bellafarallones2

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Original Work Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: older man/younger man - Relationship Characters: motel owner who put hidden cameras in the rooms, motel guest who is honestly into it Additional Tags: Age Difference, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Hotels, Masturbation, Video Cameras, Dildos, Explicit Sexual Content Summary:

For years before he built the Oasis Motel, Vincent could think of nothing else but how badly he wanted to watch people like this, have them not give him a second look afterwards, not knowing he’d seen them showering or undressing for bed or making love. He thought he'd do it every night, at every opportunity.

But then he actually became a motel operator and found he didn't have the time. He made enough money to hire help, but he couldn’t risk letting anyone find out about the cameras, so he was on his own. An endless cycle of laundry, cleaning, repairing or replacing all the many things that broke, and filling out order forms for tiny soaps. When he touched himself at all, it was in his own bed, fantasizing, just like he’d done before he bought the motel in the first place.

#vinlo

[bellafarallones2]

the winnebago speaks

My wheels settled easily into the dust and gravel of Eastwoods Campground & RV Park. There was snow on the ground, and the lowest bough of the tree above me almost brushed my roof. I liked how quiet it was.

You rarely stayed in one place long, before Kepler. We traveled together from Oregon to Florida and back, and so when we stopped in Kepler I was expecting to leave the next day, or maybe the day after.

My Indrid: you have not taken me to a mechanic in fifty years, the fifty years we have been together, no. The saffron magic of Silvain has flowed through your hands and into me, no need for oil changes or wheel rotations. My tire traction is always impeccable. The faux-leather of my steering wheel is stained with the sweat of your hands. I am not like a human, whose cells regenerate; I wear the evidence of every touch forever.

That day you sketched frantically, huddled over my tiny table with a mug of hot eggnog at your elbow. And when you’d drawn the ruins of Leo’s General Store you hurried out the door to the payphone on the other side of the campground.

You looked so cold as you talked on the phone, shoulders huddled, the wind pressing into you.

Whenever you are away I call out to you. I say, here I am, here are my four space heaters humming, here is my metal door to keep the heat in, here my little booth and formica table, here my microwave and hot-plate, here my refrigerator, here my ragged carpet, here our bed. Here we are.

Sure enough, when you were done on the phone you hurried back inside me, folded your knees to your chest as you sat on the sofa with your sketchbook, pen-tapping nervously. 

That was the first time you drew Duck Newton, standing authoritatively in the light of the Pizza Hut sign, though I did not recognize him then. And after you’d drawn him, when your visions had shown you whatever you were looking for, all the tension in your muscles ran out at once, the pencil dropped from your hand, and your head drooped backwards.

“I can’t believe they managed it,” you murmured, wonder in your voice.

–

The next morning three humans arrived. This was unusual. You rarely entertained guests, but these three you opened the door for an instant before they knocked. A gray-haired man in a loud tie, a young woman with dyed-red hair and scorch marks on her jean vest, and a man in a park ranger uniform who you couldn’t quite take your eyes off of. 

You spoke their words as they did - I love when you show off. You offered them mugs of eggnog. You tore down dramatically the drawings you’d hung on my wall, and announced that the funicular was going to crash. 

The three humans - the Pine Guard - left again, and you paced. My corridor, such as it is, is long enough for you to take five steps before turning around, and you took those five steps back and forth for almost an hour. 

Then, after the disaster was averted, you fell into a restless, twitching sleep. 

I am the cocoon you curl up in, your pale limbs soft like the flesh of an insect newly eclosed.

Sometimes on moonless nights you climbed up onto my roof and took your glasses off, spread your wings over the weather-worn metal. I keep the secret of your true form faithfully, just like I keep all your secrets, the things you murmur when you are alone in bed, and the many futures not-to-be. 

#gen #taz amnesty #indrid cold

[bellafarallones2]

when the stars depart their habitual places

This is my third year of writing OT4 for the brilliant @thiswasinevitableid on Christmas! (How is it three? How can it possibly be three??) Anyway, I've had another amazing year talking about TAZ with you on Discord, and so I offer this unofficial, unapproved OT4 sequel to that AU where Barclay is a Catholic priest in the 1970s and Joseph and Duck are demons, as seen in this Sternclay fill and this Indruck fill.

~~~

By four-thirty in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, the only daylight remaining was gray and dim, and Indrid had a flashlight in his pocket for the walk home. It wasn’t a short walk to the church, but with Duck next to him, no amount of darkness could have kept Indrid from feeling safe. 

“Do demons usually celebrate Christmas?” Indrid asked as snow crunched underneath his feet. 

“Some of us,” said Duck. “I don’t think Joseph usually does. But I’ve been celebrating Christmas since before it was Christmas.” 

Soon they could see the church through the trees. The churchyard was peaceful in daylight, gray headstones capped with snow, but as evening deepened it was downright spooky. Indrid kept carefully to the path, fearful of tripping. The stained-glass windows of the sanctuary were dark, but the rectory was cheerfully lit. 

When they reached the church, Indrid and Duck went around to the back door and knocked.

Warm air and the delicious smell of food greeted them as soon as the door opened, along with a man in slacks and an undershirt. This was Barclay, the priest, though he didn’t look it right now. “Hello!” said Barclay. “Come in! I’m so glad you could make it.” 

“Thank you for inviting us,” said Indrid, and made to hand him the card he’d brought before realizing that Barclay’s hands were full. “I’ll just, uh-”

“Here, let me put down the bowl and I’ll -” Barclay wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and took the card Indrid had offered him. It said Merry Christmas on the front, and Indrid had drawn the churchyard in colored pencil, adding one bright long-tailed star in the dark sky above it. “This is gorgeous, Indrid,” said Barclay softly. “Thank you.” He went over and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet before he picked up his wooden spoon again. “You both make yourself comfortable.”

Indrid looked around the apartment. It was so small that Barclay’s Christmas tree was on a tabletop, the lamp that must normally sit there displaced to the floor underneath it. There were exactly two presents under the tree: one addressed to Barclay, and the other addressed to Joseph. 

“Merry Christmas,” said Joseph, standing up from his armchair to shake Indrid’s hand, then Duck’s. He was wearing a crisp white button-down and suit jacket, like he was going to mass. Duck was wearing a tasteful green waffle-knit pullover, and Indrid felt a little ridiculous in his Christmas sweater with the loose thread at his wrist. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” said Indrid.

Barclay didn’t even turn around. “Just sit down, the food is almost ready.” 

“Would you like anything to drink?” said Joseph, as though he lived here himself. “We have a very nice red wine.”

“You’d know, since you bought it,” said Barclay teasingly. “I bought apple cider, too, for Indrid.” 

“I’d like some cider,” said Indrid. 

Joseph poured him a glass, and Indrid took a sip. It was rich and cinnamony, the next best thing to eggnog.

Barclay pulled a huge piece of roast beef out of the oven and stuck a thermometer into it. “Alright, dinner is served.” 

Indrid’s mouth was already watering. It was more food than he’d seen on one table in a long time: the roast beef, potatoes au gratin in a massive casserole dish with the cheese perfectly browned on top, and asparagus swimming in butter and cracked black pepper. 

“I’m glad you’re all here to help me eat all this,” said Barclay. “Indrid, you’d better be ready to take home leftovers. And Duck, Joe - if there were refrigerators in Hell, I’d expect you two to take home leftovers, too.”

They took their seats. Indrid was about to reach for a serving spoon when Barclay cleared his throat, made the sign of the cross, and closed his eyes. 

Shit. Of course Barclay would say grace. Indrid looked down at the table. 

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty-”

The tablecloth was tasteful cranberry-red. Their plates were nice china, white with gold borders. Indrid stared at them for a moment before he recognized them: these were the same plates he’d eaten off of when he’d gone over to Barclay’s house for dinner in high school. 

“-Through Christ, our Lord. Amen." Barclay crossed himself again. “Now let’s eat.” 

They took their first few bites in silence. The flames of the candles on the sideboard wavered, sending green wax dribbling down towards gold candlesticks. Indrid’s skin felt warm from the cider.

“You’ve outdone yourself as always,” said Joseph quietly.

“Yes,” said Indrid. “This is amazing.”

Duck made a noise of agreement, mouth too full of food to speak. 

“Thank you,” said Barclay. “I’m just glad I have all of you here with me to share it.” 

Joseph inquired politely about Indrid’s work, and the conversation flowed from there. It was a strange kind of Christmas dinner. Much warmer than the ones Indrid had at home growing up, even though things were still awkward between himself and Barclay, even though they all avoided mentioning what Duck and Joseph were. 

Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the bell in the church tower, muffled through walls but deep enough for Indrid to feel in his bones. Barclay put down his fork and looked up at the clock on the mantle. “I’d better get going. Are you sure you don’t want to come to the service, Indrid?”

“I’m sure. Are you sure you’re alright with us staying?”

“Of course. I trust Joseph to make sure you don’t burn the place down.” 

“I’ll try my best,” said Joseph.

Barclay hurried into the bedroom and shut the door. A moment later he emerged in his cassock, adjusting the collar. “Indrid, please take as many leftovers as you want.”

“Thank you,” said Indrid.

“Joseph, Duck- I’m trusting you to make sure he takes enough,” Barclay added, before darting out the front door and shutting it behind him. 

“I don’t want to be rude,” Indrid protested. 

“He literally set aside a bunch of Tupperware containers for you to fill up,” said Joseph. 

“Alright, alright.” Indrid took his plate to the sink and stood over the half-full casserole dish and slices of roast beef still swimming in drippings on the tray. “What can I take?”

“Anything. Everything. As much as you can cram into those containers.” 

“Okay.” Indrid picked up a spoon and started scooping potatoes.

Joseph watched from his seat at the table. “You know cooking for people is how he shows affection.”

“He must cook for you a lot, then.”

Joseph laughed. “Yes, he does.” 

By the time Indrid had finished stuffing several Tupperware containers with food and put them into the fridge to wait until he went home, Duck and Joseph were finished eating and brought their plates to the sink, too. Joseph hovered like he wanted Indrid to get out of the way.

“At least let me do the dishes,” said Indrid. 

Joseph waved a hand, and the food on the dishes vanished. Indrid jumped backwards as all the cabinets and drawers opened at once, the clean dishes flew into their right places with a clatter of porcelain, and the cabinets slammed closed again. 

“Oh,” said Indrid. 

“Sit down,” said Joseph, and sat down again in his armchair. When he crossed his legs his pant legs rode up to reveal red-and-green argyle socks. 

Indrid took his seat next to Duck in the loveseat. They could hear the music of the service playing faintly through the wall. 

Indrid tried to study Joseph without letting on that was what he was doing. He really was very handsome, clean-cut, black hair slicked back with pomade and dark eyebrows like lines of calligraphy ink on paper. 

Duck touched Indrid’s back comfortingly, and Indrid leaned up against him.

“So you’ve known Barclay since you were kids,” said Joseph. 

“I guess,” said Indrid. “We hung out a lot in high school. After that we sort of… went our separate ways. He went away to school, and seminary, and I stayed here. And after he came back we never reconnected. Until now, I guess. I always assumed he disapproved of my lifestyle.” 

“Is he the same as he was in high school?”

“I don’t know,” said Indrid. “I still feel like I don’t know him now. He always liked cooking, and taking care of people. I never thought he’d become a priest, though.”

“It’s a good option if you don’t want to get married,” said Joseph.

“It’s not 1400 anymore! Or even 1900! You don’t have to join the Catholic Church.” Indrid forced himself to lean back and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I… I’m sure his congregation appreciates having such a caring person as their priest,” he added lamely. “And if it makes Barclay happy, I can’t do anything but support him.”

“You’re a good friend,” said Joseph. 

“Seems like you’re a good boyfriend,” said Duck to Joseph.

Joseph laughed. “I try to be.” He looked over to the window. “Oh, it’s snowing.” Joseph got up and went to the window to look out. Big white flakes fell, illuminated for a moment before they disappeared again into the darkness. “Yes, the Catholic church doesn’t approve of homosexuality. Or women in leadership roles, and a long list of other things. But it also doesn’t approve of demons, and here I am. Clearly Barclay doesn’t agree with the higher-ups on everything.”

Indrid was jarred out of trying to formulate a response by the realization that Duck’s hand was resting rather high up on his thigh. 

“We have at least an hour left of the service,” said Joseph. 

“I wonder what we’re gonna do to pass the time,” said Duck. 

“Duck, most humans are not as sexually liberated as we are, and I don’t want to make Indrid uncomfortable.”

“I think Indrid’s pretty sexually liberated.”

“I don’t even know what you’re implying!” said Indrid. His heart was in his throat - the phrase sexually liberated brought to mind scenes he’d seen in pornographic magazines, the kind of thing he would flip past accidentally and that would burn itself into his mind and return to him at embarrassing moments. 

Duck was unperturbed. “I think Joe wants to watch me fuck you.”

“I - I think it might be mutually enjoyable,” said Joseph. 

“How about you, Indrid?” said Duck. “No pressure.” 

“If you’re not interested, I would be perfectly happy to just make conversation. Duck and I could trade Hell gossip,” added Joseph. 

“I, um,” said Indrid. He looked from Duck to Joseph, who had closed the curtains again, shutting out the outside world. “I’d like the sex thing.”

Duck kissed him soundly. Indrid had never kissed a man in front of anyone else before. 

“Alright, clothes off,” said Duck, tugging on Indrid’s sweater.  

Indrid’s fingers paused on the button of his pants. “Can I keep my sweater on? I’ll be cold without it.”

“Alright, sugar. Can’t have you getting cold.”

“Thank you.” Indrid got his pants and underwear off and immediately straddled Duck’s lap, the fabric of Duck’s pants cool against his skin. 

“Ain’t you cute,” said Duck, petting him up under his sweater and kissing him. Indrid’s skin tingled with the thrill of being watched and he felt himself blush. He was very glad he was facing Duck, and the feeling of Duck’s warm hands on him was comfortingly familiar.

“Very,” agreed Joseph, voice measured. Indrid’s dick was already perking up at the attention.

“Fuck,” said Duck to Joseph. “He’s already starting to get hard for me.” 

“Already?” said Joseph.

“Yeah, this one’s real fun to play with. And magic is good for prepping him to fuck”

“You get impatient?” said Joseph, teasingly. 

“We both do. Right, ‘Drid?”

“Uh-huh.” Indrid kissed Duck back, one hand tangled in Duck’s hair. Duck was still teasing him, touching his thighs but not his dick. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” said Indrid playfully.

Duck reached around, squeezing Indrid’s butt and teasing his hole with a finger. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get there. You want me to use magic to prep you?”

“Yes.” By this time Indrid was very familiar with how the spell felt, so hot it was almost painful for a moment and leaving him slick and open and aching to be filled. But tonight Duck didn’t waste time.

Indrid let out a little whimper as Duck’s thick finger penetrated him. Trapped between Duck’s hand and Duck’s chest, Indrid had nowhere to go, nothing to do but surrender to the pleasure.

“Here, turn around. Good boy, yeah, there we go.” Indrid allowed Duck to move him, as Duck guided his dick into Indrid’s hole and let Indrid sink down onto it. Indrid didn’t process until he was already pinned there that meant he was facing Joseph. 

Their eyes met and Indrid felt like he was blushing harder than he’d ever done in his life, his dick hard and on full display, no idea what to do with his hands. Duck hooked a steadying arm around Indrid’s belly to hold him. Joseph was just sitting there, legs crossed, hands resting on the arms of his chair like he was watching television or something. But unless Indrid was imagining it, his face was slightly pinker than it had been before. 

Then Duck bit Indrid’s neck, forcing out a startled little gasp.

“Hell,” said Duck. “However often I fuck him, he’s always tight as a fucking virgin.” Duck reached around and gave Indrid’s dick a friendly squeeze but didn’t stroke it. Indrid understood his meaning, that he’d have to do at least some of the work himself. He rolled his hips, still not knowing what he was supposed to do with his hands. 

“You could touch your chest,” said Joseph mildly. “Put on a show for me.” 

Indrid clumsily pushed up his sweater to fondle his nipples, which already felt hard and sensitive.

“Isn’t he so handsome like this?” said Duck.

“Oh, yes,” said Joseph. “And well-behaved.”

“He knows I take good care of him. Don’t you, ‘Drid?” Duck gave his dick another little squeeze, rendering Indrid’s reply unintelligible. 

At that moment the front door opened and Barclay walked in. 

Indrid dropped his sweater, but he had no way to cover his lower half, his erection and the way Duck’s thick cock was obviously buried in his ass to the hilt. Joseph leapt to his feet and put himself between Indrid and the door, but the damage was done.

Barclay shut the door behind him, still dressed in his vestment from mass. For an instant he looked surprised, then angry. “What on earth are you doing?”

“You’re back early,” said Joseph calmly. 

“The eucharist went more quickly than I thought it would.” 

“Do you wish we’d waited for you to get back to start?” said Joseph. “We did get him all warmed up for you.”

“Fuck off.” Barclay took the stole off from around his neck and folded it. “I have mass again at midnight! I need coffee! I can’t believe the moment I leave, you just start -” he waved a hand dismissively. “I’m going to go change.” 

Joseph followed him into the bedroom. “Babe, let’s-” he started, but Indrid and Duck couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence after Barclay shut the door hard behind them. 

–

“Babe, let’s talk about this,” said Joseph.

“What did you tell them about me?” said Barclay.

“Nothing.”

Barclay stopped. “Really?”

“Absolutely nothing. Duck and I had talked about how Indrid might like if I watched Duck fucking him, and after you left we propositioned him. Your name was not even mentioned.”

Barclay buried his face in his hands. “And Indrid was really okay with it? And Duck?”

“Monogamy is not the default for demons. Very few of us get jealous like that.”

“And Indrid…”

“Seemed to be enjoying himself very much. You probably could have joined in if you’d wanted to.”

“But now I’ve fucked that up, too.”

“No! Well, probably right this instant we won’t just get back into it, but not forever. I still think you should talk about your feelings with him.”

“It’s hard. Especially because of who I am.” 

Joseph reached out, and when Barclay took his hand, he pulled Barclay into a hug and held him tight. “I know. I’m sorry.”

–

Duck and Indrid sat silent, hearing raised voices through the wall. 

Indrid, still shamefully hard, tried to climb off Duck’s lap, but Duck stopped him with a hand on his hip. “Hey, do you wanna cum quick before you put your pants back on?” said Duck quietly.

“...yes,” said Indrid, and shut his eyes tight. Duck’s hand on his dick was tight, comforting, expert. 

“You really are gorgeous like this,” Duck murmured into his ear as he stroked him off. “My perfect Indrid, there we are, be a good boy and cum for me… I got a tissue right here.”

Indrid shivered as he shot off. Then he toppled over onto the other half of the love seat, letting Duck’s dick slip out of him. Now he was very glad he’d worn this sweater, because of how soft and nice it was against his skin. Duck petted his side affectionately. 

“Might wanna put your pants on,” said Duck after a few moments. 

“Right.” Indrid got to his feet, stumbled into the bathroom, and cleaned himself up somewhat, feeling very guilty for doing this in a rectory sink. He washed his hands with soap and hot water, twice, and dried them and went back out to find Duck sitting there fully clothed like nothing had ever happened.

“Should we leave?” said Indrid. 

“I don’t think so,” said Duck. “Not without saying goodbye.”

“I feel terrible for upsetting Barclay.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Duck. “Joe and I had sort of… discussed it in advance, and he made it sound like Barclay wouldn’t be unhappy at all. Also I thought we’d be done by the time Barclay got back.”

Indrid made an unhappy noise and buried his face in his hands. He’d wanted so much to be friends again with Barclay, and now he’d fucked it up. 

The bedroom door opened, and Barclay emerged, followed by Joseph. 

“Hello,” said Indrid miserably. “I’m so sorry, Barclay.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Indrid. I’m sorry for shouting. I was just surprised. Can I interest you all in some Christmas cookies?”

“Sure,” said Indrid. 

Barclay went to the fridge and took a tray from on top of the freezer and put it down on the coffee table. It had red-tinted plastic wrap on it for Christmas. There were gingerbread men and women, sugar cookies lovingly iced to look like green christmas trees and red ornaments with white trim. 

This was clearly hours of baking - Indrid wondered if Joseph had been there, if Barclay had let Joseph help. He remembered when they were in high school, sitting in the kitchen keeping Barclay company while he baked, when the whole kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar. Barclay never trusted him to help, though, except sometimes with the decorating.

Duck picked up a gingerbread man and bit the head off. “Holy cow, that’s a good cookie.”

“Thank you,” said Barclay, as he took a cookie himself and settled down in an armchair. “I put together a box to send you home with, too.”

“Thank you,” said Indrid. He took a bite of a sugar cookie. It was delicious, unimaginably better than the kind you could get at a grocery store.

“Divine,” murmured Joseph after taking a peanut-butter blossom. “How was the service?”

“Good,” said Barclay. “Ruth really did an excellent job on the organ and the altarboy did what he was supposed to. I’ll have to see how midnight goes.” 

“We could hear the music through the wall,” said Duck. “Sounded pretty good to me. Do a lot of folks come to the midnight service?”

“Some, but families with kids tend not to, which is understandable.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to wreck my sleep schedule by staying up past midnight either,” said Duck. 

At that moment Indrid failed to suppress a yawn. It wasn’t even that late, but he was exhausted.

“Speaking of wrecking your sleep schedule, we should maybe get going soon,” said Duck. 

“Yes, yes,” said Barclay. “I know you have to walk all the way home, and it’s still snowing.” 

“I hate to admit it, but I should probably be getting to bed soon,” said Indrid.

Barclay went to the fridge, took out the containers Indrid had packed with food, and balanced a tin of cookies on top of them. “Here, let me give you a bag to carry all this home in.” Barclay transferred the containers into a tote bag, and handed it to Indrid. 

“Thank you,” said Indrid, and allowed Barclay to walk him to the door. Duck was already standing there, smiling. 

“It was so nice to see you both,” said Joseph.

“Yeah,” said Duck. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” said Barclay. 

Duck opened the door. Snowflakes swirled downwards in the dark. Indrid paused on the doorstep and turned around. Barclay was still standing there. 

“Thank you for inviting us over,” said Indrid. “I really want us to be friends again. I’m not much of a cook but I’d love to have you and Joseph come over sometime soon, maybe just to play board games or something…”

“Indrid…” said Barclay. He had such gorgeous eyes, he always had. “My feelings haven’t changed about you. Not since high school.”

Feelings? What feelings? “What do you mean?” said Indrid cautiously.

“I like you.”

“Oh. I like you too, Barclay. And I’m so glad you invited us over because I want to have you in my life again, I missed you so much when we weren’t talking…”

For an instant Barclay looked over Indrid’s shoulder at Duck. Then he looked back at Indrid, meeting Indrid’s eyes. Then Barclay leaned forward and kissed him, quickly, just long enough for Indrid to register the tickle of Barclay’s beard against his cheek.

Indrid… Indrid felt like he might understand religion, now. If this was how people felt when Barclay gave them communion and heard their confession and told them that God was real… he’d be a believer.

“I’ll see you soon,” said Barclay. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” said Indrid, and hurried to catch up with Duck.

#ot4

[bellafarallones2]

Secret Santa (Vincent/Apollo)

An early christmas present to @bellafarallones2, set after the events of The Thrilling Adventures of the Green Knight

“We’re so glad you’ll be with us again!” Mrs. Williams tucks Vincent’s volunteer contract away in her desk, “you’re always very popular with the kids.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His watch chimes 8:00 am, “I have to go to work. I’ll keep an eye out for your email come October?”

“Exactly.” She walks him to the office door with a wink “and as always, your secret is safe with us.”

The Tilden Shopping center is on the other side of town from The Bureau of Hero Oversight, and as he feared the late summer heat means some of the local villains are even more irritable. That means a traffic jam just on the edge of downtown as several members of the Pine Guard zoom past in pursuit of Baron Thorne. Vincent hopes for the villain’s sake that Indrid isn’t among them; even since he dropped a building on Duck, The Moth considers Baron Thorne his sworn enemy. 

He’s just glad that Indrid’s self-appointed sworn enemy isn’t getting out any time soon. 

 “I’m surprised you want me for this.” Vincent stares at the security screens and the one way glass that has him looking down on the cell of Apollo Cold, AKA The Flame. 

“We’re learning the hard way that we need an agent with the right temperament to deal with him. And it has to be one, so he can’t play us off each other.” Director Stern sighs, running a hand over his hair. Vincent swears that grey in it only appeared after he was promoted, which happens to be the same time Apollo was brought in. 

“Can I ask what you mean by that?”

“Even-tempered. Hard to rattle. Used to dealing with obnoxious men who think they know everything. All things that training-in starter agents prepared you for. After all, you dealt with my know-it-all self just fine.” Director Stern rests a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, “more than that, call it…call it a hunch. We’ve worked together all these, and I know the kind of man you are, Agent Capra. That’s why I trust you with this.”

“That means a lot.” Vincent smiles at him, “anything else I should know?”

“He’s got half the staff convinced he’s psychic.”

“How?” Vincent manages to not sound too alarmed

“My suspicion is a combination of prior research, cold reading, educated guesses, and luck. Indrid confirmed he’s lying, though of course he insists he developed powers after Indrid ‘deserted’ them.”  Joseph’s phone buzzes and he sighs as he takes it out, “treat him like a T.V psychic and you should be safe.”

“Understood.” 

Vincent spends an hour reading over all the information Stern left him, then decides it’s time to introduce himself. 

It’s a short staircase down, then a reinforced door–the only way in or out–to an empty, well lit room. Apollo’s cell is made of the kind of glass they use to keep tigers from eating toddlers at zoos, with no privacy save for a small bathroom, and furnished with a bed, a tablet with limited permissions, and nothing else. It’s grim, but from the notes it’s also the last resort since Apollo kept turning anything else they gave him into a weapon. 

Currently, the villain is sitting on the bed, watching Vincent approach with malevolent disinterest. 

He stands calmly in front of the cell, “Hello, Apollo. I’m Agent Vincent Capra. Director Stern has assigned me to be the agent in charge of your care.”

“And why should I care about that?”

He shrugs, “You don’t have to care. It just felt polite to introduce myself face to face.”

“That makes you braver than the rest; they all hide up in their little cave” He tilts his head towards the control room, “Not that it will help them. They’re dead men regardless of whether I know their faces.”

Two months of being imprisoned hasn’t made him any less dramatic it seems.

“Tell me” Apollo studies his nails, “does it bother you? That a ‘know-it-all’ former pupil has surpassed you?”

The usage of the exact wording unnerves him, but all he says is, “Not at all. Director Stern was a co-agent for years and we know each other well. I’m very glad for his promotion.”

“I suppose you all feel it’s better him than you, as his death for his role in this will be far worse than if he were some disposable agent.” A smile, “I’m going to turn his boyfriend into a rug while they are both still alive.”

Vincent waits for him to finish. 

A frown, “Nothing? Usually that at least earns me a wince. Maybe the old goat has something metal under all that fat after all.”

“You’re not my first villain, Apollo.” 

The younger man rises, walks to the glass as he says, “You know, you remind me of my father.”

“You killed your father.” Vincent replies calmly.

Petulance breaks the surface of Apollo’s features, “I was going to say that.”

“I’m sorry to have stepped on your toes.” Vincent turns, “if you need anything, you where I’ll be.”

Apollo certainly did, and proceeded to hurl all manner of insults at him without warning, when he wasn’t busy detailing exactly how he’d murder Vincent and everyone he loved. 

It’s been like that for a month and a half now, and they’re still no closer to working out how Apollo knows certain things. Indrid, in spite of tearing the control room apart, could not find a device or any other proof that his twin had managed to install some means of spying on them. 

But his errand this morning gave Vincent an idea. 

As he trades off with the night shift, he casually stands near a certain vent in the control room, that he was picking out a certain necklace for his niece’s birthday at a store that closed before he got off work, so he had to go ahead of time. 

Then he reads over the notes from the night (“Cold sat on bed with back to camera for two solid hours, talking to himself”), covers up the vent, and then goes down to say good morning. 

Apollo is laying on the bed, eyes closed, and Vincent is nearly turned around to let him sleep when a cool, self-satisfied voice says, “A necklace? How dull.”

“A funny thing about the necklace, Apollo” he leans closer to the glass, voice quieter, “I never bought it. I wasn’t anywhere near that store this morning.”

The villain’s eyes snap open and he turns his head toward him, “Liar.”

“Not at all. I was doing something much more secret than that. Something no one at the agency knows about”

“What kind of secrets could a ridiculous old goat like you have?” Curiosity lurks beneath dismissiveness. 

“Surely you can tell me, since you claim you can know anything about us you choose.”

A pause, then, “You were paying off a parking ticket.”

“No.”

“Seeing a mistress.”

“Not even close.”

“You’re a hitman?”

“Goodness, no.” He doesn’t hide the laugh in time. 

“Do not mock me!” Apollo is off the bed and snarling in his face in an instant, “I demand you tell me, this instant.”

“I don’t think I will. A man has to have his harmless little secrets.”

He returns to the booth, Apollo yelling curses after him. Then he clicks on the intercom and says, “I’m going to say it aloud in a moment. Then I’ll give you a last guess.”

Once he’s certain the mic is off, he stands by the vent and says, “I play Santa Clause at a mall.”

When he hits the intercom back on, Apollo pipes up, “You were shoplifting. I knew it all along.”

He shakes his head, pleased to have solved the mystery, “Not quite. But a good guess all the same.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apollo can suffer the indignity of imprisonment. 

He can deal with the sinking feeling that his brother has, in fact, beaten him.

He can tolerate the endless sameness of his days, even laugh to himself and how pathetic that the agency thinks of this as a punishment. 

But he will not tolerate Vincent Capra keeping a secret from him. 

He’s been trying since last week to work it out, even went so far as to search “what do ordinary men keep secrets about” on his tablet, yet he’s no closer to an answer.

This morning he’s waiting, wrists cuffed through the electrified, hand-sized openings in his cell while some sniveling orderly speedily checks through his room for contraband. Vincent comes in just as the man finishes, wishing him a good morning before turning his attention on Apollo. 

He must have been running late today; he still has a travel mug of coffee in hand. 

“Gambling.”

A slight laugh, “Good morning to you too, Apollo. And no.” The cuffs buzz open and the holes in the cell close the instant he pulls his hands away, “I’ll be working on some reports today, but yell if you need me. Not that you have any trouble with doing that.”

He’s already turning towards the control room. Apollo does not want to lose his attention so soon; not because he cares about him–quite the contrary–but he’s not ready to go back to having his conversation options be someone who isn’t really there. 

“Bird watching?”

Vincent pauses, “No, not that either. Though I suppose it’s one of your more reasonable guesses; birders usually go places early. Though I’m not sure if there are many exciting ones in the city.”

“You could go to the waterfront. It is on a flyway.”

He should really just cut out his tongue at this point. 

“I didn’t take you for an amateur ornithologist.”

“I am not.”

Vincent sips his coffee, “What kind of bird would you be?”

“Eagle owl.” Forget his previous thought; ripping his tongue out would be more fitting. Right after he slices Vincent’s vocal cords one by one to stop him asking questions in that way that makes it so easy to answer honestly. 

“That seems fitting. I’m not sure what I might be.”

Apollo studies him, then smirks, “A grouse. Plump and grey.”

The older man touches his hair, “I’m not all grey yet. And I think I wear it well.”

“The same cannot be said for your physique. Did you just stop trying once you were surrounded by heroes and saw how pathetic you looked?”

A sigh; not upset, just disappointed, “Some day, Apollo, I hope you can find joy  in things other than insulting everyone you meet.”

He snorts, “Joy? Joy comes with triumph, with victory, with making your enemies crawl on bloodied palms for mercy you do not intend to grant. All things that are outside my reach. For now.”

“Was there really nothing else in your life that made you happy?” Confusingly, Vincent has stepped closer to the glass. 

“No. Unlike my brother, I did not need pointless amusements or people. The work was enough.”

Silence, then Vincent’s brown eyes look at him with unnerving clarity, “Apollo, have you considered that you’re so desperate to know my secret because you’re bored and unhappy without the life you had?”

His traitor of a tongue says, quietly, “I would rather rip my own fingernails out than go another day without a goal.”

In another life, such a statement would have been met with someone handing him pliers and telling him to get to it. Instead, Vincent says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

���--------------------------------------------------------------

The Christmas trees are already encroaching on Halloween decorations as Vincent makes his way through the store. It feels a little odd to be using the company credit card to buy toys, but Stern agreed that anything that kept Apollo occupied and calm was worth spending Bureau money on. Apparently he’d been refusing books on principle–what principle, Vincent cannot say–but Vincent downloaded some onto the tablet just to tide him over. When he left last night, Apollo was wholly engrossed in Guns, Germs, and Steel.

He’d kept interrupting Vincent’s work that day, which was not unusual. But this time, it was to read him passages, rather than insult him. 

When he returns to work the next morning, Apollo moves toward him excitedly before catching himself and returning to his usual disdainful expression. 

“What is in that package? Is it mine?”

“Ho, ho, ho” Vincent smiles as he slides the box into the cell. 

Apollo blinks at him. 

“Do…did you never learn about Santa Claus?” That would explain how he still hasn’t guessed Vincent’s secret.

“I know what he is. I simply do not understand why you are referencing him in September.” Apollo opens the box, removing the Gearball Brainteaser, “or why you have given me a toy.”

“It’s apparently difficult to solve.”

Apollo gives him a dismissive wave, as if shooing him away, “Child's play.”

With that, he sits on the floor and does not look up from the puzzle for several hours. When he does, it's with a triumphant smile as he shows the solved sphere to the camera.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apollo is not surprised he’s dreaming of being a bird; he fell asleep after watching the live feed from the aquarium’s aviary. It is easier to let himself watch it, knowing Vincent will not mock or punish him for it. 

The last time he dreamed of being a bird, he was ripping viscera from the belly of what was either his father or brother; the face was too destroyed to say. 

This time, he is something small, a sparrow or warbler, huddling in tall grass. Without seeing it, he knows there's something hunting him. And rain is battering his feathers, he’s so cold and afraid and surely a flock is near, but if he calls for them, whatever is stalking him will pounce. 

Warm hands scoop him up, tucking him into a breast pocket of a grey coat. He knows, in that way of knowing things in dreams, that it’s Vincent who has given him this soft, safe place to nest. 

He wakes up nauseous, surely from the saccharine nature of the dream, rolls over in his blankets, and tries to pretend he’s still nestled in a pocket. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

It turns out the nausea was not from the dream. It was from food poisoning 

Someone at the bureau had been putting expired or otherwise tainted food into his meals. According to Vincent, they were summarily fired when Stern found out. 

It was a rather devious way of harming him, and he intends to congratulate whoever came up with it right before he boils them alive. 

He’s laying on the cold floor for relief from the fever, blanket in reach for when he gets chills, when Vincent appears at the glass. 

“Do you need more water?”

“No. I am fine. This is barely discomfort.” He closes his eyes, “I am not some, some weakling who needs soup or medicine or whatever it is people with no tolerance for suffering and frail bodies require when ill.”

“My mother always insisted on ginger ale. I still crave it when I get sick” Vincent sits down in the chair he’s taken to keeping next to the cell, then chuckles, “my fathers mother was a firm believer in putting whiskey in tea for the ill, even for children.”

“That seems like a good way to murder a child accidentally.” Apollo forces himself to roll on his side so he can see him.

“I’m the baby of the family, so by the time I came along she knew not to do it to me. My eldest sister does recall being given a hot toddy at age five that put her to sleep for most of the day.” He rests his head back against the wall. He’s wearing a white and lavender tie today, and Apollo wants to rest his own head just below the knot of it. 

He must be more delirious than he thought. 

“My father would always read to us when we got sick. The Hobbit was a favorite of mine.”

“I have read that one” Apollo sits up, “my favorite part was when the dragon pours molten gold onto the dwarves who dared enter his lair.”

Vincent looks at him with surprise, “I think we read very different books.”

“Nono, I distinctly remember the cover and the title.”

“Was that a book that was read to you, by chance?”

“By father, when we were small. It is now occurring to me that he may have made the story different to impart the correct lesson. No one puts beheadings in books for children.”

“No, there are a few in there. But I think the ending is much happier than you’ve been lead to believe.” Vincent looks down at him, “would you like me to read it to you?”

“I am not a child!”

“And that’s not an answer.”

“Yes” he grumbles, “after all, you are functionally a servant. You should wait on me when I am ill.”

Vincent indicates the tablet, and Apollo grits his teeth to keep from throwing up as he stands and passes the device through. After a few taps, Vincent pulls reading glasses from his breast pocket, and begins.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why are you humming that?” Apollo looks up from his book at Vincent. He hadn’t even realized he was humming “Silver Bells” as he filled in his paperwork. 

“I suppose I’m already in a festive mood. I know it’s barely November but I can’t help it; I love Christmas. Picking out presents, spending time with family, all the lights. Cheesy, I know.”

“Exceedingly.” Apollo says, lacking his usual venom.

“I imagine it wasn’t celebrated in Abbadon.”

“Of course not. No doubt my brother has taken up the practice all the same.”

It’s a harmless truth, so he says, “I did see that he’d already put up a tree.”

“To please his brick of a hero, one assumes.”

“He may just like it” Vincent chides gently, “you aren’t carbon copies of one another.”

“Do not be ridiculous. That muscle without a brain is the reason he’s no longer even a passable shadow of his former self. But I suppose he is clever all the same; he found a loyal, durable shield to protect him while he flits about.”

Vincent takes a deep breath before replying, “Maybe he’s just found a partner he trusts.”

“He had one.” Apollo snarls. 

“I’m not certain he’d call what you two had as trust.”

The villain scoffs, then softens, “I suppose not.” He gets up from the soft chair they’ve allowed him, padding over to Vincent, “I do envy him for what he has now.”

“That’s a hard thing to admit, isn’t it” Vincent sets his work aside to stand and face him, “I’m proud of you for being able to.”

A finger traces on the glass, “We could have such an arrangement. If you freed me.”

“Apollo, you know I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?” The younger man raises his voice, “you like me, I can tell.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you loose to hurt god knows how many people.” 

“What do you care? You would be safe! You would be helping me and I, I would offer you protection. And glory.”

“Does that strike you as something I want?” 

Apollo pauses, clearly considering the question. Amber eyes flame, and Vincent knows he’s worked out the right answer and doesn’t like it. 

“Fine” He hisses, slamming a fist into the glass, “I was lying anyway, a dull old goat like you is of no use to me.”

“I’m going for the day, Apollo.” It’s a fight not to yell back, to not be upset as he wonders if any of the progress he thought he was making in connecting with the villain was all an illusion.

“Go on then! Leave! I do not care! And when I finally free myself, I won’t even bother killing you personally! You can die here with the rest of these rats like you deserve.”

With that, he stalks away, leaving Vincent to retreat to the control room.

—-------------------------------------------------

“What do you mean not here?” Apollo glares at one of the cameras feeding to the control room. 

“I mean he’s on another mission right now.” Stern says through the microphone, “and I’m not at liberty to say when he’ll return.”

“How can you send him on another mission? You know very well I am the greatest threat to the country, let alone the city.”

“Be that as it may, you’re also not the only threat here. Vincent was the right man for the assignment. There will be other agents assigned to your care in the meantime.”

“Bring Vincent back or I will-”

“Slice my face off while my family watches, yes, you’ve said as much.” The mic goes dead, and no one responds no matter how much Apollo curses at them. 

Eventually he tires of that tactic and goes to sit on the bed, back to the camera. 

“Another villain” he mutters, “if I had been an even more powerful threat, they would never send Vincent after anyone else. I would have him all to myself.”

The twin in his head replies, “And if you had never been a villain at all, you would have had the same.”

He tucks his legs to his chest. He’s not upset, he’s not, he is simply frustrated that the version of Indrid in his mind has been less cooperative of late. 

And he is not at all pleased when the real version appears the next day for his monthly visit. Still, Indrid has information and he needs it, so he steps to the glass.

“Is Vincent dead?”

“No.” Indrid replies suspiciously quickly.

“Did they have you kill him?”

“No” His twin crosses his arms, “he’s on another mission. Assuming all goes well, you will see him again.”

“Liar.”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “Apollo, we are not at Abbadon anymore. That kind of thing does not happen here.”

“Of course you think that, you are a coward and a traitor and one day you will remember what you were made for and I will laugh to learn you dismembered that hero of yours while he was still alive. And you will be all to blame for it, like old times.”

Indrid returns his snarl, the tell that the barb has lodged under his skin, “This! This is why they sent Vincent away!”

“Aha! I knew it!”

“Oh, really?” They’re toe to toe now, both acting as if the glass is not there, “you knew that your last conversation with him upset him, and that they decided it was wise to give him a break from you because no one deserves to be subjected to your company for as long as he has? And yet you think you value him enough for someone to see him as a prize to take away from you?”

“I do! He is, he is better than anyone else here! When he is nearby I do not-” He stops himself before he says something he regrets. 

Indrid leans back from the glass, “You do not feel like you are trapped.”

“Damn you and your powers to whatever pit of hell is coldest.” He looks away, “once I am free, I will give him one more chance.”

His brother removes his glasses, tiredly rubbing his eyes, “You truly think that is the part of you he likes?”

The “yes” fails to form on his tongue. He knows it is a lie. Indrid knows it too. And so there is no point to it.

“You are not the Flame anymore. That persona, that life, is behind you and it is going to stay there. Every hero and half the villains in this city will fight to keep you from it. I will die before I let you take up that mantle again.” He slots his glasses back on his face, “eventually, you are going to have to decide who you are without it.”

With that, he leaves, tossing his usual goodbye over his shoulder. 

“Indrid?”

His brother stops, but doesn’t turn to look his way.

“Do you promise he is still alive?”

“On whatever honor either of us still has, I promise he is.”

Apollo rests his forehead against the glass, relieved, “Thank you.”

Indrid turns, surprised, but says “you are welcome” all the same.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

Technically, Vincent’s mission ended a week ago, but Stern insisted he take a week of vacation before returning to work. Which is why he’s reading up on Apollo’s doings at eleven at night on Christmas Eve. 

Cold spoke to Director Stern about possible community service. 

Well that’s certainly unexpected.

Cold has begun doing remote service identifying labels for screen readers and entering data from trail cameras for public lands. 

Vincent flips forward; Apollo kept that up even after being told that they really didn’t know when Vincent would be returning to his post here. 

Cold continues engaging with staff less than previously. Interactions are neutral rather than hostile 70% of the time.

He checks the monitor, having told the agent on the night shift that she should get some dinner and he could watch Apollo for a while. The villain is on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

When Vincent steps from the control room door, bag in hand, Apollo is to the glass with impressive speed. 

“Vincent!” He reins in his excitement, “I see you have returned.”

“I sense I was missed.”

“I…yes. It turns out your company is superior to anyone else they assigned to me.” He looks at Vincent’s face, notices the bruise under his eye, and Vincent wonders if he’ll mock him for getting it or threaten the person who did it first.

“What happened?” His hand touches the glass, as if trying to examine Vincent’s injury.

“I was undercover as a butler for a young man who was trying to fashion himself into a villain. Deeply uncreative and not nearly as formidable as some people I could mention. Still, he wasn’t thrilled when he found out who I really was and there was a scuffle. I won.”

“I am glad. And I wanted to say that I am…I am” he closes his eyes and spits out, “sorry. For what I said the last time we spoke. I will do my best not to do it again.”

“Thank you for apologizing.”

Blonde hair falls into Apollo’s face as he cocks his head, “Why are you here so late?”

“Your Christmas present.” Vincent smiles, “would you like to know my secret.”

“Yes” Apollo’s eyes widen excitedly.

Vincent opens the bag, tipping it to show the red suit inside, “I’m a mall Santa for much of December. My father did it when I was growing up and I kept up the tradition.”

Apollo snickers, “You are full of surprises. Confusing, mundane surprises.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Vincent asks teasingly, “after all, it was your gift, not anyone else’s.”

The villain meets his eyes, expression softer than fresh snow and, for the first time Vincent can remember, free of machination. 

“You have my word.” He slips his hand through the gap. Vincent doesn’t bother engaging the cuffs before taking it, intending to shake it. But clever fingers curl too closely, too awkwardly for a shake, as if Apollo is afraid he might slip away. 

Vincent cups the hand between both his own, rubs a thumb along it gently as he murmurs, “Merry Christmas, Apollo.”

The villain smiles at him, warm and small, “Merry Christmas, Vincent.”

#😭 #vinlo

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: The Adventure Zone (Podcast) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone) Characters: Barclay (The Adventure Zone), Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), Mama (The Adventure Zone) Additional Tags: Alaska, Geology, geologist agent stern, Car Sex, they fuck in the car in a walgreens parking lot after driving there to buy condoms, Trans Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), Porn with Feelings, Condoms, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering Summary:

Joseph Stern is a geologist studying the boundaries between the terranes (pieces of tectonic plates) that make up Alaska. For fifteen years, he stays at Amnesty Lodge every summer while he does his fieldwork. When he finds out that he's going to be laid off due to budget cuts, Barclay can't stand to see him sad.

#sternclay

[bellafarallones2]

I’m taking a break from one fic to doing something more seasonal. I’ve had this brewing for a long time and I hope all of you like it. I plan to have it done by Christmas.

Happy Holidays everyone!

#delightful

[bellafarallones2]

If I were to make a continuation (either a full fic or additional fills) out of a fill....

Beware the Bear

Dark and Light

On the Case

Possession (and the indruck in the same universe)

Unfinished Business

#my vote is always for apollo because he's my favorite but any of these would be amazing

[bellafarallones2]

trick or treat!

I hope you have a sweet Halloween!

[bellafarallones2]

Thank you!! (I immediately unwrap one and pop it into my mouth. now the stick makes me look like someone cool smoking a cigarette in a cool old western movie) Happy Halloween!! (voice garbled)

Trick or treat! (I am dressed as a cowboy but secretly I'm dressed as Duck Newton from Lonesome Moth)

i recognize your costume immediately and blow you a kiss.

raspberry tootsie pops be upon yee

[bellafarallones2]

trick or treat!

(i am dressed as a very bundled up mothman)

(I open the door, clearly very happy to see you, and hold out my candy bowl) take a handful! I love your costume!

#happy halloween!!

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Adventure Zone (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone) Characters: Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), Barclay (The Adventure Zone), Dani (The Adventure Zone) Additional Tags: Hellhounds, Alternate Universe - Western, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, stern is a hellhound U.S. marshal, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence Summary:

The first thing Barclay saw, when the door opened, was the gold badge on the new arrival’s chest. This was a U.S. Marshal, the main kind of law enforcement that existed out here. The second thing Barclay saw was the gun at his hip, which made him nervous. He didn’t like guns out in his establishment, even though they were a part of life in the West.

The third thing Barclay noticed was the tail, covered in sleek black fur, protruding from the back of the Marshal’s coat.

Oh, no. He was a hellhound. Hellhound marshals were both rare and considered to be the best of the best at their job, on account of their ability to sniff out guilt and fear and track it to its source. Nobody could escape a hound. 

#sternclay #taz amnesty

[bellafarallones2]

I made another list of prompts for Halloween this year! The full list of prompts is also below the cut, feel free to use these for whatever strikes your fancy!

Halloween night is the only time ghosts can walk the earth, and this ghost has some unfinished business they’d really like to get done 

The creature from the black lagoon 

A siren who just successfully lured a sailor into jumping ship

A vampire who works the night shift at a gas station

A person indebted to a pumpkin demon

A person possessed

A person who did a favor for the devil and received a valuable gift in exchange

A person who would be delighted to find themself experiencing so many romcom tropes, except that the other person is a cryptid

A pond with a creature living in it that really shouldn’t be there

A movie star dressing up as one of their most famous roles for halloween

An actor most well-known for really intense horror movies fake-dating someone to cultivate a more family-friendly image

Someone who works on horror movies and always throws a legendary Halloween party

A chef sending threatening letters to anyone who writes a bad review of their restaurant

A fortune teller at the last night of the circus before it shuts down for the winter

Two haunted house actors on a slow night

I think you’re sleepwalking, but I’m not sure

Making spooky food for a Halloween party

We’re going to a horror movie on opening night

We’re next-door neighbors who don’t know each other very well but your light-up Halloween decorations are literally keeping me up at night 

Someone who regularly goes for walks in the cemetery because it’s the only place they can get any damn peace and quiet

A quaint bed and breakfast in the woods 

Local harvest festival

A church at the end of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere

A car that just broke down in front of a spooky mansion in the woods

A 24-hour arcade

A small local rock concert

My friend/relative is too sick to go trick-or-treating, so I’m taking their kid myself 

Someone looking out at the water from shore who sees a periscope 

A lookout for a boat (or a plane!) who definitely sees a ghostly shape emerging from the fog, even though all the sonar says nothing is there 

Someone walking alone down a dark street and feeling someone watching them

Someone caving who just heard a noise they didn’t expect to 

[bellafarallones2]

On the Hunt (Sternclay)

Runner up in the humans and mers at sea prompt was: human and mer rival treasure hunters. Stern's design is based on a Spotted Drum fish. This fill is NSFW

The Yeti bobs in the cove as Barclay winches up the net, looking over his shoulder every two seconds for the authorities. Technically he’s not doing anything illegal, but he doesn’t speak enough Spanish to explain what exactly he is doing. 

His basic answer would be that he’s running a net along the sandy bottom in hopes of picking up stray coins or other artifacts that will tell him if the wreck of a sunken galleon is anywhere nearby. 

There’s tension on the winch, and for a wonderful moment he thinks he’s found more than just some fish and driftwood. Then he spots the black and white tailfin thrashing in the net and all he can do is laugh. 

“Having some trouble there, Joseph?”

The thrashing finishes with a roll, and a merman glares out at him as he claws at the tangled strands, “Mr. Cobb, did you do this on purpose?”

“Nope. Didn’t even know you were here. Guess I shoulda assumed you were, since you’re always swimming around where you shouldn’t be.”

“I could say the same of you.”

Barclay smirks, “Still pissed about that wreck near the Keys?”

“I had the key to that sunken chest in my hand.”

“Yeah, and you shoulda held onto it tighter. Lots of things can bump you around in the water.”

“You tackled  me.” Stormy blue eyes flash for a moment, and then the mer closes them and takes a deep breath, “look, this situation isn’t making it easy for me to be professional. If you let me out of the net, we can talk about this like gentlemen.”

“Okay” Barclay pulls a lever and the net tips, dropping it’s passenger unceremoniously on the deck. 

“Shit” Joseph hisses, flicking his short, ink-black hair from his face as he sits up. He’s the only merman Barclay’s seen wear it this short, and he always pushes it back over his head, like he’s trying to ape Bogart or someone. 

“Now we’re even for Tortuga Bay.”

“I didn’t mean to knock you that hard with my tail. You startled me and I acted on reflex.”

“Right, sure.” Barclay leans on the rail, “just like you didn’t get into my net on purpose to fuck up my search.”

“I already–oh, nevermind.” Joseph sighs, “if you’re looking for the wreck of the Mariposa, it’s nowhere in this cove. I thought I found some items from it, but they’re too new. That’s what I was examining when you picked me up.”

Barclay studies his expression; Joseph is a hell of a liar when he needs to be. Barclay’s not falling for it again. The merman simply watches him in return, expression pleasant. 

Their stalemate is broken by voices in the distance. The Reconciliation, a far larger vessel, has just rounded the Southern end of the cove. 

“Fuck. I do not wanna be around when they get close. Someone took a shot at me last time.”

“I can’t get within a hundred yards of their divers without a speargun pointed my way.” Joseph hauls himself up the railing, “Even if the Mariposa is close by, what’s on it isn’t worth dying for.”

“Hate to say it, but you’re right. Now get the fuck off my boat.”

Joseph’s tail disappears over the side before he finishes the order.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

Nothing in the mer or human records said anything about the golden cutlass being on land. But there it is, stabbed into the ground at the base of a palm tree, a good fifty feet from the waters edge. 

Joseph reaches into his satchel, pulling out a length of rope. Every other mer at his work  thinks he’s ridiculous for carrying it on missions, but he’s learned the hard way that being unprepared can be frustrating at best and deadly at worst. 

He ties one end of the rope of a boulder halfway in the surf and the other end around his waist. It won’t make his crawl up the beach any more dignified, but this way he can pull himself along the line back to the water rather than risk being stranded and dying. 

Two-thirds of the way up the sand, the brush at the treeline rustles. Barclay emerges, sweat dripping down his neck and his half-bare chest, leaves clinging to his tan shirt and a hat covering his eyes. 

There’s no way Joseph is getting there before him. Barclay doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, instead wrapping the artifact in a cloth and tucking it into his rucksack. Then he disappears into the trees and all Joseph can do is curse and start dragging himself back to the sea. 

When feet crunch on sand he freezes and looks over his shoulder to find the human coming down the beach. It’s unlike Barclay to go out of his way to rub in a failure, and so his curiosity makes him stay put. 

“Sorry, blue eyes” Barclay scoops him up, ignoring his protests, “better luck next time.”

“It wasn’t luck! It was bad information! And put me down right now.”

“I’m not the only person hunting around this island, and I bet some of them would love a captured mermaid. So” he drops Joseph into the surf “in you go.”

Joseph would love to splash him with his tail. But he’s a professional. So he settles for a flat “thank you” and slinks into the sea. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Fuck whoever said this cove wasn’t that deep.

 Swimming in the clear water, Barclay sees the wreck he’s looking for. A good sixty feet or more below him, too far for him to dive without a suit. He’s the only one on this trail, so maybe he can get back to port, rent a dive suit of some old salt, and be back before anyone else even finds the wreck.

A flash of black and white darts along the seafloor.

He surfaces and mutters “fuck” before diving back down to make sure it’s not just a dolphin. 

Nope, there’s Joseph, weaving between rotting boards like it’s nothing, picking up treasure and tucking a few pieces into that bag he’s taken to wearing. There’s no point in watching, but Barclay stays anyway, hating himself for enjoying the way Joseph looks as he twists and glides from find to find. 

Eventually, Joseph swims away from the wreck, offering Barclay a polite nod and a not so polite smile of triumph. Then his eyes widen and he drops below Barclay, shepherding a Bull Shark back towards open water. Going by its initial position, it had been deciding whether to surge up and taste Barclay’s leg. 

He calls out “thanks” the instant he surfaces, wondering if Joseph even hears it, and then swims fast and calm to the boat.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

After two successful hunts without any sign of Barclay, Joseph assumes the human is on the trail of something big. After four, he’s worried but not overly so; maybe what Joseph’s been after lately isn’t of interest to people. He’s still working out exactly what humans think is valuable and what they consider unworthy of salvage. 

After six, he swims the short distance from the reef he calls home to Kepler, the coastal town Barclay calls the same. Joseph knows the mers and humans alike here see him with suspicion, as he hails from a mertropolis that hasn’t always been kind to humans. 

He didn’t do himself any favors by betraying Barclay the second time they met. 

They’d both lost out to the Reconciliation in retrieving anything from a wreck from what the humans now called the first world war. So when he got word of a smaller wreck containing a supposedly cursed, diamond necklace, he asked Barclay if they could work together to find it before anyone else did. They’d found it, and the instant the box was in his hand he was gone, Barclay unable to pursue him in his dive suit. 

At the time it had felt like a necessary evil. Now he just feels guilty. 

A few other mers are in the water near Amnesty Lodge, and while one or two wave hello, the rest ignore him. On the back patio of a small, waterside cabin, he finds Barclay sitting at a small table under a porch light. Reading glasses perch on his nose and he’s idly scratching his auburn beard as he stares at a map. There are only a few, steep steps from the sea to the porch, but Joseph doesn’t want to disturb him and so he stays in the water. The longer he floats there, the more an ache forms in his chest, one he can’t quite name. 

Barclay looks up without warning, groaning when he sees Joseph in the water. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A teasing smile, “are you really that obsessed with me?”

Joseph runs a hand over his hair, “I hadn’t seen you in awhile and I wanted to make sure you were okay. Statistically, humans are more likely to die in our line of work than mers are.”

“I’m fine.” 

Joseph knows not to overstay his welcome, but as he pushes off the step that baritone voice comes to him much softer than before. 

“Wait”

He waits. 

“I’ve been staring at this map for weeks and I can’t find what I need. There’s a code but I can’t quite work it out. I’ve got a bad feeling you can.”

“Barclay, as much as this intrigues me, I’m not going to hang around to be insulted.”

“I’m trying to work out how to ask to work together without you fucking me over again!”

He flicks his tail “Then start by telling me what the map is for so I can tell you if it’s even something I want.”

“It’s for the Eternal Oyster.”

“That’s an odd quarry for you.”

“I’m not interested in the oyster. I’m interested in the pearl. According to the record Dani found me” he taps a conch shell, “it’s ‘three times the size of Poseidon's eye.”

Joseph raises an eyebrow, “Well, there’s your answer. ‘Poseidon’s eye’ refers to a statue in Atlantis. It’s a sphere the size of a car wheel. Something three times that would be impossible for me to move on my own. Or you, for that matter.”

Barclay thinks a second, then picks up the map and descends the steps. Sitting on the second to last one, he turns the paper so Joseph can see. Joseph pulls himself onto the step below, peering at the nonsensical shapes. 

“What have you tried so far?”

“A mirror, a book on symbology, and looking at any tide and land maps I can find to see if this was just made by someone who was kind of shitty at cartography.”

“Smart. No leads on the language either?” Joseph scans the writing on the left-hand side

“None. I even went to the library and looked up what Aramaic, phonecian, old Arabic, and a few other ancient languages. No matches.”

The porch light shines through the back of the paper as Barclay holds it up to study it himself. As he does, Joseph notices faint lines criss-crossing the page. 

“We have to fold it. Into a circle, I think, but don’t quote me on that.”

“Talk me through how?”

“Keep some light through it and I should be able to.”

Five minutes later they’re nearly nose to nose, leaning over a circular map with clear headings and a short list of instructions. 

“Looks like we have to go up an inlet a ways. And there’s a cave.” Joseph glances at Barclay, “You’ll only be able to get a two-man ship up there, if that. And you’d be better off with someone who could swim ahead to look for danger while also being on deck if you need help navigating.”

Barclay studies him, eyes reminding Joseph of driftwood shining in the sun, “How long can you be out of the water?”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s three days of sailing to reach the pearl, if the weather holds. Barclay steers them towards their heading, while Joseph does his best to help from the hammock Barclay rigged up specially a few years ago so his mer friends could lower themselves in and out of the water even when the ship is in motion. 

The hammock is positioned so the mer within it can talk easily with the human at the helm. What this means in practice is that Barclay has an unbroken view of Joseph laying in the sun, tail shining like onyx and mother-of-pearl while sea spray clings to the muscles of his chest. This makes it much harder to steer, and to pretend his first idea to insure Joseph didn’t screw him over–chaining him to the rail–doesn’t still hold a new, far filthier appeal. 

They drop anchor in a calm cove to wait out the night. Barclay brings dinner for both of them onto the deck, where Joseph is busy re-organizing the contents of his satchel. 

“You got some nice stuff there, blue eyes. There were guys in basic who coulda learned a lot from you on keeping organized.”

“Thank you” Joseph looks genuinely flattered, “I consider it a professional investment.”

Barclay chuckles, “You’re always using that word. Hate to break it to you, but ‘treasure hunter’ isn’t something people see as a real job.”

“What I do isn’t treasure hunting. It’s archaeology. And anthropology, since I’m in charge of that department.”

“....what?”

“I’m a professor and museum curator. I thought…aren’t you something similar?” 

“Joseph, I’m a cook. I treasure hunt because the rent to keep the Lodge afloat started going sky-high and hasn’t stopped and, uh” he looks at his plate, “some other stuff, too.”

There’s a silence he’s already coming to recognize as Joseph thinking. 

“What was the necklace for? The one we went after together?”

He’s learned it’s better to be cagey about his past. To see unremarkable and fade into the background. Joseph’s always able to draw him out, even when he should stay hidden. 

“There’s some….people in town. Guys who’ll torch everything if you don’t do what they want. Maybe they’re part of something bigger. Maybe they’re small potatoes. All I know is when they were turning the town upside down looking for someone to make dives for them who could pilot a boat, and if someone didn’t help soon, they’d start burning houses. When Reconciliation took that first find out from under both of us, they told me it was find that necklace or stay underwater forever. Think the only reason I’m still alive is I found a bunch of other treasure on that same wreck and that put enough dollar signs in their eyes to give me another chance.”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Old hurt and fear wells up, and so his tone is short when he says, “Yeah, well, not everyone can afford to take what we find and put it on display. Or get away with a slap on the wrist if we fuck up.”

Blue eyes narrow, “Don’t pretend to know what my world is like.”

“At a guess it’s a hell of a lot less stressful than being on land!”

“There are horrible mers everywhere. And they’re more than happy to make others suffer consequences for their own purposes.”

Barclay stands, taking both plates, “Come whine to me about consequences when someone breaks your pinky for not finding what he wanted in a sea cave.”

He storms off the deck, tosses the plates into the sink, and sits down on his small bed, praying for a dreamless sleep. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------

They barely speak the next day. It’s an easy stretch of sea, and he doesn’t need any help navigating. He knows he’s being petty, knows Joseph couldn’t have any idea of what he’d dealt with. But the mer prides himself on his intellect and observation; maybe he should figure some things out without other people laying them bare. 

It’s only after they’ve found  harbor for the night that Barclay brings his chess set out as a peace offering. He remembers the mers excitement when he found one of carved ivory in a sunken desk. It’s easier to talk as they play, about friends and family and what they each do when not getting in the other’s way. Easier to imagine a life where Joseph is a regular at the Lodge and Barclay steals down to the shore  at night to see if all the wild stories about what’s hiding within mer tails is true. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------

“We’ll have to anchor her here and take the rowboat” Joseph bobs in the water, looking up at Barclay. The human is painfully handsome in the morning sun, but between their strained small talk yesterday and Joseph’s own guilt at not working out the truth sooner he figures that ship sailed long ago. 

“It’s that bad?”

“Something small is the only way between the rocks, and we don’t want to lose the Yeti if, on the off-chance, I don’t warn you of one in time.”

“How deep is it once we reach the river mouth?”

“Only five feet or so.”

“Fuck it. I’ll swim, wade, and walk.” 

A few minutes later they’re swimming side by side, then Barclay is walking the bank while Joseph pushes upstream. When they reach the cave, the human holds a lantern and Joseph calls out when there’s a deeper patch of water or sharp patch of rocks. After a half hour, they reach a wall of cut stones, blocking all but a few streams of water, with no place for man or mer to sneak through. 

“Atlantian?” Barclay peers at the symbols on each stone.

“Old Atlantian. Which is important because that phrase on the map is ‘welcome esteemed ones.’ But welcome is a very different symbol depending on which form of Atlantian you’re looking at it. And I’m guessing hitting the wrong stone causes that to drop on us” he points to massive, jagged rock above them that’s clearly not part of the original ceiling.

“Okay” Barclay takes a deep breath “okay. Tell me what to press.”

With symbols above and below the water, and Joseph unwilling to risk their lives by hitting one without thinking through it first, the first candle in the lantern is nearly gone by the time the stones part and let them through. 

“Not gonna lie, blue eyes, that was fucking impressive.”

“Thank you. And I’m glad you were here so I wasn’t chucking rocks trying to hit the right stones above the water.” 

They round a corner and both groan: another wall, this time coated with a sparkling mural of the night sky. 

“All the map says is “the sky that sent you here.” Barclay cautiously looks at the wall, “holy fuck, the constellations are made of diamonds.”

“This doesn’t look right to me, but I don’t navigate by the stars.”

“It isn’t right. I think I can move the pieces around to make it be the sky we saw last night.” He sets the lantern on a rock and rubs his hands together, “okay, let’s see what we can do.”

Joseph settles on a rock to watch as Barclay moves the tiles side to side, up and down. He moves one, then shakes his head and moves it back. The instant it moves to the wrong spot, a fin crests the water on the far side of the cave. It’s not a big shark, and so Joseph slips soundlessly into the water and stares it down. The shark knows better than to pass by a larger predator that’s so clearly eyeing it, and so turns and swims the other way. 

He spends the next ten minutes diving and resurfacing to keep the growing number of sharks at bay. To Barclay’s credit, only three are there by the end, but Joseph has had to push the biggest one away more than once. 

“Oh fuck, I didn’t even see them!” Barclay quickly steps through the open door and Joseph swims after him. 

“I suspect that’s the point. Once again, I’m relieved we’re doing this together.”

“Me too.” The human smiles at him, “we make a good team. Wish we always could.”

Joseph sighs internally but doesn’t argue. An apology won’t fix this; only keeping his word will. 

They don’t have to search much farther before warm, golden light spills down the tunnel. In a final room, the Eternal Oyster sits stately and half-submerged, giant pearl bright and gold as the sun.

After checking the room for traps and finding none, Barclay pulls the large sheet from his rucksack that they’ll use to sling the pearl between them. 

“I think we can lift it out together” Joseph says. Barclay nods, positioning himself on the other side, up to his shoulders in water.

“Okay, on three. One, two, three.”

Electricity pulses through his system and he yelps, pained and blind, dropping the pearl back into place. Barclay is cursing like a sailor should, and his voice sounds strange, so strange Joseph fears he might be badly hurt. 

Blinking his eyes brings the world into better focus but worse sense. 

His own body is across from him, shaking its head. And his face, the one he can feel, itches. 

“Barclay? I think we found the booby trap.”

“No fucking kidding. Fuck that hurt. Maybe if…we….oh FUCK” The merman swims backwards in shock, running into a rock in the process, “ow, how do you move with this thing?”

“As easily as you do with legs. Which, for the record, I don’t feel great on.”

“If we touch it again it’ll fix it, right? Right?” Barclay sets his hand on the pearl and Joseph does the same. 

Nothing. Not even a mild shock.

“Shit. Okay, we just need to stop and think through our options-”

“No time” Barclay points to the door that’s not rumbling closed, “let’s go!”

They barely make it through the first door, and Barclay nearly clips his tail in the closing of the second. Their pace doesn’t slow once they make the mouth of the cave, as if they’re under the shared delusion they can move fast enough to catch the past and undo it. 

It’s only when he’s collapsed on the deck of the Yeti, his own face bobbing in the water nearby, that it sets in: they’re well and truly fucked. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes Barclay an embarrassingly long time to get on deck. Josephs’ tail is heavy and it where it does and doesn’t get traction makes no fucking sense. 

He feels a little better when, once he flops onto the sun-warmed wood, Joseph hisses in pain and sits down a moment later, pulling a splinter from his foot. 

“Feet are so sensitive.” He tosses the offending wood overside

“Gotta admit, I thought I’d feel more through this.” Barclay tries to raise his tail but simply flicks it, “no wonder you look like this” he gestures down to the visibly muscled stomach that’s replaced his dark haired belly. 

“I can see where you get the idea, but that’s not quite it.” Joseph is still holding his foot, wiggling each toe in turn, “the mers in my region treat everything as a test of strength and power. You have to be ready to fight over the most pointless things.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It’s not my favorite.” Joseph stretches out his legs, “when I tricked you…I had been told if I didn’t come back with something impressive within four days of setting out, I could kiss my spot at work goodbye. They’d find someone who could handle the dangers of archaeology. That’s literally how they said it.” He runs his hand over his hair, wincing when it gets stuck in Barclay’s windblown strands, “Never mind that I’ve spent years studying human culture and mer history; if I ‘couldn’t hack it’ they said I’d never work in my field again. That doesn’t excuse what I did but…maybe it explains it.”

“Yeah, it does.” He holds out a far less scarred hand than normal, “to a fresh start?”

Joseph shakes his hand with a smile, then rests against the hull. Barclay wonders if his face looks this tired when it’s not Joseph behind it. 

His companion rolls his shoulder, “Does this always ache?”

“Yep. Pulled it when I was in the navy. Not in a fight; once they figured out I could cook, no one above me wanted to send me out and let the mess hall fall back into being grim.”

“I bet you were dashing in your uniform” His smile seems straighter when Joseph does it.

“I looked like a gorilla in blue.”

“I’m not sure I believe that” Joseph looks down at the body he’s occupying, “you cut quite a figure.”

“Yeah?” Barclay idly pets his tail, enjoying the cool scales against the heat of the sun, “think I’d have better luck treasure hunting if I batted my eyelashes at the competition?”

“Could be worth a try” Joseph’s teasing expression takes on a flustered undertone, “I, um, I’d be careful touching there.”

“OH, ohfuck, sorry.” Barclay pulls his hand back as a patch of scales ripples, sending a thrill of pleasure up his spine.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t occur to humans that ours are hidden, since yours aren’t.” He glances down, “which just seems very vulnerable.”

“I mean it, it is.” His eyes stick to where Joseph’s hand has slipped beneath weatherbeaten pants.

“Softer than I thought it’d be. Then again, mer writing on human anatomy is, well, lacking a lot of the time. Still, feeling it, I’m not sure how you fuck anyone with this.”

“It doesn’t stay that way.” Barclay forces his hands to stay on the deck, “don’t mer dicks need to be stroked or something?”

“That depends; there’s more, um, variety in mer anatomy than in humans, but once the slit is open, whatever is there is ready to go.” He’s obviously touching his dick (Barclay’s dick, his brain unhelpfully supplies, just like he’s wished he would in dozens of angry jerk off sessions), but his expression is more inquisitive than anything else. 

Then, just to bring Barclay closer to making a fool of himself, Joseph’s free hand roams up his chest, rucking up his shirt as it goes. He pets at the hair there with a smile, then gasps when he palms across his nipples, “That’s, wow, you’re very sensitive, big guy.”

“What was that?” Barclay tries to laugh but it comes out a bit strangled. 

“My personal nickname for you. I didn’t want to call you it out loud because it didn’t seem professional.”

“Hate to break it to you, blue eyes, but we blew past professional a few minutes ago.”

Joseph’s hands still, “Should I stop?”

“Not unless you want to. I, uh, I just, I know this might just feel like investigation to you but it’s turning me on and you’re touching me–like, my actual body–in ways it hasn’t been touched in years and…” he meets the brown eyes across from him and sees the truth, “and you knew that and’ve been winding me up on purpose you fucking tease.”

“I know I can be single minded at times, but even if I’d meant for this to be research, it would’ve stopped the second I felt how nice it is to touch you. And when I saw that you liked it.” He tilts his head down. Barclay follows his gaze and finds the slit on his tail open, silvery-pink tendrils curling anemone-like from the sides.

He groans, “Yeah, yeah you got me, blue eyes, the fact you’re kinda controlling my body and doing whatever you want to it is red hot and I, I..” he blushes, “I’ve always wanted to watch myself. I know that’s weird but I just think about being able to see how badly someone wants to touch me and how it looks when someone just takes me-”

As he babbles, Joseph unbuttons his shirt and then shoves down his pants, “There’s nothing strange about wanting to be appreciated for the gorgeous man you are.” He drags his hand slowly up his dick, “you were made to be looked at, so why shouldn’t you get to enjoy the view the same as the rest of us?”

Barclay whimpers, brushing his fingers cautiously over the tendrils and gasping when they try to coil around them.

“I know, big guy, I know. It aches, doesn’t it? Like if you don’t fill the space soon you’ll cry?”

“Uhhuh, fuck, how do you stand it?”

“I got good with my hands.” He laughs as Barclay frantically dips three fingers inside, “though one time it got so bad I found a merman with tentacles instead of a tail and begged him to fuck me with as many of them as he could.”

He imagines Joseph pinned against some rocky outcropping, crying out for more like he’s being paid to beg, and shoves his own fingers deeper. The inside of the slit is ridged and ripples as if it’s trying to draw the digits deeper and hold them tight. 

“Are you still okay?”

Barclay nods, “only thing that’d make it better is a kiss, fuck I’ve wanted to kiss you for months and at this point I don’t care how weird this all is, I still just want to know you’d kiss me back.”

Joseph awkwardly crawls the few feet between them and cups Barclay’s face in his hands. The kiss is sea-salted and swift, as the instant their lips meet the air crackles. It doesn’t hurt as much this time, though all the hair on arms is on end when he looks down and finds himself back in his own body. 

“Incredible!” The merman flutters his tail, “I wonder if the kiss did it? Or maybe the curse is specific to each situation and it decided we needed to understand each other? Hell, maybe it’s time sensitveOH, ohmylord.” Joseph is beautifully wide-eyed when Barclay lunges forward and pins him to the floor. 

“Baby, I love listening to you theorize. Seriously, I do.” He leans down kissing the merman’s cheek, “but so help me if you don’t focus and let me fuck you I’m sticking you back in that fucking net with just your tail free so you can’t run off when I’m getting my rocks off.”

Joseph purrs and arches his back, “you have my attention.”

Barclay kicks his pants free and straddles black and white scales. He thrusts in all at once, moaning as Joseph tightens around him and the ridges and ripples drag him towards his climax. 

“That’s it baby, take it, make all those times I had to watch you swim off with stuff you beat me to worth it, fuck, shoulda, shoulda fucked you before I went on a hunt so you’d be too fucking sore to move–oh, ohfuck, baby, baby.” He cums harder than he thought possible, Joseph moaning happily as he pulses inside him. 

When he raises up on his elbows and tries to pull out, he can’t. 

Joseph grins. Have his teeth always been that sharp?

“You’re not going anywhere until I cum, big guy.” The tendrils coil around his shaft, and one even slips lower to tease his balls, “and since you’re so convinced you could fuck me into submission,” he wiggles his tail but otherwise doesn’t move, “get to it.”

“Figures you’d be demanding in bed.” Barclay teases and bends to kiss him. Joseph returns the kiss sweetly. 

Then he sinks his teeth into Barclays shoulder. And when Barclay jerks upwards, Joseph moves his attention to his chest, pawing and biting and the sensitive skin. Barclay rocks his hips, and when he speeds up the movement the tendrils on his dick pulse and Joseph gives an odd, burbling cry. 

“Yes, yes, like that big guy, just like that. Fill me like a good partner, make me take it all, yes, fuckyes.” A shudder runs up his tail as he moans and cums, tendrils twitching as they recede.

When Barclay is able to pull out, he only gets halfway off the mer before collapsing into his arms. Joseph takes his right hand, kisses it, and then rests it on his chest with a contented sigh. 

A familiar horn in the distance. Reconciliation, somewhere at the other end of the cove. 

“Should we warn them about the oyster?” Barclay looks up at Joseph.

“No. They’re always bragging about how skilled they are. I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Joseph winks at him. 

Barclay kisses his collarbone. “Couldn’t agree more. Partner.”

#thinking again today about how much this slaps

[bellafarallones2]

into silvain (anabasis)

So I read a travelogue and was inspired to write in first person. This does not have anything approaching a complete plot but I think I had some interesting ideas. And there are pictures!

I will not detail how and why I first resolved to visit Silvain; suffice it to say that the desire bloomed in me young. However, it was with this desire in mind that I entered college, and it was with this desire in mind that, after graduation, I sought, was offered, and accepted a job with the FBI, which was at that time the United States government bureau with jurisdiction over the gateway. A few short years later I was posted to West Virginia, and I finally had my opportunity. 

Even considering the anxiety that had consumed me as I applied for jobs at the Bureau, the few months before I crossed the gate were the most stressful of my life. I had almost no idea what I was preparing myself for, working only from rumors from the 1940s and the testimony of the government, which I was not at all sure I could trust, knowing that it was at best colored by prejudice and at worst outright lies. The information I trusted the best were the letters sent by one Ranger Wayne “Duck” Newton, donated by his sister Jane to the Kepler Historical Society. 

I had reread them so often that I almost felt like I knew the man personally. In his letters Newton described the inhabitants of Silvain with polite curiosity and occasional wonderment, and was concerned with the welfare of his family, his friends, and his cat. Nothing about his accounts made Silvain seem scary, except for the fact that he had never returned. 

Out of respect for natural security, I will not detail how I infiltrated the highly secure area surrounding the gate on the Earth side. But it was a moonless night, a few minutes past midnight, and my body was thrumming with anticipation and excitement. 

The gate was enclosed in a warehouse built specially for the purpose, with metal walls and a metal roof that reverberated noisily when it rained. The floor was dirt and the remains of the grass that had died from lack of sunlight when the warehouse was built. I did not linger there tonight, but hurried straight to the gate, which was glowing faintly in the darkness. 

I had felt certain that there would be some physical sensation as I stepped through it, that my body would in some way respond at a cellular level to being suddenly transported millions of light-years across the universe. But there was not. My cells were oblivious. 

I found myself on a hillside, under a purple sky. Not the purple of evening, no, this was the purple of a sky that was always purple, in the same way ours is always blue. There were trees around me, but no birds singing in them. In the soft grass I saw the remains of a path, and so I followed it. 

The quiet became more unsettling as I walked. There truly were no birds, no insects buzzing in the grass or in the air. The only sound was the grass whispering in the breeze, and my own breathing. But almost at once I could see the city on the horizon, and I quickened my pace, eager to meet it. 

The city of Silvain was a city of stone. It reminded me somewhat of the pueblos of the southwestern United States. All of the buildings seemed old, and there seemed to be no expansion going on whatsoever. 

The first people I saw looked human, and they seemed to take me for one of their own as well. But even though I dared not stare I could see that they were not. Their teeth were sharp, their ears pointed, their eyes varying shades of red. Then I could see people who looked completely alien, people with long hair over their whole bodies, people with the heads of other animals on human bodies. Many of these I judged to be well over seven feet tall. 

I realized that there was some kind of open-air market in the town square, and many of the people passing me on the streets were carrying bags of their purchases. I had brought some currency, but expected it to be useless. I had protein bars and water bottles in my backpack, but I hoped to find some food at some point. 

In the crowd here I saw my first non-humanoid animal: something shaped like a dog, but clearly an amphibian, whose owner was walking it on a leash. It spotted another in the crowd and greeted it with a strange bark, hollower than a dog’s. The amphibians looked so damp, and as I watched one sitting by a market stall I saw its owner rinsing its skin with a wet rag. Looking around, I realized there were large, flat tubs full of water scattered around the square for these creatures to refresh themselves in. 

Reaching the market proper, I could see that all of the food was unrecognizable to me. There were also a lot of non-food goods, the pelts of animals I didn’t recognize, woven cloth, pottery. None of the conversations I could overhear were in English, or indeed intelligible to me whatsoever. I knew a few words of Sylph, everything Newton had transliterated in his letters, but nothing that would allow me to conduct a complicated transaction. 

Then I smelled something delicious, and followed the smell to a stall tended by who I can only describe as an apeman. He was over seven feet tall, covered in long, neatly-combed auburn hair. His eyes were intelligent and deep-brown. He seemed naked except for the earring in his left ear, which consisted of several strands of fine gold chain. 

Somewhat laboriously I managed to pronounce the sylph word for hello. The apeman said it back, much more fluidly and with different pronunciation, but I was relieved to have made myself understood. 

Then he said, in perfect American English, “You’re from Earth, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” I said back. “You speak English?”

“Yes, and you’re lucky you found me, because I’m the only person in this whole square who does. I’m Barclay.” His smile displayed sharp, apelike teeth.

I paused for a moment before introducing myself. For so long I’d introduced myself only as Agent Stern, the person I was at work. But now I smiled back and said “My name is Joseph. What are you selling?” The objects in his display case looked for all the world like -

“Pepperoni rolls,” said Barclay. 

“Really?” I said. These were a local West Virginia delicacy. “We have those on Earth.”

“I know,” he said. “Here, have one, and tell me if it’s authentic or not.”

I pulled out my wallet, but he stopped me. “No, no, on the house.” 

“Really? Thank you!” I took the pepperoni roll he offered me. I am not a native West Virginian and so I could not hope to vouch for its authenticity, but I found his version delicious. 

“So, what brings you to Silvain?” said Barclay once I had given my compliments.

“I wanted to know what it’s like,” I said. 

“The government didn’t send you?” he said, a little warily.

“No.” 

“Well, you’ll need to go to the palace.”

“I don’t know where that is.” 

“Let me take you.”

This made me a little nervous, since I didn’t know if the authorities in Silvain would be as hostile to the idea of my being here as the authorities in the United States would have been, but I had no choice but to agree, especially since I had no idea whether Barclay might resort to force if I did not comply, and he could certainly overpower me easily. “Alright,” I said.

Barclay conferred briefly with the being at the stall next to his, seemingly to ask her to watch his wares while he escorted me to the palace, and then we were off. 

Silvain seemed to me to be a tight-knit community; Barclay called greetings to many of the other people we passed and even bent down to pat one of the strange frog-creatures. But we still made our way in good time to the palace that loomed over the square. Out in front, on a platform in the front steps, was a statue made of what looked like pink marble of a very strange entity. It was humanoid, except it had four arms plus a pair of wings, its four hands spread beatifically. Its stone eyes were open wide, and it had a pair of feathery antennae carved so delicately that the stone was translucent.

I could only conclude that this was some kind of deity or mythical spirit, because no one I had seen in the square looked like this at all. There were other insect people, but none with wings like this. 

Barclay ignored the statue as he led me past it. There was one indifferent-looking guard holding a spear at the entrance to the castle, but when Barclay stopped to talk to them they just waved us through. Inside we were stopped by another humanoid-looking Sylph, who said something to Barclay and then looked expectantly at me. 

“She wants you to open your mouth,” said Barclay apologetically. “To check that you’re human.”

I did so. The humanoid sylph guffawed at me and then walked off. 

“I’m sorry,” said Barclay. “A lot of people around here still aren’t used to seeing humans.”

“Is anyone used to seeing humans?”

Barclay hesitated for a moment, like he’d let something slip that he shouldn’t have. Was I not the only human to have slipped through the gate? “Not really,” said Barclay finally. 

He led us through the palace like he knew where he was going. “Do you hold some kind of official position here?” I asked.

“No,” said Barclay. “Well, sometimes I cook when there’s a special event.”

I realized then that either Silvain was a tight-knit community or I had just gotten very lucky. (Or unlucky. At that point I didn’t yet know which.)

Barclay knocked on a set of double doors, and a voice from within called “Come in!” 

Barclay opened the door, and we entered the room. There were four people sitting around a huge rectangular table, in front of the remains of a meal. I was surprised to see that one of the four people looked exactly like the statue outside: a humanoid moth with four arms and huge, red eyes. Two of the others looked humanoid - a girl and an older woman - and the fourth looked like a man with the head of a goat, fine gold chain wrapped around his horns. 

The jewelry on all of them, in fact, was absolutely spectacular. The girl was wearing a gold crown with jewels set into it that looked like it should be too heavy for her head, the woman had heavy rings on almost all of her fingers. The moth-person was wearing rings on all four of his hands connected by fine gold chain to the bangles on his wrists, all of which glittered with stones that looked like diamonds, except that they were pink and reflected the light in even more brilliant rainbows. The dishware on the table was silver and gold, too, the handles of their silverware masterfully carved into fantastic shapes. Each silver drinking cup was shaped into the head of an antelope-like animal.

Barclay was saying something in Sylph, and this time I caught the word Earth. 

“Welcome,” the mothperson said, getting immediately to his feet, and extending one of his right hands for a handshake. “My name is Indrid Cold. It is an honor to meet you.” His rings were cold against my skin. 

“Joseph Stern,” I said. “It’s an honor to be here.” 

“What brings you here?” said the goatman, studying me with his amber, square-pupiled eyes.

“I just wanted to see what Silvain was like,” I said, and realized how lame it sounded. “Are visitors not allowed?”

“No, no, visitors are welcome,” said the goatman. The girl and the woman looked much less pleased.

“I would be happy to host you at my home,” said Indrid. “And show you around anyplace you’d like to see.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t mean to interrupt you.” 

“No, no, now is the perfect time for us to go. I’m sure Barclay would like to get back to the market, but you’re coming over for dinner, right?”

“Yep,” said Barclay. 

With this Indrid ushered Barclay and I out of the room and we left the palace again. 

“Our cups are shaped like a kouprey,” said Indrid as we went back through the empty halls of the palace. 

“What?” I said. 

“You were thinking about asking. They’re not around anymore, so you won’t be able to be a live one.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know how much you know about Silvain, Mr. Stern, but much of it is not around anymore.” 

“They might still be out there somewhere,” said Barclay. 

Indrid made a pessimistic noise as we reached the front door again.

“Well, I’ll see you at dinner. It was very nice to meet you, Joseph.” Barclay waved goodbye to us and hurried back down the palace steps. 

“Is that a statue of you?” I asked as Indrid and I descended the steps as well at a more leisurely pace.

“No,” said Indrid. “That is my great-grandfather, Archilochus Cold.” 

“Are you…” I struggled for the right word. Newton had not been very interested in the political structure of Silvain. “In charge here?”

“Goodness no,” said Indrid. “I’m only the court seer. But I have… you might say I have a soft spot for humans. So does Vincent, but my brother would never let him bring one home with him.”

“Do you get many humans here?”

“Oh, no. Especially not anymore. Has your government started letting people through the gate again?”

“No,” I admitted.

“I admire your ingenuity,” he said, seemingly sincerely. 

“Why isn’t a lot of Silvain around anymore?” 

“That is a conversation we can have once we get home.”

The people we passed in the market didn’t even give Indrid a second glance, which seemed unfathomable to me. 

Out on the edge of town we came to a row of larger houses, each surrounded by its own stone wall. Indrid unlatched one of the gates and went in. “I’m home!” he called. 

Just inside the wall there was a man kneeling in front of a garden bed, weeding. He stood up and brushed off his knees to greet us. He was wearing a vintage park ranger uniform, a hat that had gone soft and shapeless with age, and he had striking eyes - one brown, one green. I could not conceal my surprise - it was Duck Newton. The man I’d thought had been dead for over a decade.

He smiled a crooked, charming smile. “Hey, ‘Drid. Who’s this?”

#taz amnesty

[bellafarallones2]

Flyboy (Indruck)

A birthday comission for the wonderful @bellafarallones2! This was inspired by a convo we had on Discord

Quick content note: since this fill involves vampires, there will be mentions of blood and usage of thralls (but the time it's used during sex is very consensual)

Mothers worry, and his is no exception. She worried over him back in the states, on the boat over, and the day he left for training. 

Still, Duck has to laugh at her latest letter, where she admonishes him not to stay out too late. 

“With the blackouts, goodness knows who could be lurking around corners once night falls.”

It’s not that there haven’t been robberies and worse of civilians hurrying home without lamplight to guide them. But no one would be fool enough to try that on a pack of enlisted men, no matter how drunk they all were. Killing one of England's finest in the middle of the war is a surefire way to have the entire police force chasing you down. Better to stick to old men and working girls just trying to get from here to there. 

Yes sir, there’s safety in numbers. 

Which is why Duck’s confidence wobbles when he looks up from catching his breath and finds no sign of the group he followed to the pub. 

He squints at the street signs, too little light and too much booze in his blood rendering them useless. No reason he can’t pick his way back to the barracks by landmark.

Sixteen blocks of houses that look exactly the same later, he slumps down on an empty bench near a church he could have sworn was the one he passed on his way into town. Christ it’s getting chilly; at least back home it was only the winter that was cold. 

Seconds tick by as he breathes deep to clear his head. What’s waiting for him in his foggy mind isn’t the path home, but a parade of every damn thing he was drinking to forget. 

“Fuck” he whimpers. 

A whisper of movement to his right and then there’s a man who wasn’t there a moment before. He’s sure of it, he would have noticed him if he was. He’s in black from hat to shoe, the only color the red of his round glasses and the white of his smile.

The stranger extends a gloved hand, “Come along, you are not far from home.”

Duck takes it, the touch on his fingers light and the steps of his guide inaudible. In a few short minutes of weaving across the stones, they’re at the edge of the air base, as far as a civilian can go. 

The man steps back, removes his hat with a bow, and then murmurs, “Goodnight, Duck Newton.”

He watches him disappear into the darkness, then jumps out of his skin when Owens taps his arm. 

“There you are. Thought we were gonna have to go out first thing tomorrow and scrape you out of the gutter.”

“You know I ain’t a lightweight.” As they walk towards the barracks he adds, “You ever heard of anyone seeing anything strange around here. Like a ghost or something?”

Owens snorts, “It’s London, Newton. Every corner is supposed to be haunted.”

��-----------------------------------------------------------------------

For two weeks, Duck is more careful when they’re out drinking. He’d rather not get completely fucking lost again, not when there’s no promise they same figure will save his ass a second time. He should know, he’s looked for him every night as the clump of them moves from pub to pub and then stumbles home. 

Tonight he broke his four beer limit; in four days he’s being sent out on his second flight of the war. 

He can stand on his own, barely, when they leave the bar. He could blame Owens for leading the group home too damn fast for him to keep up, but he dawdles, falls more and more behind until they’re out of sight. He toddles along like a carefree bulldog for a bit, then his feet slip on the slick sidewalk and he falls hard onto his ass

A whir overhead. One of their engines, he can tell from the sound. 

Does it count as desertion if he gets so lost he ends up miles from his post?

The back of his neck prickles. Then there’s a soft “tsk” the lamp post. 

“And here I thought you learned your lesson.” It’s the stranger again, as unsurprised as if he’d invited Duck to this deserted street. 

“It’s you.” Duck wants to stand but his legs rebel, and so he stares up at the approaching figure, “The ghost. Are you a ghost? Or am, am I dead? Or going to be? Fuck, are you an omen?” Flashes of the ground roaring to meet him race through his mind and he shrinks away. 

“Nothing of the kind. I'm simply out for a walk and a meal.”  He offers his hand.

Duck takes it, holding much firmer this time, “Then, then lemme buy you dinner. S’a thank you for saving my ass.”

“Helping you home is hardly life or death. And nowhere is open now. You left just before last call, remember? I was about to have a quick bite when I noticed you stepping out, looking for all the world like you were already lost.”

“That ain’t fair” Duck loops their arms together, digging into the molasses that’s now his brain for what he wants to say, “you’re too skinny. Should be eating. And I made you miss dinner. Now you won’t get to eat tonight.”

“Oh I will, I assure you. For now, let’s get you home, my brave flying ace.” The man guides them to a corner, crossing without looking for cars, unbothered by the darkness that makes Duck feel as if the world is closing in on him. He’d give anything to see a light left on by someone so someone they loved could find their way home. 

Red glasses shine and pale, almost silver hair peeks from beneath the brim of a black hat, and the buildings let Duck breathe easier. 

 "I kept looking for you. Couldn't find you." Duck leans their shoulders together, "Was, was hoping you'd find me again, and you did."

"You are hard to ignore." The smile is gentle, almost detached, as if the man is speaking to a dog frightened of a thunderstorm.

"S'like your my guardian angel."

Gloved fingers rest on his right hand, patting it as he softly laughs, "No, little soldier, not quite."

Duck blushes at the sound, hiding his face against a narrow shoulder like a schoolboy who’s love letters were just read aloud to the class, “M’sorry.”

The man stops, “Nono, I was not laughing at you. Your choice of words simply surprised me, which is a rare treat.” His hands settle on Duck’s shoulders, turning him so they’re facing each other, “If I could be your guardian angel, I would.”

It’s happening again. Every thought and fear he pushed away with jokes and drinks and stubborn determination swarms him at once. There’s no guardian angels out there. Not for him, not for anyone. 

“You are afraid.” There’s no judgment in the statement, but with the glasses in place Duck can’t tell what the other man is thinking as the words hang between them.

“Ain’t you?” Before the man can answer he chuckles, “course you ain’t. You’re out here all alone in fancy clothes, built like a beanpole, and you, you, ain’t looked over your shoulder once. So you gotta be brave. Or immoral. No, uh, whatsit, immortal. That’s the one.”

“It is only human to be afraid now and then, let alone when one is in the middle of a war.”

“We’re not s’posed to be scared. We’re soldiers, we’re just supposed to shoot the shit and drink and fuck and make our fuckin peace with dyin’”

“That is an…understandable approach. All the same, perhaps you should not drink quite so much. In your profession you need a sharp eye and a steady hand, neither of which is improved by liquor. Not to mention, I may not always be here to help you home.”

“If I promise to cut back will, will you let me come home with you?”

The question startles them both, the man dropping his hands,“Why would you want that?”

“Because I can’t take another night in the fuckin barracks. Some of the boys are fine but some of ‘em are fucking awful, and everyone is always talkin about how this fella never game back or that plane was shot clean in half and the fact we’re flyin’ in fucking tin cans and most nights I can swing the fuckin gallows humor but, but tonight I just can’t. Please. I know it’s a fuckin odd-ball request but…please.”

The man’s expression is blank for a moment, then painfully tender, before returning to a placid smile, “Alright. My apartment is not far. This way.”

There’s nothing remarkable about the brick building, but when Duck follows his host across the threshold he’s certain he stepped into another country. There are tapestries from Japan, eyes and birds and other strange symbols cast in gold and silver hanging from the ceiling. The curtains blacking out the windows are woven with horses and look like they should be in a museum. When Indrid gestures for him to sit on the black sofa, he sinks halfway into the soft cushions. 

“Would you like some tea? I can make coffee as well if you would prefer.” The man removes his jacket and hat, hanging them on the wall next to several other black pieces of clothing and one bright yellow and pink scarf. 

“Tea’s fine. Is, can I take off my coat?”

“Of course. You are my guest, you should make yourself as comfortable as you like.”

“Thanks uh, uh…fuck, this is embarassin, I don’t even know your name.”

“Indrid Cold” He moves from the stove, taking off his gloves before holding out his hand, “there, now we have formally met.”

“Guess so.” Duck smiles up at him, watches as he returns to the kitchen. He’s not quite as imposing in soft lamplight as he was in a rainy street. Like his decor, he looks like he should be in a museum, or a palace. 

If Duck took him to the woods, anyone who crossed their path would think they’d met something otherworldly. A campsite and a riverbank aren’t the right places for him, they’d say. But Duck would make sure the two of them had a trip fit for a prince, they could swim in the river and see the fireflies…

Fuck. That’s so fucking childish. Fucking get it together, Newton. 

“Are you alright?” Indrid stands before him, cup in either hand, “you look rather…teary.”

“Yeah, yeah, m’peachy,.” He tips his head back to buy time, then gawps at the ceiling, “holy fuck, did you paint that?”

“Mmm? Oh” Indrid follows his gaze to the golden sun and vibrant blue sky, “yes, I did. It was some time ago and I am so used to it I forget it’s there.”

Duck takes the tea-cup as his host sits. He’s expecting fine china, but the mug is sturdy and chipped, green like a pine tree in July. 

“I enjoy artful things to look at, but anything I actually use must be rather, ah, durable. I am a bit of a disaster attractor at times.” Indrid sips his tea as he casually reads Duck’s mind. 

“Me too. Not that it ain’t nice to own neat things but with a life like mine you gotta be ready to move ‘em all or for them to be, uh, be shipped back to your folks.” He clears his throat, “‘sides, what would a fella like me do with fancy stuff anyway?”

“I don’t know, I could see you lounging in finery rather easily” Indrid’s smile is different this time, warm and dangerous as a glass lantern, “Then again, I can picture you rather nicely in a, hmm…..cabin perhaps? Somewhere rugged and wild, like America.”

Duck giggles, “Ain’t all that wild over there these days.”

“Ooooh” Indrid brightens, scooting closer, “so that is where you hail from. I have never been, you must tell me–, oh, no, how silly of me. You need rest, not recite your life story.”

“No, no I, m’fine see? Bright eye’d as all–fuck!” His hand wobbles and sends his tea onto Indrid’s shirt, “fuck, sorry, fuck you’re right I got too fuckin sauced.” As he tries to pat the stain away, his brain tells him something is wrong. The body beneath his hands doesn’t feel like it should.

“You…you’re cold.”

“Yes? Oh, you mean literally. Ah, not to worry, I just tend towards a cooler-” he gasps as Duck runs a hand over his chest.

“No I mean you’re real fuckin cold. Are you feelin’ okay? Were you in that rain to fuckin long?” Duck undoes the buttons on the black shirt, finds no undershirt waiting for him. Just tan skin that hasn’t seen the sun in far too long, “yknow, they taught us that if your buddy gets hypothermia out on a mission you’re supposed to strip naked and get in your bed together.”

Indrid laughs, “I assure you I have no such condition.”

“Still, still oughta get you warm. Bed, where’s bed?” His drunken brain isn’t sure if he’s trying to come on to Indrid, and from the wide eyes behind his glasses, Indrid isn’t certain either. 

“It’s through that doorway.”

Duck pulls him up, feet still refusing to walk with any damn coordination, and finds a lamp with moths on the shade and switches it on. The bedroom is small with a bed that’s distractingly comfy when he sits on it.

Indrid hesitates, not joining him on the blanket. Not wanting to rush him, Duck keeps his big mouth shut and holds Indrid’s hands, messily massaging them.

“You got such gorgeous hands. Like an artist, or a piano player” He stares at his face in Indrid’s glasses, “all of you is gorgeous.”

 “Thank you” Indrid perches on the bed, still holding Duck’s right hand. He turns it over to trace shapeless paths across the palm, “You are very sweet.”

The courage that left him on the street returns as he whispers, “If I kiss you, you won’t tell no one right?”

“You are very tired.” Indrid slips off his glasses, “here, look into my eyes.”

Duck meets them obediently, their brown seeming almost red in the lamplight. He cups Indrid’s cheeks, “See, jus’ like I said. Gorgeous.” 

“Go to sleep, little soldier.”

His eyelids are lead, but still he stays upright,“You’ll, you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I promise. You are safe here, Duck Newton. You will sleep soundly and dream of pleasant things.”

That’s all he needed to hear. He’s asleep before he even hits the blankets.

—-------------------------------------------------------

Indrid draws a blanket over Duck's chest. Yet another reason to be glad he opted for a real bed instead of the more traditional furniture; you can't lay handsome men down in a coffin.

The ones he sees when he stares too long into certain futures might have been handsome once. Some must have slept soundly in a lovers bed before they took to the wooden one six feet beneath the earth. Others were too young to have even had that. Not for the first time, he wonders which category the human before him belongs to. His haphazard groping suggests experience, but there’s a boyishness to his face that suggests a man who hasn’t yet sampled most of life's pleasures. 

He turns out the light but leaves the door open, in case his flying ace wakes up. His thrall can only put him to sleep, not keep him there.  He turns out the lamp in the living room as well, moves aside the thick curtains to peer out the windows. The city is shadows on shadows. It should be paradise for one such as him, but the climate lately is such that he feels he cannot take his time. Half the reason he follows the flocks of soldiers is because false bravado makes for an easy snack. 

The other half is that he likes the uniforms.

Duck stirs in his sleep. It would be easy to feed from him; Indrid might not even need his thrall to make him forget what happened. But he’s never liked the taste of drunk blood. And he knew the instant Duck turned those big green eyes on him and pleaded to spend the night that he wasn’t going to let anything disturb him. Not even his own hunger. 

He sketches for a while, then stares at the ceiling to follow various futures in hopes of finding one in which he can intervene. When that becomes grim he turns into a rat and slips inside one of the pillows to calm down. 

Dawn is a speck on the horizon when his guest wakes up, groaning and cursing as he holds his forehead, then jumps when he notices Indrid waiting with a glass of water. 

“Good morning. I am afraid my cupboards are rather bare, or I would have awoken you with breakfast.”

Duck takes the cup, “Thanks. Uh. Hope I didn’t make too big a fool of myself last night. Some parts are fuzzier than an unsheared sheep.”

“You were the perfect gentleman.” 

Being eager to put his hands on Indrid counts as good manners in his book. 

“And you are dangerously close to being late and in trouble with your superiors, so I will fetch your shoes and coat so you can depart whenever you are ready.” His stomach growls as he reaches the front door, and he reminds it that unless he risks terrible burns, it will just have to be patient until tonight. 

A creak at the bedroom doorway, “You never answered my question about kissin’.”

“I thought you too drunk to remember asking it. But if you remain curious, I keep my intimate affairs private.”

The human approaches him casually, “Y’know, sometimes if fellas in my unit get real drunk and can’t find a girl they… fool around with each other. Some don’t even bother tryin to find a girl first. Nobody thinks anythin’ of it, at least when they do it that way.”

Indrid sighs, too hungry to be tactful,“There is difference between a drunken tryst and being chosen. I prefer the latter. And before you ask, yes, I do appreciate the male body. Immensely. But only when that body knows who it’s with.”

Duck takes a step back, chagrined,  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean no offense.”

“I am aware. I am merely making it clear that if all you seek is fumbling in the dark with a warm body, I am not the one to pursue.” He hands the human his coat and shoes, then busies himself putting away last night's dishes (he can’t remember if he washed them but at this moment he does not care). When he turns back, the soldier is at attention by the door.

“Thank you for takin’ care of me last night, that was real kind of you.” He scratches the back of his neck, “I have to get back to base like you said but, uh, can I buy you dinner tonight? As a thank you?”

“You offered that last night as well.”

“Guess I must really mean it, huh.” A playful wink and Indrid is sold faster than an extra ration of sugar. 

“Very well. Meet me at Amnesty Lodge at seven, my brave flying ace.”

—------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid drums his fingers on the scuffed but immaculately clean table, staring out the Lodge window and wondering if Duck will arrive. Maybe the younger man thought better of his hung-over offer of dinner. 

Just as he’s taking stock of the futures to see if it’s worth ordering a drink, the bell dings and he hears Dani say, “Oh, of course, he’s right over here.”

His friend appears with Duck at her side. He’s in his full uniform, including his hat, aiming that beautifully crooked smile Indrid’s way. 

Indrid had forgotten how delightful being smitten can be. 

“I hope you did not get in trouble this morning.” Indrid stands, pulling out Duck’s chair. 

“Nah. Two fellas snuck girls back into the barracks last night so they were too busy reading ‘em the riot act to notice I was a few minutes late.” He thanks Dani as she passes him the menu. Indrid looks at his, even though he knew what he was having before he walked in. 

“Order whatever you like. Barclay is an excellent cook, even in lean times.”

Duck nods, requests shepherd's pie but no beer. Indrid simply tells Dani he’ll have the usual.

“How’d you know I was from the states last night? Was it just the accent?”

“Indeed, though I’ll admit my powers of deduction stop there in terms of determining where you are from.”

“West Virginia. Our farm failed when I was sixteen and we were broker than broke. My dad’s aunt had married some English guy and offered to move us over here. Six years and I ain’t ever been able to shake the accent.”

“I find it rather charming.” Indrid leans forward chin in his hand, “and I am curious as to how a farmboy became a flying ace.”

Duck regales him with the story of his conscription and training until dinner arrives and Duck looks at Indrid’s plate with alarm. 

“It is not as gruesome as it looks; steak tartare on top of aspic.” He leaves out the part where the aspic is just congealed pigs blood.

They chat about their experiences with London nightlife until Duck is nearly done with his pie. Then he fiddles with his fork and murmurs, “You don’t gotta answer if it’s too personal but, uh, how’d you avoid getting dragged into the service along with me?”

“I have a rare disease of the blood. You need not express the alarm you are about to, as it is not fatal. But it renders me unfit for service in the eyes of our leaders. Some days I wish I wore a sign stating that exact thing around my neck; I have been accosted and accused of dodging my duty to king and country more times than I care to recall. It is half the reason I go out only at night.”

“What’s the other half?”

“You are not the only one whose voice marks him unusual; enough traces of my childhood accent remain and remind people of German, though it is from more eastern regions than that. And I…many people find me strange. Eccentric. Unnerving. Which makes them assume I am an enemy.”

Duck stares at his plate, “It ain’t fair. We’re fighting and dying to keep this country safe and to keep some truly evil shit at bay and the whole time folks are still looking for excuses to be cruel to each other right here at home.”

Indrid sets his hand an inch from Duck’s fingers, “Humans have always behaved in such ways. But there are many in the world who are like you, Duck Newton, and that gives me hope.”

As the human blushes, Indrid pulls the money from his wallet and counts it onto the table. Then he offers his arm, “Shall we?”

The soldier links their arms together until they’re outside, at which point he uncouples them but stays close to Indrid’s side.

“I, um, I understand if you don’t want to be with me. I might die a few days from now. Or a few days after that. But you said this morning you’d prefer being chosen to being a drunken hookup, and if you’ll give me the opportunity I’d… really like to choose you.”

Indrid swears his long-stopped heart flutters in his chest. 

“I would be honored.”

Duck doesn’t touch him as they travel to his apartment. He hardly blames him; not everyone has had hundreds of years to reckon with the fact men can desire other men. But it makes the way grabs his coat and drags him through the threshold all the more thrilling. 

The kiss is confident and a bit messy as Duck stumbles backward across the floor and Indrid attempts to steer them clear of furniture. His soldier is tugging at their clothes, as if he intends to have Indrid undressed enough to take against the bedroom door. 

Now there’s a thought. 

When Duck’s back thunks into the wood, Indrid pauses, trailing his fingers over his dark hair and down his now-rumpled jacket, “You young men, so charmingly eager.”

“How, how old are you?”

A brief glance at the future tells him what will sound plausible

“Thirty-three.”

Duck moans so hungrily that Indrid nearly tells him the real number of years between them. The human fumbles the nob while kissing Indrid’s throat, abruptly sending them into the bedroom, at which point he hastily lays back on the blanket.

“I see your true motives now. You found my bed so comfortable you are looking for ways to sleep in it once more.” Indrid teases, shrugging off his coat. 

“Bet it’s comfier with you in it. C’mere.” He opens his arms and Indrid climbs on beside him, practically purring as the human tangles fingers in his hair and presses kisses to his lips. The shape of him beneath his uniform is maddening and if he doesn’t remove it soon Indrid will tear it to shreds. 

Fingers rest on the frame of his glasses, a wordless request to remove them. He nods and Duck slips them free, setting them carefully aside. His fingers trace along Indrid’s face and oh when was the last time someone studied him as if he was art?

“What was that thing you did with your eyes last night? When you took your glasses off and told me to go to sleep?”

Unwilling lie but unable to be honest, he splits the difference, “I, ah,  dabble in hypnosis.  I try not to do it without permission but you were dead on your feet yet very insistent on staying awake.”

Duck drapes an arm over his side, “Could you do it again sometime? It made me feel…peaceful. Safe. Ain’t felt that way since the war started.”

“If you truly wish me to, then it can be arranged. But not tonight. Tonight…” He rolls Duck onto his back and straddles him, “I want you fully aware of all I am doing to you.”

An emotion skitters across the humans face too fast for him to pin it down. 

He leans forward, nuzzling his ear before purring, “Tell me what you like, my brave flying ace.”

“Y'know, just whatever happens.” Duck runs his hands along Indrid’s legs, “When it's two of you in a dark spot in the barracks ain't a lot of time for messin' around. You just do what you do and then it’s done.”

“Well, we are in my lair, where we have all the time in the world. Surely there were things you liked best from your encounters.”

The human shrugs, embarrassed, “Was at least a little drunk for all of ‘em.”

“Ah.” Indrid rolls up his sleeves and begins unbuttoning his shirt, “In that case, I shall make a thorough exploration of just how to make you come apart.”

With enough gesturing and tugging he strips Duck’s torso bare, then coaxes his hips to lift long enough to remove his pants. He leaves the underwear in place for now to help the human feel comfortable, but allows himself a squeeze of his wonderfully ample ass before letting him go.

Kisses seem safest, and so he trails them from Duck’s throat to his chest, bringing one hand up to toy with his nipples as he does. The human arches beneath him and gasps, “sure as fuck don’t do that in the barracks.”

“A shame.” He continues toying with them as he kisses down to his belly and rests his cheek on the dark hair covering it, “I always enjoy it, and it seems you do as well.”

“Uh huh, ohfuck, fuck.” His hips buck as Indrid nips his belly, allowing Indrid to feel his cock hardening against him. Gingerly, he pulls Duck’s underwear down an inch at a time, kissing each patch of skin as it appears and groping his belly whenever he pleases. When Duck’s cock is finally free, Indrid prays at least some of his drunken trysts were complimentary; he’s paid for cocks that weren’t half as lovely as this. 

He licks a slow stripe from root to tip, closing his eyes to savor the feeling on his tongue and ignore how he can scent the blood pumping beneath the skin. It’s not good form to feed from here anyway. 

Duck’s thighs, however….

He wraps a hand around the humans cock, stroking it slowly while he sucks a hickey into the meat of Duck’s left thigh. The human moans, pre-cum dripping from his slit as Indrid makes a second mark beneath the first. 

“Don’t, don't you wanna get right to it?”All confidence is gone from the drawl. 

 “Indrid looks up and cocks his head, “I want to make you go to pieces in my bed, and this seems to be accomplishing that.”

The human says nothing, but his eyes flick from point to point like a trapped bird.

“What's wrong?” Indrid sits up.

“I, how, how can you just do this?” Duck won’t look at him, making it all the harder to tell what he means.

“By inviting a handsome soldier into my bed? Practice? I am not sure–” the answer appears in the future and he clambers  up so they're face to face, “oh dear, my sweet little soldier, I did not realize this was not something you fully accepted about yourself. I am sorry, I did not mean to push-”

“You didn’t, I just, no, fuck, nevermind we can, we can just keep goin, ignore me.” Duck tries for a kiss but Indrid lets it land on his cheek. 

“I will do no such thing. If this is too much, we need not do more. You may even have the bed to yourself once again if you wish.”

Duck grabs him and hugs him close, face hidden in his neck,“How are you so goddamn sweet to me?”

“Because you are very handsome and brave, and I have loved every moment of your company.” He hazards some flirtation, “also you are delicious to nibble on.”

“Seems so. I, uh, I do like biting, I remember one fella who got real into it and I came so fuckin’ fastfuck” he presses closer as Indrid bites his earlobe.

“Well then, shall we stick to that for this evening?”

“Uhhuh, yes, please sugar.”

Indrid smiles at the pet name before biting far harder on Duck’s neck than before. The human clings to him, begging for more as bites and sucks across his chest, keening when he takes a nipple into his mouth and bites down.

It becomes a delicate balance, indulging Duck without biting too hard, and too avoid succumbing to his true nature he concentrates on scraping his teeth on the skin rather than sinking them against it. Duck’s cock grinds insistently against his stomach, and his own is thoroughly enjoying the proceedings. 

He’s happily leaving his mark on Duck’s right side when a strong hand fists in his hair and drags his face level with Duck’s.

“Fuck me.”

“That, that’s a bit of a surprise. Are you sure?”

“In two days I could be a burnt wreck in some field. If I’m gonna die, I wanna do it knowing how your cock feels inside me.”

“As you wish, my flying ace. Wait right here.”

He overturns three drawers in order to find what he needs, Duck giggling at him the whole time.

“It is not wise to mock someone who is about to have you at his mercy.” 

“Who said anything aboutAH, ahgod.” Duck’s eyes snap shut as Indrid works a lubed finger inside him, “fuck, fuck, that’s so good, more, I want another one.”

“Not yet” 

“I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can. But tonight is not about proving how tough you are, my sweet. It is about letting me utterly ruin you with pleasure.” He curves his finger and after a moment Duck moans and claws the blankets. 

“Fuuuuck, fuck that’s so fuckin good with your fingers.”

“Shall I stick to this?”

“Sugar, if you don’t put your cock in me real fuckin soon I’m gonna hold you down and do it myself.”

“And here I thought soldiers understood discipline and patience.”

“Fuck patience!”

Indrid laughs at the desperation in his voice, but takes pity on him and slips on the condom. Not for the first time, he’s glad he’s on the smaller side. His own moan seems breathy and fragile as it floats around the room, Duck so warm around him he’s certain he’ll start to smoke.

“That’s it sugar, fuck, fuck you feel amazing. C’mon, c’mon please” Duck wraps his legs around him, urging him on as he fucks him slow and deep. 

“Mmm, you are the most delicious creature I have ever had  in my bed.” He nips Duck’s throat, dangerously close to drawing blood, “if I had my way, you’d spend your days on my cock and nowhere else.”

All he has to do is touch the head of Ducks’ cock and cum hits his fingers, the human whimpering and moaning as he fucks through it, well past the point of being patient or tender as his orgasm races through him. He nearly cuts his lip on his fang as he moans Duck’s name, but the human doesn’t seem to notice, is too busy clinging to him and twisting from over-sensitivity. 

He manages to pull out, but that’s it. Duck is holding him like he’s certain he’ll disappear. He supposes that may have been true for some of his past partners. If not that night, then on the battlefield or in the sky a day later.

“Do not worry, my sweet one. When you are here, you are safe. And I will not leave you, not for anything in the world.”

A satisfied voice, so fragile in it’s hope that Indrid wants to box it up and keep it on his desk, whispers, “Thanks, sugar.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s reconnaissance mission must be soon. A glance at the future tells Indrid it will happen tomorrow. Duck had to be cagey about his schedule, and so for the last two nights Indrid hasn’t seen him. 

Looking at the futures of soldiers is so convoluted, there are so many deadly, moving pieces at play. He tells himself this is why he does not look to see if Duck will come back. There would be no point. 

Really, it’s that he can’t bear the chance of seeing him die.

Maybe that is a foolish way to feel. It was only two days of interaction and one, wonderful night. . But there were futures that unfurled when Duck looked at him, when Duck held his hand and slept in his bed, glimmers so bright they stung his eyes and made his heart ache for them. He wants, more than anything, to see Duck again. If not for those futures than for the fact he no longer feels adrift when Duck is by his side. 

He walks the city all night to keep his mind off of things, and sleeps as much as he can during the day. In the midst of it all, he decides one thing: if Duck comes back to him, Indrid is going to give him a true hero's welcome. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid’s note invited him to celebrate his safe return. Duck would be climbing the steps to his apartment even if it had said, “nothing exciting, I am laid up with the flu.” 

The older man opens the door a moment before Duck knocks, grinning like a crescent moon, “You came.”

“Course I did.” Duck steps inside, tilting his chin up for a kiss the instant the door is shut, “can’t get you outta my mind, sugar. The whole night before I had to fly recon I could only sleep if I was thinking about you beside me.”

“You are quite the charmer.” Indrid offers him a second kiss, then guides him to the table, “come, dinner awaits.”

Who knows where Indrid got the supplies for steak, potatoes, and cake, or how a bottle of real champagne is sitting next to Duck’s glass. Long as he isn’t ripping it from the hands of widows and orphans, Duck can’t bring himself to give a damn about rationing right now.

Indrid eats a far smaller portion, mainly sipping a thick, red wine (“I mix the medication for my condition into it, or else I would offer you some), the two of them discussing his latest painting commission as Duck grows full and tipsy. 

After dinner Indrid turns on his record player and dims the lights. With the curtains blacking out the world, Duck feels as if he’s stumbled into the hideaway of some otherworldly prince. 

When Indrid sits on the couch next to him, Duck drapes an arm around him and teases, “Glad no one bothered you on your walks, since you didn’t have me to protect you.”

“As unpleasant as altercations can be, I can more than handle myself.”

He looks the other man up and down, “You sure about that, beanpole?”

Indrid smirks, “I am stronger than I look”

He pushes Duck onto his back, holding him down by his shoulders. Duck twists and turns, but can’t make him budge. 

“See?” Indrid’s smile glints down at him, beautifully predatory.

“Fuck” he groans, blood heading south as he does.

Indrid, keeping him pinned, cocks his head, “You like this. Hmmm, shall I make my brave flyboy into a kept bird, forever chained by his ankle to my bed?” A giddy laugh, “My, my that brought you to attention.”

“Hell yeah it did. Fuck, ‘Drid, please, please keep me here, don’t let me up just…keep me forever.”

Indrid brushes their noses together, “We both know why I cannot. But I will keep you here for tonight, and every other night I can. That is a start, at least.”

Duck closes his eyes, relaxing into Indrid’s hold, “Yeah, sugar, it is.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Gonna rain soon. You can smell it on the wind.” Duck murmurs from his repose on the park bench. They cannot risk him having his head in Indrid’s lap, and so the top of it bumps the side of his thigh. 

“Then I shall finish up this sketch and we can seek shelter.” Indrid loves drawing the shadows and shapes of the park, even in the twilight. It’s made all the better by Duck’s company. 

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.” The human replies sleepily. Indrid thralled him earlier this evening, something he only does upon Duck’s request. It renders the human dreamy and relaxed for hours afterwards, and often he wants to lounge at Indrid’s side like a tabby cat (or be fucked like an alley cat in heat). 

He also asks Indrid to thrall him when he knows he’ll be flying out soon. Apparently it helps calm his nerves and steady his hands on the controls. Indrid feels much better knowing he can increase the futures where he comes home, even if it is in a small way. 

“What will you do when the war is over?” He asks this because yesterday Duck despaired at the thought that the war might outlast them both. 

After a moment, the human replies, “Might go back to the states. Always wanted to be a ranger in one of the big national parks we got out there. Now more planes, no more engine noise and crowded rooms. Just me and the trees. And, uh, all the people who are coming to see the trees. What about you?” He opens his eyes, looking up at Indrid with genuine curiosity. 

“I…I am not sure.” He lies. If Duck lives, Indrid will go where he goes. If he does not, Indrid will travel back to his homeland and hope a hundred years of sleep will cure the heartbreak. 

“Well whatever it is, you better come visit me real often. You hear?”

Indrid slips a hand down to stroke his hair, “Loud and clear, my dearest.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

One moment, Indrid is standing by the couch, reaching for the lamp. The next he’s spinning through the futures to a field somewhere in France, plane wreckage scattered on all sides. Half-free from the cockpit is a body, struggling to be free but failing, failing and dying, he can see the life draining from him. 

The man looks up as he tries one last time to escape. 

“Duck!”

The shout reverberates through his room, and by the time it’s gone there’s no human figure to be seen, just a bat flapping frantically out the window. 

He flies as fast as he can over dark cities and darker water and then he sees the wreck, sees the field and the body trying to free itself.

When his feet touch the ground, Duck looks up at him; his face is bruised and bloody, and as Indrid drags him clear of the twisted metal his heart sinks to see injury after injury. 

“Indrid?” Duck’s voice is weak and uncertain. 

“It is alright my sweet. I am here, it will be alright.” He searches the futures for confirmation of this and finds none. Duck Newton is going to die in his arms. 

Unless. 

He cradles the human to his chest, Duck’s head lolling and exposing his neck. 

“Forgive me, my love.”

His teeth pierce skin and Duck cries out. When Indrid does not relent the human thrashes in his hold, body too weak to fight him off but brain unwilling to surrender. Indrid has never turned someone before, has never felt a human return to their most animal state in his arms, their only thought to stay alive as death steals through their veins. 

“‘Drid please” Duck is crying now, clinging to his coat, “please it hurts, I don’t wanna die.”

He pulls away, wiping his mouth, “You will not. Not all the way.”

Green eyes go wild and frantic, then glassy as Duck stills in his arms, heartbeat fading away. For an agonizing moment, he fears he did it wrong and may as well drive a stake of metal from the crash into his heart. 

Then Duck gasps, eyes blinking back to life even as his heart remains stopped. 

“Indrid? What, what happened, what did you do?”

The faintest hint of dawn in the eastern sky. 

“I will explain as soon as we are home. Quickly, you need to turn into a bat.”

“What???”

“Like this” he transforms, Duck’s eyes huge when he sees him flapping about.

“I, wh–, how?”

He turns back, “Just picture yourself doing it.”

Duck closes his eyes, concentrating hard. After over a minute of this, there’s a pop and a brown bat wavers across the grass.

“Thank goodness. Just follow me and we can get home.”

Being bats fleeing the sun is not conducive to conversation, so Duck doesn’t make so much as a squeak until they’re safely hidden in Indrid’s apartment. The instant his feet hit the carpet, his arms are crossed and he says, firmly, “Explain. Now.”

The gravity of what he’s done pushes him down onto the couch, “In case it is not obvious, I am a vampire. I can also see the future. Tonight I saw that you were going to be shot down and possibly die. So I came to you, in hopes of saving you and, and if I was too late for that, at least holding you so you did not pass from this world afraid and alone. But once I was there, seeing you, I knew I couldn't watch the life leave your eyes. Turning you was the only way to save you” he hides his face in his hands, “I’m so very sorry.  I know it was selfish of me, and I understand if you hate me now and never want to see me again, I just... I'm sorry.”

In a few steps, Duck is in front of him. Then he’s hauled to his feet and into an embrace. 

“I didn’t think anyone could love me that much.”

Indrid hides his face in Ducks neck, crying with relief, “I do. More than anything in this world.”

“I mean, it’s gonna take some adjustment and it’s weird as all get-out, but being a vampire is a damn sight better than being dead. You know how fuckin scared I was of that. Of rotting in some field before I turn twenty-three.” Duck holds him tighter, “Besides, now I know I got someone to show me the ropes, so to speak.”

Indrid nestles closer, “I’ll teach you all you need to know. I promise.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do I have to attack people for blood?”

“Not these days. Barclay does magnificent things with animal blood, and most butchers can be convinced to sell blood they might have in stock. If things get truly dire you may have to feed from a human, but we don’t have to kill them. We can thrall them and take a little. They don’t remember a thing and it doesn’t put them in any danger.”

“Got it. Uh, can I turn into anything other than a bat?”

“Rats are traditional. Some vampires can be mists. And some turn into wolves but that’s not as favored as it used to be…”

“I see you have been testing your abilities again.” Indrid says to the dark brown wolf in his living room. 

The beast nods, tail wagging slightly. 

“Are you…stuck?”

Another nod, this time with a whine. 

“Dear me. Well, I guess there is nothing for it but to keep trying.” He sits down on the couch to remove his shoes. A huge canine shape hops up to join him, setting his head in Indrid’s lap the instant he straightens up. 

“Oooh, you are very soft.” Indrid pats his head, then settles into scritch it as he picks up his books. A thwup-thwup gradually builds in volume, and he looks up to see Duck’s tail whacking the cushions. 

“Sweetheart,  it does help if you want to turn back.”

The wolf gives him a sheepish look and nuzzles his chest.

“Aww, is my sweet soldier going to be my brave guard dog now?”

Duck barks once and wags his tail all the harder. 

“I don’t mind. You’re just as cute in this form as your other one.”

They settle in for the morning, Indrid reading the scandalous novel about cowboys he bought the night before while petting Duck’s head. When his lover falls asleep, he finally turns back into a man. Indrid smiles to himself and keeps stroking his hair just the same. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can you still thrall me now that I’m a vampire?”

“I can, though it will take a bit more effort on my part. Vampires are more resistant to it than humans.”

“....Now that I know what it really is, can you use it on me during sex?”

“Ohgoodness” Indrid gasps as Duck cuddles up to him at the counter, “yes, yes I like that idea a great deal.”

“It was real kind of you to invite me up for a drink.” Duck hasn’t put on the remains of his uniform since the crash, but it feels fitting for this scene. 

“My pleasure. I feel it is my duty to show my appreciation to the brave men defending our country.” Indrid is in his fanciest outfit, his suit sporting blood red lining and buttons.

“Fancy wine is a hell of a thank you.” Duck gasps as Indrid nudges him back against the door, cups his chin, and kisses him. It takes all his effort to sound remotely indignant as he stammers, “what the fuck was that?”

“My appreciation.” Indrid grins.

“Fuck off.” Duck tries to push him away but Indrid doesn’t budge. Instead, he lowers his glasses and locks eyes. 

“Hold still.”

The thrall feels different now that he’s a vampire. Less like a distant, unfamiliar melody soothing him to sleep and more the thrum of the radiator in his childhood bedroom, letting him know he’s home, he’s where he belongs, with the person he belongs to. 

“Wh-what did you do to me?”

“Made you obedient. Something I thought soldiers excelled at. No matter, where were we?”

Duck tries to pull away from the kiss and finds he can’t, has no choice but to yield to Indrid’s lips and tongue and tips his head to the side so teeth can scrape down his neck.

“You know, I was going to make this evening all about you. But since you were so ungrateful when offered the affection of one with centuries of experience in carnal matters, there has been a change of plans. Come.”

Duck plants his feet to the ground but they move all the same, following Indrid into the bedroom. Halfway across the floor he manages to resist enough that Indrid turns and comes back to him. 

“See? I ain’t scared of you. I’m a pilot, a soldier, and you’re just some skinny vampire.”

Indrid shakes his head, “silly little human, thinking his plane makes him as formidable as a dark being such as me. Nothing for it but to carry you off to my lair and teach you the error of your ways.”

“Hell yeah” Duck laughs as Indrid lifts him into a bridal carry with ease, “I mean, uh, oh no.”

His boyfriend snickers. When they reach the bedroom, he sets Duck on his feet and orders, “Kneel.”

Duck’s knees drop to the floor. 

“Good boy. Now stay put while I undress.”

It’s cruel for Indrid to strip to his underwear without letting Duck touch him, but he endures it. 

“Open your mouth.” Indrid waits until he obeys (he beats the thrall to it) then pushes his cock between his lips, “oh, oh good boy, nnnf, looks like we will get along just fine.”

Duck whimpers, pretends to pull away when Indrid grabs his hair. The head of his cock bumps the back of his throat and he winces; he wants to be able to take Indrid all the way, but he’s been able to. 

“Relax. I am going to use your throat like a personal toy, and you are going to enjoy it.” His other hand pats Duck’s head, “relax…”

The thrall forces his muscles to loosen, his jaw to go slack, and Indrid pushes past what little resistance remains. Duck groans and nuzzles at his skin, so turned on he’s drooling.

“Mmmm, there we are. This is what you little humans are good for.” Indrid fucks his face with slow, demanding thrusts, laughing any time he squirms, “oh it’s so very charming how you think you can get away.”

He whines and slips a hand down to jerk himself off through his pants.

“Ah ah, none of that. Hands at your sides.”

“Mmmoh!” He growls as the thrall forces him to comply

“Oh do not fuss so. If you swallow it, ohgoodness, swallow it all like a good boy I might just let you cum.” Indrid chuckles to himself, “as if you have the choice to do anything but swallow, oh, oh yes, yes sweet one that’s it, just like that, ahhhnyes,” He forces Duck’s head against him and cums with a pleased cry. Duck obeys, but only just, and spit and cum still seep from his lips as Indrid pulls out.

“Messy little thing. Ah well, messy is as messy does.” Indrid lunges down, pinning him to the floor and cupping his cock through his slacks. When he bites down hard enough on his neck to break the skin, Duck is done for, cumming hard and fast while Indrid coos that he’s such a delightful little morsel. 

They manage to crawl into the bed, scene and thrall dissolving as they do, murmuring “I love yous” back and forth. It’s only when they’re half asleep that he remembers something Indrid said during their game. 

“Wait. Sugar, how old are you?”

#AAAAAAAA this is so good!!! #indruck #thank you sam #my crops are watered etc etc

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Adventure Zone (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Indrid Cold/Duck Newton, Barclay & Dani (The Adventure Zone) Characters: Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone), Duck Newton, Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone), Barclay (The Adventure Zone), Dani (The Adventure Zone) Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Friendship Summary:

There is a lot of suffering in the world. But there’s love, too. (Joseph upgrades his accommodations. Duck and Indrid go to a fall carnival. And Barclay has an emotionally turbulent day.)

#taz amnesty #indruck

[bellafarallones2]

Next question: Since Indruck won the last poll....

#how dare you make a poll with options that are so good it's literally impossible to choose!!