#monstrous howling

[love-and-monsters]

I wake up in pain. That part's normal.

Less normal is the part where I'm hearing voices

Ah, I see. Let me fix that for you.

The pain goes down in notches, like someone twisting a volume knob. There, that's better, isn't it? Shhh. It's all right.

The voice is quiet, whispery, tickling in the back of my mind. It doesn't have any particular gender. The way it speaks is kind, if slightly condescending.

I try to twitch my fingers. They don't. I can't move!

I apologize. The paralytic is still in effect. It will wear off shortly.

I feel like I'm going to throw up, a bad idea when I'm paralyzed on my back. My heart hammers against my ribs. What's going on? Get out! Get out of me!

There's an odd, whispery feeling of something in my body, thread-like filaments against my nerves. Shh. It's all right.

No, it isn't! How are you in my head? Get out!

The voice is calm when it speaks again, not even slightly upset or defensive. The process doesn't go backwards. It's all right, though. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you.

I try to thrash again, but the paralysis is still in full force. My limbs won't move. I'm caught in the throes of terror, nausea and panic clawing through me.

Oh, dear. Easy, now. It's all right. I'll make it better.

The panic goes away.

Not entirely; my brain is still reeling. But my heartbeat slows. My stomach unclenches. My breathing steadies. I am, physiologically, calm.

What did you do to me?

You were upset and in pain. I assisted. The voice grows softer, kinder, gentler. Loving. It's going to be all right from now on. I'll always be here. I'll make everything better for you.

[love-and-monsters]

There's a peacock harpy at the bookstore.

He's got royal blue hair, the same shade as the little feathers that sprout on his neck and presumably down his back and arms. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt, which snaps closed at the back of his neck and waist, to allow for the expanse of feathers that covers his arms.

Though that expanse of feathers is nothing compared to his tail. It's barely lofted off the ground behind him, and he has to lean forward to manage that, balancing on the tops of his bird-like toes. He's flipping through a book on gardening, careful to not let the talons at his fingertips catch on the thin paper.

A rare breed, peacock harpies. His tail is lush and full, which is even rarer--a lot of harpies sell their feathers to make a little extra cash.

You're trying not to stare. He adjusts his glasses and flips another page in the book. His tail twitches.

In the middle of your trying-not-to-stare session, he sighs, flips the book over to check its price, then winces. After a surreptitious glance around, he takes out his phone and takes a few photos of the page. Another glance, he places it back on the shelf and starts to leave.

Only to turn and slam his tail into his a display. There's a hopeful moment, where it only wobbles, then it overbalances away from him.

He winces again as the books scatter across the floor. "Son of a-" With a harried curse, he steps around to start picking them up, and his tail whacks into another display. This time, the books fall across his tail. "God fucking dammit." His feathers ruffle along his neck.

You hurry over to scoop some of the books off him. "Here you go."

He sighs. His hair is loosely tied back, but some strands are coming loose and falling across his face. "Thank you, you're a lifesaver." He stands carefully, holding his tail still. "This thing has a mind of its own, I swear it."

You laugh nervously. "I wouldn't know about that, I guess."

He glances at your own, tailless, rear and you think his gaze lingers for maybe a moment too long. "No. Suppose you wouldn't." He shakes himself off and gathers a few more books. "Sometimes I think it would be easier if I lopped the damn thing off. Aisles here are not designed fro harpies."

"It'd be a shame if you did," you say, not really thinking about it. "It's beautiful."

He blinks at you, color rising beneath his skin. And then, to your surprise, his tail twitches and lofts. The feathers spread and the full majesty of his tail is revealed.

It also knocks into a shelf and another book display sending half of them sliding to the floor.

"Motherfucker," he snarls. "I am so sorry, it's instinct, I don't totally control it-"

"It's fine," you laugh. "I'll help you pick them up, and then maybe we should go somewhere else?"

The look he gives you is warmly appraising. "Yes. I guess we should."

[love-and-monsters]

There’s something engaging about playing in a morally gray space as a writer. I like writing about different cultures and making up cultures where the morality doesn’t quite fit. This would be considered immoral in our culture, yes, but it isn’t considered immoral in this one. This character has no framework for considering this behavior as bad. Are the people perpetuating this behavior bad people? What goes into characterizing behavior as bad or good?

Unfortunately this is a good way to get garroted by a certain subsection of readers.

[love-and-monsters]

Mortal: and this is a marriage of convenience, yes?

Faerie: oh, yes. Quite convenient. I imagine you will be in my bedroom far more often, and therefore it will be much more convenient for me to kiss you.

[love-and-monsters]

The issue with living somewhere cold is that nagas don't like it.

Make no mistake: nagas are not technically cold blooded. They are capable of regulating their body temperature, at least to some degree. Otherwise, living only a few miles south of Canada would be completely impossible for your boyfriend.

They're just not that good at it.

Take a naga. Any naga, because this is a species-wide trait. Place them in any location lower than sixty degrees Fahrenheit. And watch them immediately start attempting to either gather blankets or wrap themselves around the nearest source of warmth. Having an office job with a naga means gaining an understanding of where, exactly, every heating vent in the building is by simply observing where all the nagas are attempting to put their desks.

You've also figured out where the heatings vents in your apartment are, because your partner has moved your bed directly under one and promptly vanished under the covers.

"It's not even that cold out," you tell him.

The lump on the bed shifts slightly. None of him his visible, but there is a tiny opening near the front of the mound. He calls it a 'breathing hole.'

"It's freezing. If I go out there, I'll die."

Aversion to cold is a species-wide trait. Whining about it is unique to your partner.

"You won't die," you say. "It's like. Fifty-six degrees. You're only in danger once it's below freezing."

He emerges enough that you can see his face. "You're a freak. How are you even comfortable like that?"

You're wearing shorts and a T-shirt. "I'm going for a run."

He shoves himself out of the covers in an enormous heave. "What? You're leaving?"

"I told you, I want to take up running. You can come with."

He shakes his head. You shrug. You weren't expecting him to come. You turn to head out of the house and-

"Ack!"

Movement is hard when there's a four hundred pound snake man hanging off your shoulders. Actually, even standing is hard. You sag helplessly to the ground. Curse his massive, muscular tail.

"What are you doing? Stop!"

"I'll freeze to death if you leave me." The tail contracts and he starts dragging you back to the bed. "My beloved is abandoning me to the elements."

"You will not freeze, the house is perfectly warm." Struggling is no use. He drags you under the covers and starts coiling around you.

"I won't freeze now," he says happily, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Admittedly, his nose is like a chip of ice.

"You have a heated blanket under here, you were never going to freeze."

"You're better," he sighs, then succumbs back to sleep. You sigh. It's technically warm enough that he doesn't need to brumate, but he gets sleepy more often and more intensely during cold seasons.

And, admittedly, it is very warm and cozy under here.

[love-and-monsters]

"The damn things itch, sometimes."

You looked over. Your partner was lying across the couch, massaging their gums.

"Your mouth?"

"My teeth. My fangs, really." They heaved a massive sigh.

"How do your teeth itch?" you asked. They shrugged moodily, making their hair ripple in a massive, silvery wave down their back. Their hair was quite long, as vampire hair kept growing, albeit slowly, after the turning. The issue came with getting it cut, since, one, going to a salon tended to invite questions about why one couldn't be seen in any of the mirrors, two, cutting your own hair without access to a mirror was ridiculously difficult, and three, you had been very nervous about turning the scissors on them yourself.

"My teeth are more sensitive than yours," they said. "Vampire things." They thumbed at the tip of one of their fangs. Another complicating factor when going out: their teeth, unlike those in most vampire fiction, did not retract. They were permanently long and sharp, which gave them a very slight accent when speaking, and meant they got awkward questions on the few occasions they did leave their lair.

You moved closer, curious. "Teeth do have nerves in them. I wonder if vampire nerves are more sensitive."

"I don't know. Probably." They lowered their own hands as you reached out and cupped their chin. The tips of your thumbs nudged just beneath their upper lip.

Their eyes fluttered shut as you ran your thumbs along the length of their fangs. The tips were sharp, but you were careful not to nick yourself. A few drops of blood didn't actually trigger a vampire frenzy unless said vampire was already on the verge of starvation, but it did tend to kill the mood for a bit. There was some inherent weirdness to being both a lover and a snack bar that neither of you had fully managed to square away yet.

"They can tell temperature," your partner said after a moment, being very careful with their mouth motions. "Warm from cold."

"Really?" you said.

"Mmhm. Even subtly. And vibration, too. I think it's for getting an accurate bite location. If you can line up with where you feel the pulse-"

"You can bite right on the vein," you agreed. Your partner hummed, eyes still closed as you rubbed their fangs and gums. They seemed almost sleepy, head drooping.

Which gave you a perfect opportunity to jab at their metaphorical exposed underbelly.

"We could get you a teether," you suggested. "They probably have ones that heat up."

Their eyes snapped open. "No."

"I bet it'd feel nice, though. And I think they make some really cute ones. Do you want one with a little bunny or a little ducky? Oh, actually, they might make one with a little puppy, that'd be soooo cute for-"

Your partner tackled you off the couch (one hand still cradling your fragile, mortal head). There was some measure of play-snapping, which never went deeper than your clothes, and your managed to pull their hair at one point. But most of what happened was a lot of rolling around and giggling until you were both thoroughly winded.

[love-and-monsters]

I’m realizing that because of the way I created my worldbuilding and the way the society I made conceptualizes sex, their view on how egg-laying creatures are gendered is actually completely backward.

So I might have to fudge some things real quick or I’m going to confuse my audience when they start referring to the ones that lay eggs as ‘he.’

[love-and-monsters]

There are too many Dark Fuck Princes in modern romance. Where are my guys who are whiny losers.