Bird Of Hermes

Excuse me??? This is plain nightmare fuel and I ain't even playing the nightmare mode

Eren Yeager

❥ quick lil fic for Spike Spiegel my beloved ❥ ft. dancing, a little drinking, a lot of flirting ❥ now playing: Messages from the Stars - The Rah Band

He moved with an easy grace, embodying the music in a way you wouldn’t have guessed from his lanky frame and rumpled suit. The flashing club lights gilded his dark curls and dripped down his sharp limbs. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. 

A sheen of sweat glued his dress shirt to his muscled chest, his eyes thankfully closed as you stared shamelessly. You had been nursing a drink for the last hour since your friends had gone home with conquests early on. It seemed that your patience had been worth it, though you wondered how you hadn’t noticed the gorgeous stranger sooner.

You slammed down the rest of your glass and hopped off the bar stool in a burst of courage, shouldering your way through the swaying mass of people out to forget about their problems with a little music and a lot of alcohol. You wove your way to the edge of the dance floor, claiming a spot just beside the tall man as you began to dance on your own. 

The DJ was better than usual, spinning something deep and synthy that rattled your spine. You let the rhythm sweep you up, swinging your hips and sliding your hands along your chest and waist as you tried to catch his eye. Up close, you could see the wrinkles in his dark blue suit, a wide collar narrowing into the too-thin tie around his neck. It fit tightly around his shoulders, straining a little in a way that made you anxious to see what he looked like beneath the sweaty yellow button-down. 

“Just planning on staring all night, or are ya gonna come talk to me?” The cocky voice came from the man beside you. He took a slow glance up and down your body, winking when his eyes landed back on your flushed face. 

“I wasn’t staring!” You protested lamely.

“Sure, sure. It’s my personal policy not to argue with a pretty lady,” he smirked, hands up in mock surrender. The gesture only made you realize how long his fingers were, the strength in his calloused hands... Fuck, you were staring again.

“My eyes are up here,” he teased. “And the name’s Spike.” 

“Funny name.”

He shrugged, still smiling. “I’m a funny guy.” 

“Is that right?” You tried to slip an edge into your voice but all that came out was a tease. And he seemed to like it, judging by the way he danced closer, all sharp angles and smooth smiles.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He didn’t crowd you, just grinned down behind that dark green halo of strobe-lit hair. “You here on your own?”

“My friends found distractions already.” You shrug, trying to match his nonchalance.

“My bad. I should’ve asked, are you seeing anyone?” He paused, laughed a little before correcting himself again. “Lemme be specific. Are you seeing anyone who’d try to kick my ass if I danced with ya?”

“Are you asking me to dance, Spiky?”

“Are you saying yes?” He closed the gap between your bodies and hovered his hands over your waist, bending to whisper against your ear. “And it’s Spike.”

“Okay, Spike,” you murmured back, a little dizzy from the closeness of him, the heat of his breath on your skin. “Let’s dance.”

His big hands settled on your waist, heavy and grounding. The song changed almost as if he’d cued it, and his grin widened as he twirled you out to arm’s length before spinning you back against his chest.

The hi-hat settled in his hips. Each beat hit somewhere in his body, passed down along his arms and legs in fluid motions. He pulled you along with him, swept up in the tide of his dancing.

“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” You asked, leaning close to be heard over the music. His laughter spilled like soda, bubbly and sticky-sweet. You felt it more than heard it, pouring down your spine.

“Everybody can dance, doll. But not everybody does.”

He had you then, even if he didn’t know it yet. You were caught up in the rhythm of him, the rumpled sexiness of his devil-may-care attitude, the sparks that lit up the dingy club when your bodies touched.

You were proud that you could keep up with him, the effort of it making your cheeks flush. You slunk around him, matching his moves with ones of your own that brought you ever-closer, your hand slipping down his chest, your ass pressed against his waist as you dropped to the floor and climbed back up.

Spike followed your lead, touching only where you had invited him to. His eyes flashed as you pressed up against him with a knowing smile. He smirked, made no effort to hide the effect you had on him, his hands eagerly mapping each new territory you opened on your body. By the time the dance ended you were entwined.

In a surge of confidence, endorphins and alcohol swirling in your gut, you curled your fingers around his lapels and tugged him in for a breathless kiss. He returned it instantly, his lips soft and yielding against yours. You felt him smile as you nipped at his bottom lip before breaking away.

He smiled crookedly, running a hand through his unruly hair. “You’re something.”

“Something good, I hope.” He nodded confidently.

“Very good. Hey, do you smoke?” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t, but I’d watch you do it.”

Spike laughed. “Cute answer.” He took your hand and led you off the floor and out a side door. You thought for one wild moment that you would’ve followed him anywhere.

The night was clear and cold. It sobered you a little, your ears still ringing with the aftermath of the music. He let you go and leaned against the wall to fish a crumpled box of cigarettes from his pocket. He began patting his chest and thighs for a lighter but came up empty.

You watched for a bit, entertained, then caved and pulled a lighter from your purse. “Use mine.”

“Thought ya didn’t smoke?”

“I don’t. But sometimes someone needs a light.”

He smiled slowly, then shook his head. “I’m glad I’m the one who gets it tonight.” He watched you from under his eyelashes as he tapped out a cig.

You clicked on the lighter but didn’t move closer. The smile seemed permanently stuck to his face as Spike leaned closer, forced to bend over your outstretched hand to catch the flame. He sucked in, the tip of his cigarette a flickering orange moth.

“How does it taste?” He gave it some thought, the span of a few more exhales into the dark.

“Terrible,” he said finally. “But it takes the edge off.”

“Do you have much of an edge?”

His lips curled like the smoke. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” His voice was harsher out here, raspy and low, but his eyes were softer. You let his words linger and dissipate under the stars.

“Can I have a taste?”

He wrinkled his nose and waved you off, tongue-in-cheek disapproving. “No way. Not if you’ve never done it before, don’t want ya blaming me when you get hooked. Kills the mood.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Hm? Mmphh…!” You don’t give him time to process your words before you’re kissing him again, pinning him back against the wall. His eyes go wide, his fingers flex, then both close tight as he melts into you. The cig falls forgotten to the concrete.

Spike curls into you, holding your icy cheeks in his warm palms as he kisses you back passionately. You taste the cigarette on his lips, but it’s drowned out by something deeper, then washed away entirely when he slips his tongue into your mouth. He swallows your moans, holds you up when your knees buckle at the way he teases you, pulling away to kiss the corners of your mouth before diving back in deep.

He’s stronger than you but pretends not to be, happy to let you hold him down on the wall, your fingers tangled in his hair. He spreads his legs, letting you move between them to press against his growing hardness.

Spike’s hands are restless, moving from your cheeks to your shoulders to the small of your back, molding you to his shape. He breaks first, breathing hard with his forehead pressed to yours. He crushes the smoldering cigarette under his heel.

The stars are even closer when you open your eyes, drawn in by the gravity between you and Spike. They gather like they want to hear a secret, and when his kiss-bitten lips find your ear, murmuring an invitation or a promise, they blush with you.

DANDYMANNNNNN

Alhambra

You did 🗣️

I am not an animator but I cooked😎

Really, who WOULD resist the opportunity to be stepped on by Gerard Keay

People in Shibuya rn:

DIY heart transplantation and its consequences (it’s never enough)

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

Tw: blood, cannibalism (?)

Note: this was made as a submission to a writing challenge, on @the-kingofdoritos 's discord server, so my thanks go to him and everyone there!

Date: 3/2/2025

Have you ever been heartbroken?

Abandoned? 

Judged? 

Left all on your own? 

Did you ever have to pick up the pieces of your poor heart and soul by yourself because there was no one to help you?

Did you turn ugly and bitter? Lost your beauty now that your fundamental parts are missing?

Have you ever had to wipe your own tears with your bloody fingers because the shards of your crushed soul wounded your poor body? 

Have you ever felt that emptiness deep within? In your chest. It must be your heart, right? 

Well, good news, ladies and gentlemen! We have something just for you!

The human body heals, and with today's technology and techniques, it’s easy to replace limbs and even organs! Convenient, no? 

We introduce to you: DIY transplanting technique!!

With this technique, you can easily just get a transplant yourself, all you need is to get another heart! 

How, you may ask? Well, it’s easy! 

Inflict harm 

Bring justice to yourself 

Fill the void that was left by others by taking away their hearts!

Bite through their skin, break their ribs, and get your hand deep into their mortal body and pull it out like the desperate, scared, wounded animal you are. 

Be selfish because sometimes, being selfish is a form of self-care! 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Uh-oh! 

Did your hands get bloody? 

Are your clothes now stained in crimson? 

Don’t worry! It’s not your blood, so it’s irrelevant! 

.

But something else besides your hands got stained, didn’t it? 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Souls also get stained;

They don’t heal,

They’re unique; 

They can’t be cleaned or replaced

All your sins will follow you forever, you will rot because desperate times call for desperate measures. The blood you spill will remain deep within the void that used to be your soul.

Eternity, immortality, purity…

While your heart might be replaced by another’s, sewn into your flesh and protected by your bones, your soul can’t. 

It will forever be broken, whatever remains of it will cut into your mortal flesh and the rest will be an emptiness. But hey! What’s stopping you from trying to replace it?

What’s stopping you from using blood as glue and violence as your weapon? 

And so you start doing that,

Your survival instincts kick in, you keep chewing on people's hearts and slamming fists into their souls. 

Now there are shards everywhere… 

So you start collecting them, gently holding them in your hands so you don’t cut yourself again, so you don’t damage that fragile thing.

And the soul’s owner looks up at you. They’re on their knees, with a hopeful spark in their eyes, opening their palms so you can hand them back what you took away.

They wish to stop hurting,

They wish for the pain to stop,

But so do you.

And so you walk away, go back into your home and glue yourself together carefully. It’s bloody, it’s messy, but it’s enough, right? 

Wrong.

You’re not whole. You can’t be whole. You’ll never be whole again. There are cracks, there are empty spaces. What once was broken will never be whole again

But you are beautiful again, with crimson on your hands and lips, with the essence of other humans now rooted deep in you, you’ll carry it all forever. 

For an eternity. Souls are immortal. Pure.

You’ll carry it all forever. 

But yours isn’t pure anymore.

It’s replaced. 

I found the most Tim Stoker fit ever while shopping