Aku gets cured from vampirism for the most part.
B-but he still gets side effects of the need to drink blood, (doesn’t need much and helps him stay healthy)
And he needs it around the full moon.
And Atsushi needs someone to be with bum during the full moon.
D-do you think that Aku would drink Atsu blood?
I mean, are you going to let him starve?
24 notes
·
View notes
Crazy humans are weird idea I just had while I was brushing my teeth. Okay, so what if our world is the only one where people and animals are designed to be able to create and communicate with sound? Not that the other alien species can't hear or make sound at all, if they step on a twig it still snaps, if they clap their hands it still makes a sound, their breathing can still be audible, and a stampede of elephant-equivalents will still make a thunderous stampede noise you'd need to be able to feel and hear, but what if none of them have vocal cords? What if the closest they can get is a sort of hoarse screech of unconventionally forceful breathing? What if we're the only ones with speech and birdsong?
Alien species communicate through tap-stomp dancing and facial expressions and sign/body language and rhythmic drumbeat patterns and little handpats on whatever surface is available (including themselves).
Nothing could have prepared them for our thousands of languages, the sheer volume we're just effortlessly capable of, the precision and variety and eloquence in the sounds we can produce. The apparent cacophony of birdsong and crickets chirping and cats meowing and lions roaring and dogs barking and whalesong, and just all the vastly different sounds everything on our planet can make. The musical instruments which aren't just percussion and string, but also wind instruments.
Just- what if we were the only ones with speech?
If I were more creative and less tired right now I'd write a mini-fic thing, if anyone sees this and somehow gains that kind of inspiration, PLEASE do, I'd be honored, thank you.
86 notes
·
View notes
im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );
can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.
but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.
you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,
that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.
that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.
and in that moment everything seems solidified.
you're never getting away.
there's no point in it.
there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.
you're dead.
not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.
what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?
who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?
the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.
4 notes
·
View notes