, your brain on autopilot without paying attention to the rustling from behind.

The dark figure moved closer, now mere inches away. Its hands reached out for you and wrapped themselves around your stomach. You jolted out of surprise and panic, the cereal spilling on the table. The arms squished you protectively as the person's chest crushed your back. His sudden weight on you pushed you against the table. You nearly let out a squeak from fear.

Setting the cereal box down you sighed out of relief, recognizing the man's dusty smell.

"Dont scare me like that," you firmly uttered. 

He was just as bad as your first encounter, when he snuck up on you. It was a really bad habit you hoped he'd stop soon, lest you have a heart attack. Small particles of dust fluffed off of him as his arms pressed against you.

"…Sorry…" his small, croaky voice whispered into your ear. From the cold skin of his cheek on yours, you didn't have to guess that his mask was removed. He only ever took it off when he thought you couldnt see him, or in the dark.

You've managed to memorize some of his patterns by now, the few weeks you've spent with him showing his predictable traits.

It's been a learning process for you in trying to cope with the fact that there's a man living in your walls. You decided that no one would ever believe you anyway, unless you tore every wall from its place. So, you're coping. Trying to.

Dealing with it like an average, healthy person would, by letting him stay. A part of you felt like it was a bad idea, especially from how clingy he was slowly becoming. But, it's not like he'd ever hurt you right? He was far too timid, almost… sweet. But it was hard to say that outloud without sounding like a crazy person. Yet, he wasn't violent or creepy. He tried to give you privacy---at least he said he did. And you only caught him spying on you in the shower once!

You just assumed he needed some training. After all, you had no idea how much he understood when it came to formalities or privacy. He had been creeping on people for years, of course he wasnt clear on common boundaries. So, you were fine with excusing some things. Even if those things were him taking your dirty clothes and trying to cut pieces of your hair from time to time. They were the little things, the little things that reminded him of you when you were out shopping or working. But to you they were just pet peeves.

Not to mention, your bed felt a lot smaller as of late. He'd never be there in the morning, but from time to time you'd feel a presence behind you, scared fingers tracing lines on your back.

Just like now; those same fingers were tracing circles on your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine.

"Go back to bed." You sleepily muttered. Though you knew the answer he would give.

"Can't sleep." He groaned, giving a small whiff to the nape of your neck.

"you're so touchy."

You finished pouring cereal in the two bowls.

"Okay…"

He ignored your orders and gave a small lick to your ear.

The man reminded you of a cat, an animal that lingered and clinged at the most inconvenient of times. But as you poured the milk to your cereal, a question popped into your head.

"So… I still haven't figured out what to call you." You mumbled.

"Anything. " He replied quickly.The unmasked mans hands started creeping against your clothes, massaging your skin. "Anything if… it's you."

One hand pressed against your hip, swaying you closer against him and harder against the table.

"Well then how do you feel about…Mr. fluffy?"

He scrunched his face against you and clenched your loose shirt.

"No… animal name."

He smelled your hair and shook his head in disapproval. You let out a small laugh, finding joy in his sour face. He watched you prep the food with curiosity.

"Hmm alright then… What about Leo?"

The lanky male took a moment to respond, his hands freezing on your body as he stood in thought. You put the spoons into the bowls and closed up the cereal box.

"Leo.." He repeated, his hair tickling your neck as he leaned further into you. "Okay."

He let out a satisfactory groan, seemingly intrigued by the name.

"Alright then." You confirmed, taking a small bite from your bowl of food.

The man newly named as Leo gripped you as he gave an open mouthed kiss to your neck. Now that the business of his name was out of the way, he wanted to get down to his own interests. He was far too into touching you to realize that the food on the table was becoming soggy.

"come on now stop that," You gave an annoyed noise at Leo's grabbing. "Im too tired to indulge you. And 'roommates' aren't supposed--"

You turned to face him but were cut off with his mouth. He kissed the corner of your lips, his chapped ones full of desire.

"Please… please.." his voice cracked as he pulled at your shirt. "N…eed." 

You rolled your eyes and sighed; you were forced to weigh your options. In all honestly, it would be best if you gave in. If you didn't comply with what Leo wanted, he'd linger around pawing at you for the rest of the night.

Leaning in you huffed and pressed your lips against his, placing a hand on his bony shoulder. He pushed himself on you, grabbing your wrists and trapping your body against the table. It only took an inkling of consent for him to go wild.

His tongue darted against your lips as he begged for you to open your mouth. You reluctantly complied hoping he'd soon have his fill. Leo was only so confidant because you couldn't see his face, the only evidence of his healed wounds being the roughness of his broken skin on your own. His mask laid alone on the table, a symbol of his past shame and fear. Maybe he'd never let you see his face in broad daylight, but this was certainly a step up from how he reacted only mere weeks ago.

Leo dug his tongue into your mouth past your teeth. He panted against you, trying to hold back anymore noise. As he attempted to force your legs to straddle his waist, you realized you were letting him go a bit too far.

"Leo--" you breathed, trying to stop him from planting more wet kisses down your neck. "Leo stop--"

He gave a harsh suck to your jugular, only ceasing once you pried him off you. Planting two firm hands on his chest, you tried to catch your breath.

In the darkness you could hear him breathe heavily, his body shaking against your hands.

"No more." You panted.

Taking your hands off of him you wiped your mouth of saliva. Leo complied, thankfully, and let go of you. You could feel the defiance in his grip though, the strength nearly pushing back. You wondered how long it'd be until he started to stop listening to you. While steadying your breath you couldn't help but worry.

But he was still under your thumb for now, albeit he didn't seem very happy about it. He let out an upset sigh and licked his lips for any remaining taste of you.

"Its too early…for this let's just, let's eat."

You awkwardly tried to go back to what you were doing, though you knew Leo was still longing for you. His hand clenched the bottom of your shirt gently in hope you wouldn't scold him.

You took his hand and brought it to one of the bowls on the table.

"Eat." You said, taking your own seat at the table with your now mushy bowl of cereal.

The unmasked man did as you asked, meekly taking his bowl, though not quite sure what to do with it. Instead of sitting at the table, or returning to the walls, Leo began to lower himself to the ground. Scooting forward, he sat with his legs crossed over one another; holding the bowl in one hand, he used the other to wrap around your leg. You raised an eyebrow and looked to see him under the table.

"What are you doing??" Staring at him bewilderedly, you watched him scarf down the bowl of food.

"Eat." He said with his mouth full. Leo was pouring the contents into his mouth, not bothering to mess with the spoon he abandoned on the floor.

Through the moonlight you could see the milk pouring down his throat, most of the liquid missing his mouth. Besides not knowing manners, the man was unaware of how to even eat like a normal person. This was the first time he ever dared to eat in front of you; it must have been because it was dark, and he knew you wouldn't be able to see him clearly under the table. You wondered if his scars needed upkeep, wondered how he got here in the first place; but that always appeared to be a touchy subject.

Instead of prying, you went back to your own bowl of contents. Leo hung onto your leg as he drank from his bowl, holding tight to keep you planted next to him. You still felt unaware of what Leo and this house had in store for you; yet all you knew, was you wouldn't be able to get rid of them for a long time.

[galilea-naerie]

Galilea noted Rhys’s words about the soldiers, the concern etched into his voice as he spoke of the patrols and the dwindling supplies. The injustice weighed heavily on her. To leave a kingdom to suffer in illness while its ruler withheld aid was a cruelty she couldn’t comprehend, especially as a healer. Rhys’s kingdom had been abandoned, but it hadn’t broken. His people had turned to one another, forming their own systems of care and protection. Rhys, in particular, seemed to bear the burden of leadership with a grace that surprised and impressed her. She admired how he spoke, not with despair but with resolve. He wasn’t a king, but the way he moved and the compassion he displayed for his people stirred something within her, something far too warm, something she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on too long. When they arrived at Mrs. Lindly’s house, Galilea greeted her warmly alongside October, their smiles gentle yet reserved. They had both learned not to overwhelm people already steeped in fear and grief. As Mrs. Lindly described her husband’s condition, Galilea mentally cataloged every symptom, making a note to write it down later in her journal. Documentation was critical. Patterns and clues often emerged in the smallest details. The woman’s own symptoms gave Galilea pause. The tickle in her throat, the rasp, the tenderness. Her heart sank, though she kept her face neutral. Mrs. Lindly clung to hope, but any and all illnesses had a way of creeping into households, claiming one life and then another. “May we wash our hands before we begin?” Galilea asked, her tone calm. Mrs. Lindly nodded, showing them to a small basin. Galilea and October scrubbed thoroughly, their movements synchronized and deliberate. It was a ritual they both took seriously, even if they knew it wasn’t enough to protect against the parasites. The act steadied her, a reminder of her purpose. When Mrs. Lindly insisted on staying by her husband’s side, neither Galilea nor October argued, though unease prickled at the back of her mind. What she would see would spread like wildfire, but she hoped Rhys would have it handle it. But Galilea understood the desperation in the woman’s eyes. She admired it, even, the way she clung to her husband’s hand as though her presence alone might anchor him to the living. Galilea knelt by the man’s bedside, her fingers pressing lightly against his wrist. His pulse was weak and erratic, a fluttering shadow of life. But it wasn’t the pulse that caught her attention. It was what she felt beneath it. The faint, unnatural movement, something else shared his body. Her stomach tightened. She glanced at October, who had already begun unpacking their tools. He was exactly what they needed. “We need to act quickly,” she murmured. October handed her a vial of numbing tonic, its shimmering contents catching the light. Together, they worked in silent precision. Galilea noted the gray pallor of the man’s skin, the clusters of boils along his neck, and the faint crackle in his breathing. The disease had advanced far. She wasn’t sure if he would survive, but they had to try. “This is where we shall start,” Galilea said, gesturing to a particularly inflamed cluster of boils. With a sharp blade, she made a small incision, the blade parting the skin cleanly. The sight beneath the surface was horrifying, but expected. The parasites writhed in the wound, their translucent bodies pulsating faintly. Galilea suppressed a shiver. No matter how many times she had seen squirming worms, their image unnerved her. “So we finally met our enemy,” October muttered as they removed the first parasite, placing it into an enchanted dish that would keep it contained, until they could test on it. The creature squirmed weakly, its glowing form unsettling against the glass. They continued in grim silence, extracting parasite after parasite. Galilea’s hands were steady, her focus unwavering. Each removal was quick, and hope that would find something they would react to it. They were resilient, their movements defiant even outside the body.

As October stitched the incision closed, Galilea studied the parasites more closely. Their delicate, translucent forms contradicted their strength. She leaned in, watching the way they moved, almost as if they were searching for a new host. “They’re stronger than I imagined,” she murmured. “And smarter,” October added grimly, his gaze darkening. “I don’t like how they’re moving.” Galilea nodded. “They seem to be adapting.” Her thoughts raced. The parasites were unlike anything she’d encountered before. They didn’t just survive. tThey thrived, feeding off their host with a cruel efficiency. Destroying them would require understanding them, what they needed, what they feared. She turned her attention back to the patient. His breathing remained shallow but steady, a fragile thread of life. Mrs. Lindly watched them with wide, horrified eyes, her hand now removed from her husband’s grasp. As if there mere act would cause her illness to creep into her. Galilea felt a pang of empathy. “You should rest,” Galilea said gently, though she knew the advice would go unheeded. Galilea simply turned to October. “We need to analyze these parasites further,” she said, gesturing to the small dishes. October nodded, packing up their tools with practiced efficiency. As Rhys stood nearby, Galilea stole a glance at him. The way he moved, the way he spoke. It was clear he cared deeply for these people. He wasn’t just surviving in this nightmare; he was leading. He kept stirring far too many things within her, a feeling she hadn’t expected. Admiration, yes, but also something deeper. Rhys had proven himself to be everything a king should be compassionate, resolute, and selfless. It was a stark contrast to the ruler who had abandoned this kingdom to its fate. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to stand beside someone like him, not as just a healer, but as something more. The thought was fleeting, but it left a warmth in her chest that lingered even as she turned her focus back to the task at hand. “October and I should return as we have many things to test to run.” She spoke softly, just enough for Rhys to hear. “She is panicked due to what she saw.” She looked at Rhys, knowing he would handle it as October and her had plenty of work to do.

For a moment Rhys admired the nymph before him, the way she tucked her hair back and how it exposed more of her neck to him. If only he were in different circumstances in his life to indulge in the beauty of a being like her, but instead he was bogged down with being one of the few of his people not taken ill and taking care of them. That was not to say he did not hold a desire to care for his fellow people, he was happy to do it and they took precedence at this juncture, but it left little room for him to live for himself. But in his time Rhys had come to believe that few ever got to live for themselves and those that did lived lives of riches he would never know himself. Finally he nodded to her, “Of course. There is a family just up the road from here that should receive your assistance first then.” He explained to her and waited patiently as the nymph’s gathered up what they needed, but then Galilea spoke again, “Soldiers?” He questioned, worry creeping up the back of his throat and gripping on life a vice. “It is unusual. Very unusual. Soldiers have not patrolled these streets in months. We were told the king wanted to preserve our army from the spreading disease so they would not be checking on us.” And with that had come the dwindling of supplies. Supplies only being dropped once or twice a month now and usually in the dead of night. They were told once again it was because of disease, but more often it seemed like a ploy to taunt its people and only feed the rats. It was not until people who had retained their health like Rhys got wise to what was being done and began waiting in the dark for the drops when it was suspected they might be coming out. A small government-like structure had begun forming on its own with people like Rhys who had sick to look out for. They took care of one another and communicated frequently. It felt as though the king had turned his back on his people and they needed to take care of each other somehow. “Both of you must keep your heads low, do not draw a great deal of attention to yourselves, and I will do everything to keep you protected.” Magical being like themselves did not live in this kingdom and while a hostile attitude was not expressed towards magical beings Rhys still felt it was best to keep their presence as unknown as possible. He lead them both out into the street and on a brief walk down to the house he had been telling them about. He knocked on the door and looked to the window, spotting someone within peeking back out at them before the door then opened, “come in, hurry.” The woman’s voice ushered them in, “there were soldiers earlier. They came to the door asking if there were any sick here. I denied it. I suspect they knew, but they moved on anyway.” Mrs. Lindly explained to them. She looked at the two nymphs beside Rhys and a small shimmer of hope seemed to come over her rundown and tired countenance, “Oh you must be here to test out medicines on my husband. Follow me.” She motioned for the group to follow her to the back of the small house and pulled aside a curtain door. Her husband lay on the bed. His color grey, boils and bumps blistered along the back of his neck, his cough crackled and wheezed like Sandrina’s did. But it was clear this man was far more advanced in his illness, walking far closer to death than Sandrina. When Mr. Lindly’s wife attempted to rouse him all the man could do was turn his head, eye unopened, and seemingly unaware of the other voices that surrounded him. Mrs. Lindly fussed over him, fluffing the pillows behind him and attempting to prop him up. “I could still get him to open his eyes yesterday, but today he does not wish to wake.” She explained to them, grief already written on her features though she seemed to be attempting to repress those feelings until it was truly over. “And you have not been sick?” Rhys clarified with her. She shook her head, “No, but I have begun to feel a tickle in my throat.I have noticed a raspiness when I breathe from my mouth. And I do feel tender around here.” She said lightly pressed along her collarbone.

She seemed to be denying to herself that it might happen, but Rhys was aware that those were symptoms Sandrina had told him about early on as well. And certainly Galilea and October had picked up on it. “He began to fall ill a couple weeks ago and he’s been declining ever since.” She explained to Galilea and October. “Whatever you need to do if it will help me.” She continued, her hand clung to her husbands, her thumb gently rubbing against the back of his hand as though to assure him. All gestures Rhys had been observing from his neighbors with their loved ones. They all seemed to sense the lingering presence of death and cling to their loved ones for what remained. “Do you wish to stay while they work with him?” Rhys asked her. The woman quickly nodded, “Please. I cannot leave his side.” She explained, a break in her voice making clear how close she felt she was to losing her husband. Rhys nodded, “of course. Is there anything I could get you?” He asked her gently. “Would you make us some tea?” She asked him and Rhys nodded. Across the small room there was a chair that he pulled closer to her husbands beside so she could sit with him and then Rhys went to the kitchen to prepare her some tea and give Galilea and October some space to work on their patient.

[heliads]

Newcomers to Mystic Falls

Based on this request: "Teen Wolf and Vampire Diaries crossover. Jordan Parrish x fem!reader, Y/N Salvatore. After breaking up with Lydia, Parrish learned that Mystic Falls was looking for a deputy sheriff and applied for the job. Because he’s a Hellhound, he is drawn to death, and learns the town is full of supernatural beings."

masterlist / part two

You stare at the patterns of light crisscrossing your ceiling. About one hundred and seventy years of being alive, and mornings don’t seem to get any easier. You’re seriously considering just staying in bed and blocking out the world yet again, but the sound of breaking glass downstairs makes you grit your teeth. When you don’t check on obvious warning signs like that, you tend to get in trouble, either with your brothers or some latest evil ready to kill you.

You stumble downstairs, rubbing a tired hand over your eyes as you glare balefully at your twin brother.

“Damon, it is eight o’clock in the morning. You usually aren’t even awake at this point, let alone day drinking already.”

Damon glances at you from his position sprawled out over a couch. “Rude. You could have at least started with ‘good morning’ or ‘hello,’ not with the same complaints.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve been spending too much time with Stefan, that’s my fault. Can you at least explain why your bottle of bourbon has fallen out of favor and been hurled across the room?”

Damon follows your line of vision to note the shards of glass clustered on the floor, fallout from the bottle’s impact with the wall. “Ah, that. Well, none of us are perfect, and I happen to be blessed with what some people might call anger issues, so the bottle had to go.”

Under your reproachful gaze, he sighs and throws up his hands. “Fine, I’ll fix it.”

You wait until he pulls himself, slothlike, from the couch and stumbles over to the glass shards. Damon picks each dagger-sharp piece up like it’s the hardest of burdens to bear, tossing them in a nearby receptacle.

“There? Do I get an award for best brother of the year?”

You laugh. “Stop killing people every other day, and we can talk about that.”

Damon grumbles. “Your standards are too high.”

You cross the room to grab a coat and pull on some shoes. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.”

You reach for the doorknob, but Damon appears out of nowhere, blocking your avenue of escape thanks to his unnatural speed.

“Hold on a minute. Where are you going?” He asks, and you give him a look.

“Out. I was talking to Liz Forbes and she says she’s got a new deputy sheriff who moved here from Beacon Hills, California. I was thinking about taking a trip down to meet the guy.”

Damon frowns, tapping a finger against his replacement bottle of bourbon. “Beacon Hills. Where have I heard that name before?”

You let him suffer in silence for a few moments, then give him the answer. “It’s got a reputation for being just about as supernatural-heavy as Mystic Falls. From what I hear, they’ve got enough werewolf packs fighting over the same turf to give Klaus Mikaelson a holiday.”

Damon nods slowly, although the frown remains. “Why the hell would someone move here from Beacon Hills? That’s a long flight just for a new job.”

You tilt your head towards the door. “That’s why I’m going to check him out. Could be nothing, Liz said he seemed like a nice guy on the phone, but I figure a little advance warning couldn’t hurt. Worst case scenario, he’s a hunter fresh from a werewolf killing frenzy who decided to try his luck here. Best case, he’s just some guy who got sick of rent prices.”

Damon shrugs, moving to the side so you can reach the door again. “Best of luck in figuring him out. Want me to tag along?”

You toss him a grin over your shoulder as you unlock the door. “I planned on talking to a person, not a dead man, but thanks for the offer.”

Damon chuckles as you leave. “Any time!”

The trip over to the sheriff’s office is quick, and soon enough you’re heading inside. Sheriff Forbes appears to have been waiting for you, as she walks over to you with a smile.

“Y/N, it’s good to see you. Thanks for stopping by.”

You nod. “Yeah, no problem. I appreciate you telling me about this.”

She lifts a shoulder. “He seems like a nice guy, but in a town like this, I feel like it wouldn’t hurt to double-check. He’s in my office filling out the last of the paperwork, but he should be out in a moment or so.”

Like clockwork, the door to Liz’s office opens and a young man steps out. He appears to be in his early twenties, with close-cropped dark hair and bright green eyes. He nods at Liz, then studies you a little closer. He’s one of the cuter potential hunters you’ve seen, but you’ve long since learned that appearances can be deceiving.

Liz clears her throat. “Thanks for finishing those, it’s always good to have a record for these kinds of things. Y/N, this is Jordan Parrish, our new deputy sheriff.”

Jordan extends a hand to you, and a moment later, you shake it. “It’s nice to meet you, Jordan. I’m Y/N, Y/N Salvatore.”

Jordan cocks his head curiously to the side. “Salvatore, huh? I swear I’ve heard that name before.”

You hope your smile doesn’t look too much like a grimace. “Mystic Falls is rich with genealogical history. The Salvatores were one of the oldest families here, you might have seen the name on a few buildings around town.”

Jordan nods slowly. “That must be it. Well, if you’re a friend of the sheriff’s, I’d like to be a friend of yours.”

Your smile loses its edge. “I think I’d like that as well.”

A phone rings from Liz’s office, and she turns towards it. “Excuse me a moment while I answer that, will you? It’ll be just a second.”

The two of you nod, and Liz hurries to pick up the phone. The second the door to the office closes behind her, though, Jordan looks at you with a new sort of determination.

“Excuse my candor, Y/N, but I’ve barely been here a couple of hours and I’m already noticing things about this town that don’t seem quite right. You seem nice enough, and I wouldn’t mind having allies in uncertain territory. Do you know anything about Mystic Falls that you think I should know as well?”

Jordan’s gaze is deep, and seems to see straight through you. He must know about the vampires; certainly their existence, if not the fact that you’re one too. No one asks questions like that if they don’t know. However, you’re hesitant to reveal yourself until you absolutely have to do so.

You swallow hard. “I don’t think so. I mean, people can be secretive, but I think that just comes with familial pride. Have you heard anything to make you think otherwise?”

Jordan doesn’t answer at first, and when he does, his words are stilted, as if he’s carefully choosing what to say. “I’ve heard a few rumors. Can I count on you to tell me if I hear anything else?”

You nod, but you’re saved from a response by Liz returning from her office. You take this as your excuse to leave, and Liz walks out with you. You swear that Jordan’s eyes don’t leave you until you’re gone from the room, and even then, he could be staring at you through the very walls.

Liz speaks to you under her breath. Apparently, she must be picking up on your need for secrecy, or perhaps Jordan asked her the same sorts of strange questions.

“So, what did you think? Is he a vampire?”

You shake your head cautiously. “I don’t think so, but I don’t think he’s human. Something about his heartbeat was a little off. The beats were stronger than a human’s typically are. He’s not a vampire, but he’s something. I don’t know what yet.”

Liz sucks in a breath. “Shoot, I was worried about that. Should I find excuses to keep him out of the office for a while?”

You consider this. “I don’t think so. Besides, if he isn’t working, he’ll be looking into things, and I’m afraid to leave him searching for too long. I think all we can do is wait and see how things turn out. I’ll talk to Caroline and the others, make sure they stay on guard.”

Liz nods. “I’ll tell you if I see anything strange.”

You do your best for a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Sheriff. We don’t know that he’s a threat just yet, but it can’t hurt to be ready for anything.”

Despite your attempts to relieve Liz’s stress, you can’t seem to shake your own. On the way back to the Salvatore home, you get a call from another friend. This time, it’s Bonnie, and she sounds nervous. You change your course, and end up meeting her in the woods near the old Salvatore crypt. Not the best choice of scenery, given your already rampaging nerves, but at least it’s quiet.

Bonnie looks relieved when she sees you approach. “Thanks for meeting me. I didn’t know who else to call.”

You nod. “Yeah, anytime. What’s going on?”

Bonnie glances around to make sure there aren’t any errant hikers who could possibly overhear, then turns back to you. “I had this dream last night. It was one of those dreams when you can’t tell if you’re awake or asleep because everything feels so real it’s crazy. I can’t remember a whole lot from it, but I do remember that someone was coming, someone powerful. Someone who was so connected to death that they might be forged from hell themselves.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s not the best thing I’ve heard all morning.”

Bonnie shakes her head. “I did a spell to try and see if there was anyone new in town, and I picked up on something. I think they’re here now, but the second I tried to look closer, something found me and abruptly broke the connection.”

Your brow furrows. “I didn’t think someone could end your spell without your approval.”

Bonnie spreads her hands. “They can’t. Whatever this thing is, they’re far more powerful than the typical vampire. The last thing I got from the spell is that this newcomer was near the sheriff’s station, and Damon said that you were stopping by this morning.”

Your eyes widen. “Yeah, because there’s some guy who moved here from Beacon Hills. Do you think the threat could be the new deputy sheriff?”

Bonnie bites her lip, thinking. “It’s the only option that makes sense. I think I want to try the spell again, see if I can draw him here. You’ve seen him face to face, so do you mind stepping in to help me locate him?”

You nod, holding out your palm face-up. “Absolutely. Let’s figure this out.”

Bonnie takes your hand, closing her eyes and starting to chant under her breath. The ground seems to rock under your feet, a wind surging up out of nowhere to rustle the leaves on the trees. Your clothes whip under the force of the sudden gale, but Bonnie keeps going. You do your best to think about Jordan, all that you’d seen this morning. You keep him firmly in your mind, and the spell deepens.

All of a sudden, you hear a sound split the clearing. It sounds like a growl, not like that of a werewolf but worse, far more frightening. A pair of glowing eyes appear in the woods, along with the scent of charring smoke. Bonnie drops your hand and ends the spell, but it’s too late. The monster is here.

It steps into the clearing, and through the gaps in the branches, you can see it. This is Jordan Parrish, but he’s different. His gaze burns with fire, and he walks with the weight of something utterly inhuman. Jordan spreads his arms and he bursts into fire, illuminating fangs erupting from his mouth.

Bonnie gasps. “He’s a hellhound.”

You don’t know much about hellhounds, but if it scares Bonnie, that’s not a good sign. Jordan turns towards the sound of Bonnie’s voice and hurls a handful of fire towards her. Using your vampire speed, you manage to pull her out of the way just in time, and set her down on the other side of the clearing.

Jordan charges, but you block his path. The fire on his arms burns you, but the skin is already starting to reknit. You stand your ground, and call out to him in the hopes that he can still hear you.

“Back off, Jordan! We’re not trying to fight you, just figure out what you are.”

The beast that was once Jordan Parrish snarls, but you can see it starting to revert back into a human. It closes its eyes, and when the lids open again, the fire is gone. A few moments later, all traces that Jordan had been anything other than his usual self are gone, other than a persistent smell of smoke and the fact that his shirt is now riddled with holes from the sheer force of his fire.

He eyes you suspiciously. “What are you? No human can heal like that.”

You want to laugh. “You just erupted in fire, and you want to ask what I am?”

He nods. “Yes.”

You sigh. “Fine. I’m a vampire, Bonnie’s a witch. We know you’re a hellhound, but why are you here?”

Jordan seems to accept this. “I needed a new place to stay, and something called me here. A lot of death has taken place in this town, hasn’t it?”

This time, you do laugh. “That would be an understatement, but yes.”

You remember that you’re not alone, and glance over at Bonnie. “I think I can take it from here. Can you tell Elena and the others that we’ve got a new friend?”

She nods, looking faintly disturbed by what you’ve just seen. You can’t entirely blame her.

When you glance back at Jordan, you notice that he’s regarding you with a faint smile. “You can take it from here?” He asks, repeating your words.

For some reason, you feel the need to defend yourself. “Yeah, as long as you’re not trying to set the rest of us ablaze. Want to head back to the sheriff’s station? I’d love to see you try and explain to Liz why you had to leave in the middle of the day.”

Jordan nods, grinning. “I’m assuming people don’t have as many problems with mysterious disappearances around here. What’s your story, by the way? Were you checking me out this morning because you thought I might be another vampire?”

Your mouth falls open. “I was not checking you out, I was making sure you weren’t a threat. It’s a reasonable concern, thank you very much. I’ve been a vampire for a while, and that’s just what you do.”

Jordan accepts this, although he’s still wearing that same smirk. “So what do vampires do? Other than eliminating threats, of course.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he appears to be sincere. “Drink blood, cause problems, all that. My brothers, Damon and Stefan Salvatore, are also vampires. We all turned back in 1864 thanks to some vampire named Katherine who liked both of them at the same time. She always bothered me. We could have been amazingly good friends, but she seemed to think that she could win over my brothers by making an enemy out of me. It was so annoying.”

Jordan chuckles. “Well, she was wrong there. I’m not sure I’d like to ever have you as an enemy.”

You hum in approval. “That’s what I thought. Anyways, what’s your story? Hellhounds don’t just turn up out of nowhere.”

Jordan’s expression turns contemplative. “No, they don’t, do they? I came here from Beacon Hills, but you already know that. I had a good group of friends, mostly werewolves, but I helped them fight their latest bad guy and there just wasn’t much reason for me to stay, especially after–”

His voice trails off, and you get the feeling that there was another reason contributing to Jordan’s departure, perhaps centered around a breakup. This shouldn’t make you happy, but for some reason, it does.

Jordan continues a moment later. “Point is, I wanted a new start, and this place seemed interesting enough so I came. I have to admit, you guys do a good job of staying undercover. I had a few suspected vampires that I’d heard about before, but they fit in well. Out of curiosity, most of the vampires seem to be enrolling themselves at the high school. Why don’t you?”

You give a delicate shudder. “If I’m cursed to stay on this earth for so long, why would I waste my time in high school? Regular humans already hate it, and they only have to go through it once. There’s no good reason I should subject myself to it over and over again. I don’t understand how my younger brother finds the motivation to do it, but I suspect it has something to do with Elena Gilbert, his latest crush.”

Jordan grins. “I can understand that. Does this mean you haven’t found a suitable crush to keep you in high school?”

You arch a brow. “Absolutely. Why do you ask?”

Jordan shrugs a little too casually. “No reason. If you’re free, though, I might not mind getting a drink sometime. It would be nice to spend a night with someone when you don’t have to lie about being a human.”

You break into a broad grin. “Jordan Parrish, are you asking me out?”

He’s smiling too, now. “Maybe. Are you saying yes?”

You pretend to consider this. “I think I am. See you at seven?”

“Sounds perfect,” he says, and you can’t help but agree. Perfect indeed.

requested by @thornyrose463

teen wolf tag list: @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @lovesanimals0000, @rafecameronswhore, @bellabadacadabra

[extremelynerdycat]

Ok, so here we go.

A way to start off or explain some of my aus would be this idea of "soul form" that I've been having.

Basically, in the past isles, there would be this spell. It would shapeshift people into their soul form.

Soul form would be like, someone's TRUEST form.

Soul form would represent someone's personality, mental health, and favorite things. People would usually prefer their soul form, unless they lie to themselves a lot.

Soul forms could be based on the titans interpretation, meaning he could pick people to give gifts to via their soul form.

Maybe people go into soul form for holidays? Or a specific holiday? Or a celebration? Maybe a certain festival? Perhaps people do it all the time?

Maybe witches and demons go into their soul forms once they come of age and it's just a custom there?

I could see soul forms either changing as a person changes, shapeshifting them, or needing to be updated by performing the spell again.

The spell might also be temporary, shifting a person back to their original/physical form after a while.

Okay, here's how it relates to my aus.

Titan Caleb, Basilisk Caleb, Collector Caleb, Golden Guard Caleb, Palisman Caleb, Witch Caleb, and more could use this as a starter!

You see, Caleb would learn of soul forms at some point. Maybe Evelyn is performing a spell to go in hers? Maybe there's a festival where the spell will be mass done to everyone there? Somehow, he'd be told of them.

Caleb would try it out.

Boom. There you go. Soul forms could start plenty of these aus. Caleb just does it for a bit, and then decides to assume that form regularly.

Maybe he's got a Titan soul form because the titan likes him a lot and wants to help him out? Maybe a basilisk to help him carve his own path?

Perhaps that leads to Philip not recognizing him when they reunite? What happens then?

Furthermore, a part that would definitely make this better would be that his soul form, whatever it be, is unique. Let's say, soul forms usually are just dream outfit, hair color, and other small features. They can be unnatural pigments, but not too extreme that it would count as becoming a whole different species. Past humans on the isles were recorded to have normal soul form patterns as well.

Then Caleb suddenly gets a cross species form. How does that go? How does that affect things? What happens then?

Anyway, feel free to use my ideas, just somehow show me what you make! I'd love to see it if any of you who read this get inspired by my little aus.

[rosedavid]

For the intimacy prompts!

hand on chest during a casual conversation

thank you so much!!

...

Patrick learns early on that David communicates with his hands. Sometimes, he uses them as a form of punctuation, sharp and resolute, or other times, his hands circle in the space about him to accompany his rambling. He wears different configurations of rings depending on the day, and Patrick is still trying to make sense of the pattern between the rings and David's moods, although he's not having much success with his spreadsheet thus far. Finally, Patrick learns that when words fail David, he speaks through his gestures, through his touch.

As their relationship grows, so do the casual touches between them. A brush of their bodies as they pass each other in the store, David's fingers running along the side of his bicep and up his shoulder as he stands beside him. 

It takes Patrick a bit longer to reciprocate, to learn that he's free to touch and love David and to untrain old habits of keeping a distance (although it's not that hard because from the moment they met, Patrick was drawn to David with an invisible tug). After a while, though, the casual touches all become so natural that at times, Patrick doesn't think twice about it. Not touching David is what feels unnatural now.

But when they’re around other people, their habits often get pointed out. Today is no different. 

He and David are waiting for their tea and coffee at the Cafe Tropical one morning. They’re facing each other, leaning against the counter, and chatting idly about their newest vendors and products. 

“...think it would be nice to incorporate some more local artists into our store,” David continues as Patrick nods along. 

“Yeah, I agree. We should check out the local art fair down in Elmdale in a few weeks,” Patrick replies. 

That’s when Twyla reappears with two to-go cups. She looks between them with a grin on her face. “You two are such a sweet couple. I just love love.”

Patrick furrows his brow because they’re not doing anything except having a conversation. But then, he realizes that David’s hand is pressed against his chest right above his heart and has been throughout their entire conversation, while Patrick has a loose grip on David’s bent lower arm. Never before have public displays of affection come so easily to Patrick, but with David, it’s just as automatic as breathing or blinking. 

“Thanks, Twyla,” Patrick responds with a small smile, then takes the cups from her. “Have a good day.”

On the way out, he and David reach for each other’s empty hands and lace them together.