#that bearded bastard needs to die

[chaotic-iguana]

desperate | billy butcher x reader

a little something in spirit of kinktober and my delirium. lmk what you think. nsfw below the cut. mostly denial/teasing.

“fuckin’ look at you, doll.” butcher flashes you a shit-eating grin before reaching up to pinch your nipples between his thumb and forefingers harshly, rumbling a chuckle at the whimper it draws from you. you’re all splayed out for him with your hands tied to headboard above, thighs wrenched open by his shoulders; skin hot and flushed under his touch. he’s told you to stay still twice already but you can’t, not when he’s been leaving featherlight brushes on your skin for hours and cruelly laughing at every sound that comes from your mouth, smiling at the way your hips buck in his hold- 

and then he’s leaning in just to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to your sternum, beard stinging against your sensitive skin, jaw working to nip and bite until your tears are falling and he’s pulling back with a mocking tut, eyes twinkling.

“all these pretty tears just f’me, love?” your frantic nod makes him raise a brow, hand coming down to swat the inside of your thigh - the impact shooting straight to your poor, neglected cunt. 

“use y’words, chatterbox.” 

his tone makes you want to curl in on yourself, because he knows you’re too far gone to form words right now, too far gone to think about anything beyond the fact that you need him and that you might actually die if he stops touching you. but you know butcher, and you know how mean he really is - he’ll keep you writhing on the bed for hours to fix your attitude if he doesn’t hear an answer now; uncaring of the fact that you’re barely grasping at thoughts and completely fucking gone. and like the devil, you  he starts rubbing circles into the juncture of your thighs while you struggle to answer him.

“y-yes, da-butcher. ‘m cr-crying for y-you.” he hums, and suddenly runs a knuckle through your folds, making you keen, tears sticking to your lashes. 

“yes, who?” bastard. he knows you can never bring yourself to say it - not even if it rests on the tip of your tongue every time - and despite yourself, you bite your tongue and shake your head, hiccuping. 

“oh we’re being shy now? fuck me, honey, where was this when i had my cock in your ass?” his hands rest just above where you need him now, thumbs stroking your abdomen in careful, downward brushes. your back arches into the touch, hips chasing him even when he pulls his hands away, and then you’re sobbing in earnest. 

another tut, dripping with condescension. “no more cryin’. tell me what you want, baby.” and you’re gasping another breath and gulping air, wrists straining against the rope before stammering out another response, too delirious with your need to register what you were saying. 

“need you to t-touch me, d-daddy, please.” he shuffles up, gripping your chin to turn it towards him before capturing your lips in his, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. his thumb presses gently on your buzzing clit, making you jolt with surprise. you blink at him, frowning. he’d never cave this quickly. 

until- he’s reaching down to plant a kiss to your forehead, smoothing over your hair before nuzzling against your cheek. 

“gotta give my pretty girl what she needs, don’t i? 

masterlist

taglist: @bastardmandennis and @amanitacowboy (no one else would be into the boys i think) love u both @imherefordeanandbones

@cafekitsune’s divider.

#billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x reader smut #billy butcher smut #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x you #butcher x reader #the boys x you #the boys fanfic #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys rp #karl urban

[artiststarme]

Eddie Saves Steve's Birthday

Part 2 of the "The Party Forgets Steve's Birthday" fic! I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Eddie felt awful, in fact, he’d never felt worse. He would rather go back to the Upside Down and get torn into by bats again than have to hear Steve say that the Party only cared about him as the babysitter. He couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a big birthday celebration than Steve and instead he was working a long shift at Family Video alone without any acknowledgement of his birthday from the kids. It wasn’t fair. 

He used to think Steve had everything. He was the cool jock, rich kid with rich parents, huge house, and tons of friends. Eddie never could have imagined then that Steve was just another lonely kid with absent parents and friends that forgot about his birthday. Even now, they were both part of the same group that had literally risked their lives to save them from the creepy-crawlies in the Upside Down and no one paid enough attention to realize it was Steve’s birthday. 

Just thinking about the defeated look on Steve’s face made Eddie’s heart stutter in grief. He didn’t care what it took, he was going to fix this. But to do that, he was going to need Wayne. 

By the time Eddie got home from his talk with Steve and the minor freakout he had in the back of his van, Wayne was getting ready to leave for work. That just wouldn’t do. So Eddie did the one thing that always worked for him and threw his arms around his uncle in a restrictive embrace. 

“Uncle Wayne, I need your help. It’s absolutely urgent, life-threatening, you could say. I need you and if you don’t help me, I will die.”

Wayne was far too used to his dramatics to fall for that. He patted Eddie’s back before trying to gently pry himself free. “Kid, my shift starts in an hour, I gotta get goin’.”

“No, I’m serious, I really need your help. Everyone forgot Steve’s birthday today! He’s devastated, I’m horrified, Robin is on a date, and the kids are unhelpful! I need you!” Eddie broke out his most potent puppy dog eyes and blinked up at his uncle. 

Wayne sighed. “I’ll tell Craig I have a stomach bug. What do you need me to do?”

“Steve gets off work at ten tonight. I need you to distract him towards the end of his shift and get him to come back here. Kidnap him if you have to, that’s what the Chief does and it always seems to work.”

“Kidnap him? Eds-” Wayne started but Eddie cut him off. 

“Please! I have to steal a camera from Jonathan, break into the Harrington house, and bribe the bakers into giving me a cake. I don’t have time to force Steve to come over too.”

“Now wait a minute, all of that sounds criminal. Eddie-” Wayne sounded the most alarmed that he ever has but Eddie took it in stride. 

“Wayne. He said he hasn’t celebrated his birthday in years, literal years. And considering you have a birthday every year, that’s a lot of birthdays that he’s spent alone. So we have to get him here by any means necessary and show the pretty bastard that we love him. Okay?”

Wayne looked at him for a long time but eventually he gave a little nod. “What time should I head out?”

~*~*~*~

Steve wasn’t used to seeing Wayne around town and he had never once come into Family Video. So when the bell rang and swung open to reveal a stressed Wayne Munson, he didn’t really know what to think. Wayne looked around the store slightly before walking directly up to the counter. 

Steve nodded at him and narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Um hey, Mr. Munson. Welcome to Family Video, how can I help you?”

Wayne scratched a hand through his beard before humming. “You, uh, you have any good recommendations?”

“You want to hear about my recommendations? Really?” Steve looked at him, flabbergasted. No one had ever cared to ask what he watched. 

“‘Course, that’s why I asked. What do you like to watch? Anything good?”

“Have you seen Back to the Future? It was a little hard to understand because he actually goes back to the past and I think he wanted to bang his mom, it was really confusing. It’s a good one but I’m not sure if it’s really good or if I only liked it because I was super high.”

Wayne nodded at him, not even phased at his enthused rambling. “That does sound interestin’. Any other ones?”

“Oh my god, yes! Have you seen Clue? Tim Curry is in that one, he’s the guy from the Rocky Horror Picture Show that has the nice legs. He shows less leg in this one but oh, you should see Miss Scarlet. It’s truly the best of both worlds, Mr. Munson, let me tell you-”

If this was the best his night got on his birthday, Steve would be content. Wayne was listening to him rant about his current favorite movies with rapt attention and kept asking questions in the appropriate places to keep the conversation going. Steve couldn’t even remember the last time someone actually wanted to listen to him talk. The Munsons always managed to surprise him in the best way possible. What could get better than this?

~*~*~*~

With Wayne on Steve Duty, Eddie had more than enough time to coerce Jonathan into letting him borrow a camera, sneak through Loch Nora to collect some of Steve’s favorite tapes, and guilt-trip the bakery ladies into giving him a cake on short notice.  

After assuring Jonathan that he wasn’t trying to record a sex tape with any of his equipment, he lent him a small Polaroid (he didn’t trust the odd request from Eddie so there was no way in hell he was letting him borrow a tape recorder). Eddie didn’t argue though. He just needed something to commemorate Steve’s first birthday in the family and a Polaroid would do just that. 

The trip to the bakery though took longer than anticipated. Florence, the owner of Flo’s Baked Goods, was not in a generous mood at 4 PM on a Tuesday. Luckily, Eddie was known for being very persuasive which worked in his favor. 

“Florence, come on. Do me a favor, please?” He asked with his most woeful puppy dog eyes.  

“Edward, I told you already, you need to place an order ahead of time.”

“Florence, my dear, I didn’t anticipate my grandma to die! I didn’t have time to place an order and I need a cake for her funeral tonight. Please Flo? For me?” His lip wobbled slightly as if tears were close to follow. He needed to pull out all of his stops to get that cake. 

She sighed in exasperation. “I can give you a small one, alright? And you’re not getting extras, I actually have orders to work on.”

“That’s okay! Thanks Flo, I appreciate it and so will St- my dead grandmother. May she rest in peace.”

That worked out great! Sure, Eddie had to make an extra stop at the grocery store for some red frosting to write Steve’s name on it but the smile on his face would be well worth it. Or rather a pitying grimace. 

Unfortunately, Eddie was not a baker or a designer by any means. So the red lettering on the cake turned into a drippy mess that looked more like a crime scene than a birthday cake. He also didn’t have great space management. Instead of making the font smaller to fit on the cake, Eddie largely wrote “BIRTH STEVE” and couldn’t fit anything else. Eager to make the best of the situation, he threw some colorful sprinkles on there to liven things up. Ah, Steve would love it. 

The situation only got more complicated when he went to pick up Steve’s favorite movies from his house. Eddie parked his van in the driveway and picked the lock to the front door. Steve was at work, his parents weren’t home (not that they would have let him in if they were), and the emergency key under the doormat wasn’t there so he had to take drastic measures. 

He grabbed a few of the movies in Steve’s room that he knew were his favorite that he didn’t have at the trailer. Fast Times, Back to the Future, Clue, The Breakfast Club, Teen Wolf, basically everything that Eddie hated but he was willing to watch anything for Steve. He grabbed a few cassettes too in case they decided to listen to music instead. All of the tapes were disappointingly mediocre and Eddie made a mental note to introduce him to some real music. After that, Steve would never listen to fucking Tears for Fears ever again. Or Wham!, the bane of his existence. 

What Eddie had neglected to consider was how the nosey neighbors would react to seeing a random van in the Harrington driveway and a random kid messing with the front door. He should’ve expected the cops to come. He opened the front door to the barrel of Hopper’s gun.

“Son of a bitch, Chief! What the hell are you waving that around for?!” Eddie exclaimed, dropping his small duffel bag and throwing his hands in the air. 

“What the hell? Munson?” Admittedly, Hopper had shown up at a bad time. Eddie was lugging a duffel bag out of the Harrington house to his hastily parked van in a neighborhood he definitely didn’t belong in.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he told him quickly. 

“It looks like you’re robbing the Harrington’s place,” Hopper said deadpan.

“Well, I’m not!”

“What are you doing then?” Hopper asked him sarcastically. 

“I’m not robbing him! I’m trying to save Steve’s birthday. I was just getting some supplies.” Eddie explained hurriedly.

“It’s Steve’s birthday today?”

“Yep and he’s going to be pissed if he has to come bail me out of jail because you arrested me. Think about that,” Eddie said, pointing an accusing finger at him. Wayne and Steve would both be pissed if he got arrested again. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’re stealing his stuff,” Hopper stated in confusion.  

“I’m throwing him a little party back at my place, we’re having a movie night so I had to get his favorite movies. I don’t have this teen drama shit. But Steve does and I’m trying to give him a nice night.”

Hopper just looked at him blankly.

“So can I go? I know you don’t want to break Stevie’s heart by arresting me on his birthday and don’t you want to get home to your family this lovely Tuesday evening? Who needs the extra hassle of detaining little ole me?”

“Goddammit Munson, just get out of here. You’re making the neighbors antsy. And don’t do this again.” Hopper warned him before walking over to his cruiser. 

“Copy that, Chief! Keep protecting the people or whatever the fuck your pledge is. Have a nice night!” And then he was off again. 

~*~*~*~

Steve must’ve talked about his favorite movies for hours before he realized it was time to close and Wayne was still there. “Um, Mr. Munson? I’m sorry, you probably had things to do today and I wasted all your time ranting at you. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be, kid. It was nice hearing from you. Say, I’m sure Eddie would want to hear about some of those movies too. Could you come over tonight and tell us some more about ‘em?” Wayne offered. 

Steve could tell a pity offer when he saw one though. “No, that’s okay. I can tell him another time. I have to start closing if you want me to check you out?”

Wayne sighed and made direct eye contact with him. “Listen kid, I know today’s your birthday and you aren’t spending it alone. So, you can either follow me back to the trailer or I’m gonna kidnap you and drag you there. You got me?”

Steve just looked at him in shock. What was up with older father figures trying to kidnap him? Was there something on his face that told them, ‘hey, I’m a good target for kidnapping, take me’? Was Wayne in kahoots with Hopper because this trend was getting a bit ridiculous.

“Wayne-”

“Nope, Eddie wants you there and I want you there. What are you going to do instead? If you have a good excuse, I’ll leave right now and break that boy’s heart.” Wayne looked at him expectantly. When it became apparent that Steve wasn’t going to say anything, he nodded. “Good, I’ll see you at the trailer. Drive safe.”

What the hell? Was that how age twenty was going to be? Confusing and full of ups and downs? Jesus Christ. 

Steve finished closing the store quickly and made his way to Forest Hills. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on today but if they wanted to spend time with him, he wasn’t going to turn them down. The Munsons were some of his most favorite people and it’s not like there was a long list of people that wanted him around. 

As soon as he opened the door to the trailer, everything made a little bit more sense. There were party streamers hanging from the walls, the most gruesome cake he had ever seen sitting on the table, and birthday hats on top of a beaming Eddie and an indifferent Wayne. Tears filled Steve’s eyes as he laughed. He couldn’t believe that they’d done all of that for him.

“Happy birthday, Stevie! I love you!” Eddie yelled, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and pulling him into a bruising hug. 

Wayne patted his shoulder a bit awkwardly and murmured, “I love you too kid but I ain’t kissin’ ya.”

Steve could hardly even speak through the rush of happiness he was feeling. Eddie had found a way to make his birthday special again. He’d cared enough to spend his day organizing a nice night for Steve to feel loved again, to feel happy on his special day. Sure, not everything was fixed and there was still a small amount of hurt that the kids and Robin hadn’t done anything. But he had Eddie and Wayne and they were all he really needed. He finally had a family and he couldn’t be any happier. Eddie was right, ‘86 truly was a great year. 

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#The kids see a polaroid taped to Eddie’s fridge a few weeks later of them smiling in front of the cake #That's how they find out they missed Steve’s birthday. #Eddie holds a grudge against them and bars them from seeing Steve for awhile #He also murders all of their characters in DnD but that's neither here nor there #stranger things #steddie #steddie ish #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #chief hopper #uncle wayne #wayne munson #jonathan byers

[canyourfavesurvivecastledracula]

Would Sweeney Todd survive Castle Dracula?

Pros:

- Is good at the appeasement game, masking his hatred when the situation calls for it

- Good at lulling enemies into a false sense of security

- Not horny, will not be tempted by brides

- Pretty much immune to despair, as he is a constant state of it

- Naturally suspicious, will see right through the Count's pleasantries at once

- Will not hesitate to murder as soon as he gets the chance

- Extremely skilled with a straight razor

- Dedicated to a fault. Once he has his mind set on something (murder or escape in this case), there is no dissuaded him

- Not grossed out by blood

- Extremely stressed old man, wouldn't taste very good

Cons:

- Probably too old to be climbing walls willy nilly

- Wouldn't be easily accepting of the supernatural

- Would most likely not accept the crucifix. Honestly, probably wouldn't be offered it

- Kinda dumb, sees what he wants to see, instead of the truth

- Arrogant Bastard

- Unstable, mentally and emotionally

- Would actually enjoy Castle Dracula more than anywhere in Britain

- Too smart for his own good, Count would be immediately suspicious of him

- Preoccupied by his own thoughts, sometimes not aware of his surroundings

Now we've seen how Dracula would fare in Sweeny Todd's domain - it is time to address how Sweeny would fare in Dracula's.

Sweeny Todd and Jonathan Harker have a lot in common. They're both a one woman kinda guy. They both are single-mindedly obsessed with murdering the guy who assaulted their wife. Neither of them lets go of an idea when he's got it, even to the point of missing fairly obvious and important things in their immediate surroundings. They both know how to sweet talk rich jerks they hate. They both have madness marked in their hair coloring.

And on the other hand Sweeny Todd and Dracula have a lot in common. They both kill and eat people (in opposite orders admittedly). They both get real weird about a girl named Lucy. They both agree that there's no place like London. They both are committed to the idea that they all deserve to die.

I'm not going anywhere with this I just think it's Neat.

So on the one hand, Sweeny is real depressed. As you say, he brings his own despair with him, and what is Dracula compared to that? On the other hand, he pretty adamantly refuses to die until he's had his revenge. So while death would be a relief he's pretty committed to getting out of the Castle alive. And I think he can wheedle Dracula into keeping him around, given that he managed to talk Judge Turpin into coming back.

I think the crucifix is a non-issue here. Sweeny Todd is never going to cut himself shaving. He's a proper artist with a knife. And given that Dracula is clean-shaven in the Castle and has a beard at the zoo, he must grow hair and therefore he must need to shave. It's going to take some work to convince Dracula to let him shave him, but Sweeny is remarkably good at that sort of thing, and it's not like Dracula can use a mirror.

I don't see any possible universe where Dracula isn't a bass so he's perfect for those duets. And Dracula does certainly appreciate pretty women (though proof of heaven while you're living doesn't really apply).

Sweeny's biggest problem will be if he decides to murder Dracula with his razors, because Dracula isn't the kind of thing that dies when its throat is slit, and Dracula will not be amused. On the other hand what reason does Sweeny have to kill him? There's no pie shop downstairs. Dracula isn't blackmailing him like Pirelli. He hasn't done anything to any Lucys yet. And I think Sweeny is savvy enough to be wary of retribution from the Girlies, even if he is (inappropriately) confident in his ability to kill Dracula.

The thing that gives me pause is whether he can get out once Dracula leaves. I really don't see Sweeny Todd as much of a climber. But he is very determined and he did escape Australia so maybe?

I think Sweeny Todd can survive Castle Dracula, because to do otherwise would keep him from his revenge. He will have vengeance - he will have salvation

#sweeny todd #tradesmen #opera and musicals

[xoxoemynn]

Still, Still, Still

Microfic of 800 words set during the final scene of 2x03, also on AO3 here. Thank you to @zombee for the assist!

Still, still, still.

Stede has always seen Ed in motion.

Leaping down from a height of two steps, swinging his sword, dancing with a bunch of rich bastards under twinkling lights.

Even when they were simply sitting by each other, Ed was always moving. Dangling his legs over the side of the ship, nodding his head as a laugh worked its way up his throat, emphasizing his points with his hands.

He had moved toward Stede, moved toward him in a way no one else ever had. Wrapping him up tightly in his arms, clapping his shoulder, tapping his foot with his boot even as they laid bound on the deck.

Kissing him.

Edward is always moving in Stede’s mind.

And now?

Still, still, still.

This is his Edward. This is who he’s been running toward all this time. It’s his face, his hair, his tattoos. There’s even a trace of his beard.

But Stede can’t reconcile this entirely motionless man with the one who sprints toward him on the beach in his dreams.

It’s all wrong. It was never supposed to be like this. The dam in his chest bursts, and all his hopes and dreams for the future come gushing out, leaving him empty.

“I messed up,” Stede says into his hands, his words more tears than voice. “I messed all of this up.”

Ed doesn’t turn his head toward him, doesn’t give him any indication he’s heard him.

Still, still, still.

“I’m sorry, Ed.”

Sorry for not telling him how he felt, sorry for running away, sorry for not reaching him in time.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

There’s a tapping noise, and for a moment Stede thinks his tears must be so great they’re falling like rain inside of the ship. But when he moves his hands away from his eyes, he realizes it’s Ed’s hand.

His fingers are moving.

Hope rises once more in Stede’s chest. Maybe if he can just get through to Ed, if he can hear him, he’ll know that it’s okay. He’ll know that Stede came back, and Stede can finally say all the things he should have earlier, and they can have a shot at a happy ending after all.

Still, still, still.

“Ed!” he exclaims. “Ed! Wake up.”

Ed still doesn’t move, but in Stede’s mind, he can see it. Ed struggling with the ropes that bind him to some other universe, fighting his way back.

“Wake up, Ed,” Stede pleads. “I’m here. Please, wake up.”

It’s not as easy as in Stede’s dreams. They’re not running toward each other, arms outstretched, waiting to collide together. The desperation is tempered by the heaviness of all that’s transpired between them.

“Come back to me.”

It’s like drowning, Stede thinks. He remembers what Ed told him once, that most people think when someone drowns they claw at the water, screaming, trying to keep their head above the surface. But that’s not true. It’s usually a silent death.

But Stede’s not ready to give up yet.

Still, still, still.

“Ed, don’t die.” Stede shakes Ed, as though his movements will pass from his hands and into Ed’s heart and make it beat again. “Please don’t die, I’m here now. I’m here, Ed. I’m here!”

He can see it, he can see it. Ed waking up, Ed recognizing him, Ed moving toward him.

“Ed, wake up! Come on.”

Stede pounds on his shoulders. The force causes Ed’s head to bob, almost like it used to do when he would nod as he listened to Stede talk, his eyes sparkling with delight.

He’s listening, Stede thinks. He knows he is. So he says what he knows Ed needs to hear the most, a promise as sincere as any wedding vow, the truest words Stede has ever said.

“I’m here. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave again.”

He clings to Ed as tightly as he does to his belief that against all the odds, they’ll make it through this, too.

Still, still, still.

He leans in closer, so their faces are almost touching. All this time, Ed had been the one moving toward him, ushering him in, opening up his heart and welcoming him in, even as Stede hesitated. But there’s no hesitation now, and Ed needs to know it.

“You’re safe,” Stede whispers against Ed’s lips, and he could almost swear Ed was leaning toward him for a kiss. “Come back to me.”

There’s a sharp gasp, as though all the air in the room is being drawn out of Stede’s lungs and into Ed’s.

Ed’s eyes shoot open.

He clutches Stede’s hand, and holds on tight.

Hope floods Stede’s chest as he stares into Ed’s eyes locked on his own.

They’re filled with shock, confusion, and, yes, love.

Still, still, still.

#OFMD #Our Flag Means Death #Ed x Stede #Gentlebeard #Blackbonnet #Edward Teach #Stede Bonnet #My Fic #OFMD Spoilers #OFMD S2 Spoilers #idk I stared at That Image for too long and something broke me #happy ending I prommy

[meteors-lotr]

To sorta piggyback off my last headcanon with hobbits being just genetically superior to all other races, dwarves are the fucking opposites

They’re made to live underground, in dark damp places. They know how to do that. So they have really good nightvision, and they thrive in moisturizing climates. They have rough skins to take hits from falling rocks and debris, and they can survive long without much food.

But you put those bastards above ground and they will die immediately.

They can barely see when it’s bright (The reason they have their long hair and busy beards is because it helps block out the sun), they need to constantly hydrate or else they’ll dry out which is very fatal to them, their bodies are not made for combat in the slightest (There’s a reason they wear bulky as hell armor, one stabbely stab and they’re dead, rip Durin’s but you were fucked from the start), and there’s a lot of things that they just straight up can’t eat, like caffeine, nuts, sugar, and sometimes even simply dairy products (Bombur is an anomaly here, being able to consume almost anything without any side effects).

So like, Hobbits are small rodent like creatures with long ears and tails, but you can throw that fucker in a volcano and they will live, while Dwarves are bulky as fuck with literal rocks coming out of them, but one slice of cheese could be the end of them

#lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr headcanons #the hobbit headcanons #Dwarf headcanons #not a quote

[undead-memes]

thor odinson sentence starters. quotes taken from infinity war (2018). altered for the sake of rp, make adjustments where you see fit.

‘you talk too much.’

‘you really are the worst (title).’ / ‘you really are the worst.’

‘NO!’

‘you’re going to die for that.’

‘who the hell are you guys?’

‘you seem to know a great deal about (name).’

‘… your father killed my brother.’

‘families can be tough.’

‘i feel your pain.’

‘i need a hammer, not a spoon.’

‘how do i open this thing?’

‘how do i open this thing? is there some sort of… four-digit code, maybe?’

‘i’m taking your pod.’

‘are you mocking me?’

‘i need you to stop doing that.’

‘he stole it from me when he destroyed my ship and slaughtered half my people.’

‘the rabbit is correct and clearly the smartest among you.’

‘only (name) can make me the weapon i need.’

‘i assume you’re the captain. you seem like a noble leader.’

‘will you join me on my quest?’

‘you simply lack the strength to wield the weapon. your bodies would crumble as your minds collapsed into madness.’

‘he already is too powerful to stop.’

‘i bid you farewell and good luck, morons. bye.’

‘you’ll know when we’re close.’

‘he’s been dead before… but, no, this time i think it really might be true.’

‘rage and vengeance, anger, loss, regret… they’re all tremendous motivators. they really clear the mind.’

‘well, he’s never fought me.’ ‘yeah, he has.’ ‘he’s never fought me twice.’

‘every one of my enemies would have rather killed me, but none succeeded.’

‘i’m only alive because fate wants me alive.’

‘(name) is just the latest in a long line of bastards and he’ll be the latest to feel my vengeance.’

‘fate wills it so.’

‘what more could i lose?’

‘i don’t think this thing works.’

‘everything seems dark.’

‘something’s wrong.’

‘go back to the pod.’

‘what happened here?’

‘i know it feels like all hope is lost. trust me, i know. but together, you and i, we can kill (name).’

‘leave that to me.’

‘fire the engines!’

‘more power, (name)!’

‘suicide is facing (name) without that axe.’

‘allfathers, give me strength.’

‘it’ll kill you.’ ‘only if i die.’

‘bring me (name)!’

‘noticed you’ve copied my beard.’

‘by the way, this is a friend of mine, (name).’

‘i told you… you’d die for that.’

‘what did you do? what’d you do?!’

#indie rp #rp memes #inbox memes #inbox prompts #rp prompts

[red-ropes-of-avalon]

They Can Live In My New World Or Die In Their Old One- Chapter 9: But I Am

Summary: You are known among the kingdom as The Mad Queen, a ruthless woman with a large military. Seeking to take your rightful throne, nobody who has ever seen you has returned before, all thought to presumably be dead. Your strength is unequal. Ser Leon Kennedy is a knight sent by King Graham to ask for a temporary truce. Hordes of monsters and the undead rising, the kingdom couldn't fight two wars. But how does one reason with a Mad Queen?

Ada pushed you through the doors to the throne room before slamming the doors closed behind her. Blood was splayed over the floor and throne, coming from King Graham’s slashed throat. A middle-aged man with light brown hair and a beard was holding Leon. An old man with armor and glasses held a young girl with blonde hair. She was crying violently. “How good of you to join us Mad Queen, allow me to introduce us. I am Lord Simmons the Master of Whispers, and my companion is Lord Commander Wilson. We have served since your father’s time,” the brunette man spoke slowly eyes eating you up. You leveled a glare at the man, he seemed extremely confident. “We are glad to welcome back the rightful queen, however, we must say the company you keep is extremely poor. Ser Kennedy here, well he thought to end the war it would be best to slit the King’s throat on his own. I wouldn’t trust him, your grace.” 

“How interesting, because if I recall he said he’d be in the catacombs. Helping the innocents hide, so my army wouldn’t accidentally cause harm. How would he end up in the throne room alone with the king so he could slash his throat?” You paused looking uninterested, as your gaze flicked to the sigil windows. How tacky you thought. “Especially if he was marked a traitor since Ser Redfield and Ser Nivans saw him pledge himself to me last night. They rode for the kingdom to tell everyone of this coming siege and that Ser Leon here was a turncoat.” You picked at something under your nail, not even sparing the men a look. “Oh by the way, these windows are nothing short of tacky, ugly even, nothing like the majestic beasts that represent actual lords.” 

“He must have slipped in while the guards were changing posts,” Wilson tried to lie. 

“Then your guards must be rather awful. What do you suppose was the weapon, good lords? His sword and hands look rather clean if they were meant to have spilled blood from the king’s throat. Furthermore, he knows the forces I command, and he knew what sign we had for surrender.” Sure the last bit was a small lie, but you knew these kinds of men. Small men who think themselves far greater than they were. Eventually, they would crack, they were never as smart as they thought themselves to be. In a battle of wit, you keep them for a long while. Long enough for either your dragons to follow your voice to the throne room overlooking the great bay, or for Setanata to come join you. If they could weasel their way out of this question, questions of your father’s reign and murder would roll after. 

Setanta stood before his father, a father who wouldn’t even use his name. He was getting pissed at this point. His blade rose up and crashed against Lugh’s. As much as he hated the man for how he treated him, he could respect him as a Lord. A well-seasoned man, a man who survived many things, illnesses that could wipe his children, wars that could take a Lord Commander, none of that could get through Lugh mac Nessa. “Stand down boy! Our Queen is getting her throne, I just need to ensure you don’t go rabid, you mutt.” That just pissed him off more though.

“I’m not a rabid animal Lord mac Nessa! I’m your bastard son! If it doesn’t serve my Queen’s goals I won’t do it! I am her proud Lord Commander! How dare you call her our Queen! You stood by the bastard who kept with the institution that kept your power! Before her, I wasn’t worth anything! Your only child that survived everything and you still wouldn’t acknowledge me! You’d rather the family die than let me be legitimized!”

“You have never been fit to be an heir to me. The mac Nessa name is more of a chain than it is a crown. It binds you to an image, you would never be happy being. You were always wild, a wolf true and true, the sigil was the only part of the image you met. You would be far happier being my bastard and never bearing the responsibility of being tied to high society. Never having to play politics just to ensure that there was some balance. Holding awful knowledge but having to hold it tight to ensure nobody you cared for would be hurt by the despicable men power attracts.” Setanta lowered his sword and looked at his father’s deep eyes. He had never seen his father as anything other than a Puritan for the old ways, not a man aching for the new world, to be free from the political game he was thrown into from birth. The game played his wealth and name against the morals he wanted and wished to be able to express. 

Lugh lowered his own sword and patted Setanta on the back. Both men moved to sheath their swords, and Lugh sat back down in the pavilion. He patted the seat beside him, and Setanta obliged. “Lord Simmons, and Lord Commander Wilson, they had King (L/N) killed when he began to make decisions they were unhappy with. I suspect that they may have killed King Graham as well, go protect your Queen. You are a loyal Wolf, and if the old wolf dies, know that I am proud of you, Lord Commander Setanta mac Nessa.” Setanta took a deep inhale willing the small burst of tear back down.

“Thank you, Father,” and Setanta turned to walk into the castle. The sound of a knight’s feet clanking on the ground coming towards the pavilion had him hide behind the wall quickly. The knight walked toward Lugh, and sat beside him. Lugh seemed to be laughing as the knight looked on confused.

“What did the Lord Commander order? He must be rather nervous if my suspicions are true.” The knight spoke not a word, some nameless kid probably promised a high promotion and drew his sword. Lugh laughed once more hearty and no longer covering for some stupid political game, not the Master of Coin, or Lord mac Nessa, just Lugh laughing at his fate. The kid swiftly cut the old man’s head off and grabbed it off the floor. Taking off the way he came, and Setanta cursed under his breath. Twice Kingslayers, thrice fatherslayers. He followed the knight quietly on his feet, he didn’t know the palace. Better to keep the bastard with his father’s head in eyesight. 

You had succeeded in pissing off the Lords. You were too smart a woman for them, too clever, too sharp-tongued. “So in short, you expect me to believe, a useless drunk who was upset with a decision the king made, that didn’t even affect him, managed to get into the throne room here, murder my father, and all without a single guard, who you claimed to have posted at all times, noticing that a drunk as a skunk commoner had not only gotten into the castle during high tide via the bay entrance to the catacombs but also murdered their king?” Leon watched with pointed interest. You were way too good at pissing them off, keeping them talking, and ignorant of the surroundings. He had heard the soft sounds of the dragons moving along the walls, positioning themselves outside the awful metal sigils. 

“I suppose we could be wrong about some details. But your Grace, the throne is yours now. What do you suppose we should do with these miscreants? The Kingslayer and his brat.” Wilson responded trying to ignore the uneasy feeling welling up. 

“I think you and I both know, this good and honorable man is no kingslayer. But you two, you’re seasoned kingslayers by now.” You shot the men a dark look and dragged a finger up to the middle of your lips, hushing the two who now had dark faces. “See I can tell you, that man while he may have done the act, didn’t make the plan. See as much as it pains me to think this way, he was simply too drunk to even form a cognizant thought, much less manage to plan to kill a king. See I think my father started to displease you, so you decided he needed to go. But like the small small men you are, you couldn’t do it yourselves. So you got a scapegoat, who you could blame instead, and take your fall. And whenever anyone looked too deep into it, you had them killed, or you Master of Whispers, you took their tongue. Oh, I know all about that, yes a few of my girls were once victims of yours. You really are a small man, Simmons, you don’t even deserve the title of Lord. Now it looks like you did it all over again because you two fools thought a woman like myself would be easy to fool. So I will tell you now, release these two and you may not be granted a cruel death.” Soft claps were heard from the side and in a small corridor, Setanta stood leaning against the wall, a freshly decapitated head in one hand and in the other Lugh’s. 

“You are so brilliant your grace. Well deducted my Queen! These men, they even had my father killed for figuring it out. So release the pretty boy and the girl, your little charade it’s up.” Simmons removed his hands from Leon, pushing him towards the door. You caught him, spinning, causing your back to face the men. Wilson released Sherry towards you as well. You brushed your hand over Leon’s face to check for injuries. Simmons's hands reached for the dagger once more, grasping it and steadily moving towards your back. Setanta’s eyes flicked towards the hidden hand and his stomach dropped. He moved quickly to block your back, and the dagger ended up embedded in his shoulder, the pain dropping him to the ground. You spun quickly, eyes gleaming with hatred. 

“I’ve had enough of you, you old fool,” you removed one of the long sharp spines from the dragon scales on your shoulder. Simmons was caught off guard and in that brief moment, you dug it into the side of his ribs. He doubled over in pain, and Wilson raised his hands. Even in armor, he wasn't going to win against you, the only person to ever outsmart Simmons. “Leon help bring them to the dungeon. I’ll stay with Setanta until the forces return. They will be a demonstration, the old regime of these disgusting men is over, and my reign, a good and just reign will begin.” Onraxes and Moonfyre let out giant roars from the top of the castle. You had won, and the rule of the dragons would begin once more. 

“My dear subjects, many of you do not know me. The real me, I am no Mad Queen, those are rumors propagated by these two Kingslayers. My father was the late King (L/N), and I am Queen (Y/N) (L/N), the Unbowed and Unbroken, and the Empress of Dragons. The men before me had my father killed, and now have killed your king, King Graham. These two shall answer for the injustice they have done, to all of us. I am here to break the cycle, for too long men who have high names have used it to oppress others, the commoners specifically. That ends with me, never again will an evil man like these two use that as a way to oppress the small folk. I will always champion you, for what is a ruler without love for her people and the love of her people? Today I would like to bring you all into our tradition, my dragons here are dispensers of justice. Today we begin the sacred cinder lands here, before the castle. Ashes are sacred and cleansing, the cinder lands are our celebration. I do not need you to accept it but I would be overjoyed if you did.” You turned from the citizens who had gathered and now faced the bound men. “Former Lord Simmons, Former Lord Commander Wilson, you are charged with treason on three accounts- one for my father, one for King Graham, and one for me. You are charged with murder on three accounts- one for my father, one for King Graham, and the final one is for Lord Lugh mac Nessa. There are numerous others, however, these charges are enough. I sentence you to die,” your fist gripped tight. Moonfyre and Onraxes opened their maws and flames spewed on the land they stood scorching the bodies. Despite the hesitancy of many knights, there was an overwhelming cheer from the citizens, your citizens.

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon x y/n

[the-worst-bracket]

As Leitner is now up aganist Zeus, I feel the need to get some propaganda going for this man. So, have the Jurgen Leitner rant. Please enjoy

STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING JURGEIN LEITNER GOD DAMN FOOL BOOK COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE WHORE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING JURGEIN LEITNER

STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT JURGEIN LEITENER I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP BOOKS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT JUST SET THEM LOOSE IS HE DEAD IS HE A BASTARD MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL AFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS SHITTIEST BEARD GET AWAY FROM ME

if i wanted to get into heaven and god said jurgein leitners waiting inside i would piss on gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down

if i have to deal with jurgein leitner speaking one word in person on voice in podcast not only will i close the tab i will delete my bookmark out of spite and have to rewatch the entire series again for the experience of being able to skip all the times when he is mentioned or alive

i dont even know why i hate him so much. he collects books but i am just mad because i am angy

he better have some fucked up backstory to explain this if hes just some rich shithead whos a fan of creepypasta and wanted the irl version ill go ham

BETTER have had a book make him kill a man cuz if he didnt Im going to make him

paypal.com/IFuckingHateJurgeinLeitner

episodes not even about him. vaguely mentioned what is supposed to maybe be his library and I lost it

where the fuck is jurgein leitner if hes still alive im going to so deeply wish he wasnt

crusty old man

ill punch leitner and his sad frail old man twig bones will simply flake apart under my epic huge meat fist and he will disintegrate until all thats left is one final book he kept on him at all times simply titled Now You Fucked Up in ancient yiddish

im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point

i hope theres a date given for when jurgen died or will die so i can make it a reminder on my phone

everyday once a year i will see it and do anything but pay respects to the man who had so many fucked up if true books

.

#propaganda

[chaotic-iguana]

desperate

joel x f! reader

my little contribution to kinktober. a teasing/denial fic that i originally wrote for butcher (the boys) but joelified bc he's so daddy. nsfw under the cut. sorry i've been mia

“fuckin’ look at you, doll.” joel flashes you a shit-eating grin before reaching up to pinch your nipples between his thumb and forefingers harshly, rumbling a chuckle at the whimper it draws from you. you’re all splayed out for him with your hands tied to headboard above, thighs wrenched open by his shoulders; skin hot and flushed under his touch. he’s told you to stay still twice already but you can’t, not when he’s been leaving featherlight brushes on your skin for hours and cruelly laughing at every sound that comes from your mouth, smiling at the way your hips buck in his hold-

and then he’s leaning in just to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to your sternum, beard stinging against your sensitive skin, jaw working to nip and bite until your tears are falling and he’s pulling back with a mocking tut, eyes twinkling.

“all these pretty tears just f’me, love?” your frantic nod makes him raise a brow, hand coming down to swat the inside of your thigh - the impact shooting straight to your poor, neglected cunt.

“use y’words, chatterbox.”

his tone makes you want to curl in on yourself, because he knows you’re too far gone to form words right now, too far gone to think about anything beyond the fact that you need him and that you might actually die if he stops touching you. but you know joel, and you know how mean he really is - he’ll keep you writhing on the bed for hours to fix your attitude if he doesn’t hear an answer now; uncaring of the fact that you’re barely grasping at thoughts and completely fucking gone. and like the devil, you he starts rubbing circles into the juncture of your thighs while you struggle to answer him.

“y-yes, da-joel. ‘m cr-crying for y-you.” he hums, and suddenly runs a knuckle through your folds, making you keen, tears sticking to your lashes.

“yes, who?” bastard. he knows you can never bring yourself to say it - not even if it rests on the tip of your tongue every time - and despite yourself, you bite your tongue and shake your head, hiccuping.

“oh we’re being shy now? fuck me, honey, where was this when i had my cock in your ass?” his hands rest just above where you need him now, thumbs stroking your abdomen in careful, downward brushes. your back arches into the touch, hips chasing him even when he pulls his hands away, and then you’re sobbing in earnest.

another tut, dripping with condescension. “no more cryin’. tell me what you want, baby.” and you’re gasping another breath and gulping air, wrists straining against the rope before stammering out another response, too delirious with your need to register what you were saying.

“need you to t-touch me, d-daddy, please.” he shuffles up, gripping your chin to turn it towards him before capturing your lips in his, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. his thumb presses gently on your buzzing clit, making you jolt with surprise. you blink at him, frowning. he’d never cave this quickly.

until- he’s reaching down to plant a kiss to your forehead, smoothing over your hair before nuzzling against your cheek.

“gotta give my pretty girl what she needs, don’t i?

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! 

taglist (lmk if u wanna be taken off, no hard feelings): @imherefordeanandbones , @theywhowriteandknowthings , @josephquinnswhore , @millerscoffee , @nostalxgic, @sscorpiiio , @pedrosaidsheispunk , @its-nebuleuse, @sofiparallel , @mandoisapunk , @bastardmandennis , @pawnshopb1ues,

dividers by @cafekitsune (the best.)

#the last of us #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou hbo #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #kali rambles #the last of us fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel x reader #joel the last of us #brat tamer! joel #dom joel miller #daddy dom! joel #joel miller #joel

[girl-bateman]

Implications of Mortality (Nathan x Simon)

Read on AO3

ACT I

Nathan has never much cared for the supposed cosmic meaning of life. While others have driven themselves mad with the philosophical idea of what life really is and how best to live it, Nathan has spared himself the headache. Rather than analysing, he's tackled the issue on a more practical level; experiencing life rather than defining it. And by experiencing, he very much is referring to snorting coke off of a couple of bare tits, among other things. Nathan reasons it's a much more valuable use of his time than "thinking" or whatever it is boring people do.

Whenever Nathan does think about life, his own more specifically, it never ends well. He feels nauseous, his head filled with voices he can't recognise as his own, taunting him until he’s forced to drink himself to sleep. He has always maintained that immortality is the superior superpower, no doubt from the A-list, but sometimes he can't help but feel like it's a curse more than it is a blessing. He should do something with this, should he not? Solve world hunger or cure cancer? Do something extraordinary with all that time, with the infinity he possesses. The universe sure has a sick sense of humour, giving immortality to the one person who's sure to waste it.

Kelly is worried about him. It's been about a year since community service ended and she technically has no obligation to give a shit about him anymore. And yet, with steady intervals she makes sure to visit him, usually bringing stale sandwiches or cold french fries. It's nice in its own way, but he suspects Kelly has been noticing the way he's constantly hiding a hangover whenever she's over and he hates the idea of her pitying him.

You don't need to be a mind reader to notice the way Nathan's cheeks have sunken in, the dark bags under his eyes defining his face in a way they never used to. He barely recognises himself anymore. When he looks at himself in the mirror the creature looking back seems more helpless and tragic than Nathan cares to admit. It has these sad eyes, questioning, as if it too is wondering who is looking back. Maybe Kelly is right to worry.

At least he's not homeless anymore. He's found himself a shaggy flat in the outskirts of Thamesmead, sharing it with Greg, proud Reddit monitor and probable cyberbully, his beard perpetually greasy and his look bored. Nathan has a twisted liking for the bastard, his lack of personal hygiene and social life making Nathan out to be a functioning member of society in contrast. His radiating loser vibes are so strong they cancel out Nathan's own ones, and he couldn't be more grateful. They usually communicate in nods of acknowledgement and the occasional knock on the wall if Nathan’s being too loud with whatever girl he’s brought home. It’s not ideal but it's better than the streets, better than the community service building even if he admittedly misses it sometimes. He often thinks about those early community service showers, irregular water pressure and shit temperature but a peaceful quiet surrounding him. To be alone in a big room like that, it was freeing somehow. Very different to the claustrophobic shower in the apartment, Greg knocking on the door as soon as he thinks Nathan’s wasting the warm water.

He's on his fifth job since community service ended, sorting mail four days a week. The repetitive motions of the machines, the mail moving forward in an endless loop, is calming but it also makes Nathan want to die a little bit. Not in a tragically suicidal “too good for this world”, Virginia Wolf, makeup running down his face, sort of way. He feels more like a fat hamster pressing its skull against the bars of its cage harder and harder until it splits open like a balloon. But other than that he’s doing great, he's fine.

Nathan is lying down in his bed waiting for the three ibuprofens he just swallowed to take effect when he hears a gentle knock on the door in the hallway. He curses quietly to himself. It’s not that he doesn't want Kelly to visit, he loves her visits, but he feels like he's one second away from puking up his brains and his entire head is pounding like that fat suicidal hamster has trapped itself behind his cranium, trying to gnaw its way out to freedom. It takes another knock for Nathan to force himself out of bed, slapping himself in the face in a sad attempt to wake up. He opens the door and his artificial smile reserved for Kelly is replaced by a look of stupid surprise.

“Hello, Nathan.”

Nathan wonders if Simon's voice has always been that deep or if the boy’s gone through a second puberty. Can that even happen?

“Barry, fancy seeing you here.”

Simon smiles at that and Nathan feels that familiar sting of nostalgia. He remembers now, Simon’s always had one of those shy smiles, like he’s afraid of smiling too loudly, too dramatically. He’s dressed in a black, slim coat which Nathan thinks has the potential to be the basis for a nice flasher joke. Something, something, nice jacket, I bet you show your weiner to little kids (pause for laughter). But instead, he settles on an awkward smile, taking a step away from the door to let Simon into the apartment.

“This apartment is- it’s great that you have your own place,” Simon says once he's inside, neatly putting his shoes aside, “you should be proud.”

Nathan doesn't have the energy to give that a dignified answer so Simon continues, “I haven’t seen you in a while so I thought I’d..” he shrugs, looks away, “say hello.”

“Well…” Nathan tries to think of something clever to say but that pounding headache is making it impossible to produce a single coherent thought.

“It’s good to see you,” he settles on and he thinks it sounds a little too friendly for his liking but decides not to think about it too hard.

He leaves Simon in the hallway, escaping the awkwardness in hopes of finding something to offer from the kitchen that preferably hasn't gone out of date yet. His mission is however sidelined by the mountain of dishes that greets him by the sink. Neither he nor Greg acknowledge the dish-pile most days but suddenly, Nathan feels a wave of unfamiliar embarrassment in the presence of it so he does the sensible thing and opens the dishwasher, throwing everything inside, somehow without breaking anything.

“You want help?”

Nathan has forgotten how quiet Simon can be. Jesus, that guy is a creep sometimes.

"What have I told you about walking up on me," he scolds, slamming the dishwasher shut, effectively cleaning up the mess, or at least making it a mess for later.

He rattles through the cabinet, finding a couple of saggy bags of camomile.

"Tea?" He offers, feeling very mature with the suggestion. In this moment he’s the definition of a British gentleman, in fact, he's gonna knock Barry's fucking socks off with all his matureness.

"Sure," Simon shrugs, his socks un-knocked.

Nathan ignores the lack of praise, instead putting on the kettle, the obnoxious bubbling sound like tiny knives against his temple.

"Are you alright?" Simon asks, "you look a little pale."

Briefly, Nathan wonders if he should take another ibuprofen but decides against it. Simon looks worried as it is, no need to fuel his anxieties. Nathan guesses this is all Kelly’s doing. Evidently, she doesn't think that her constant checking-up on him is enough and now she’s forcing poor Simon to participate as well. Do I really seem that fucked up? he wonders briefly to himself.

"Just a headache, I was working late last night," Nathan lies.

Sure, if you could call doing repeated body shots and snorting coke off someone's boobs in the bathroom “work”, then Nathan certainly earned himself a promotion last night. He shivers a little as scenes from the party flash past in his mind- pulsing lights, deafening music, strangers in the dark. Why was he embarrassed in front of Simon, again? He was living the rockstar life while Simon probably spent his days jerking off under some office desk.

“Right, Kelly told me,” Simon remembers, “the second-hand store.”

“Sure.”

Nathan doesn't have the energy to correct him. The second-hand store was actually job number four in an increasing list of jobs he’s been fired from. That time it was due to a “poor sense of customer service” which was a translation for not letting every single know-it-all bastard who walked into the store have the satisfaction of completely butt-fucking him with their ridiculous demands. Nathan has learned the hard way that he did not do well in jobs where you had to talk to people, obey authority, take instructions or do anything even mildly challenging. Sadly he had the soul of a rockstar, just none of the talent to go along with it.

“Nathan?”

Simon looks concerned, he has that worried little wrinkle between his brows and Nathan can’t help but smile at its familiarity. Simon might have upgraded his hairstyle from a sad mop to a sexy mop and he’d learned that there were other clothing options than button-up shirts, but he was still the same old Simon.

“I missed you,” Nathan blurts out, then, hastily adding, “you little freak.”

He blames the headache, it's insistent pounding not doing any favours for his already distracted nature.

Simon looks a little uncomfortable at the admission, his pale cheeks turning an embarrassed shade of pink.

“You too,” he mumbles.

The water is finally done boiling and Nathan pours them some tea, praying that the cups have been cleaned at least sometime in the last decade. Simon seems to relax when he gets something to do with his hands, gently holding the sides of the cup even when he’s not drinking from it.

“You remember that girl you lost your V-card to?” Nathan reminisces fondly. He figures that's what normal people do when they meet up after not having seen each other for a year. Talk about treasured memories and whatnot.  

“What was her name again… Josy, Jessy, Jelinda-”

“Jessica?”

“Yes, sweet sweet Jessica!” Nathan confirms, “she was a little prude-ish if my memory serves me correct, but I guess that's a good thing. If she’d been a slag she would have probably shagged me instead.”

“We did it in the bathroom so at least she wasn't that much of a prude.”

“Barry!” Nathan gasps scandalously, unable to hide his proud grin, “you know you can catch some nasty stuff from those toilet seats, I hope you got tested.”

Simon gives him that shy smile again and shrugs sheepishly.

“What happened with her anyway, your toilet-fuck?”

“Jessica.”

“The virgin destroyer,” Nathan whispers dramatically.

Simon shrugs again, tapping nervously with his fingers against his teacup, “we were supposed to go on a date,” he says, “but she changed her mind, I guess.”

“Girls,” Nathan complains in lack of anything better to say, “who knows what they’re thinking.”

Simon gives him a weird look, “I don’t think that's exclusive to girls.”

“I guess it’s not.”

--

Later, once Nathan has sobered up and is sorting mail with music blaring through his headphones, he thinks of Simon. He doesn't remember asking Simon much about his life, if he still lived at home, where he was working, if he ever hung out with the rest of the gang, but now he finds himself desperately wondering.  Why had he not taken two seconds to just ask? Maybe it had been the hangover or maybe he was just a narcissistic prick. Either way, he damns his past self.

The sorting station is Nathan’s favourite. Everyone has their own little section to work on, sorting the mail according to the different postal numbers and putting them in different compartments depending on where they were to be sent next. You were technically only allowed to work with one headphone in (something about bullshit safety concerns) but during the one month that Nathan had worked there, no one had complained at his breaking of procedure. People didn't bother him much in general actually and Nathan found that he appreciated that.

He continues to think about Simon and he hates to admit it, but the weird kid really did look great. The sexy mop was working in his favour and the black coat, no matter the connotation to flashers, suited him. He looked like a detective in one of those predictable crime shows. Nathan can picture his cold eyes as he studies the latest victim lying in a pool of blood, their lips pale and eyes glazed over. He can almost hear Simon's apathetic, dark voice saying something cliche like “we were too late”, crouching down and closing the victim's eyes to honour them. He’d be a noble detective, a good guy, at least Nathan would like to think so. He knows Simon has done some less than legal stuff, but the weird kid has a good heart, if he didn't Kelly wouldn't be so protective of him.  

--

When Nathan gets home, he’s already longing for tomorrow to be over and for the weekend to start. There’s supposed to be a birthday party and Nathan doesn't exactly know who is being celebrated, he just knows there will be lots of drugs and booze and that's good enough for him.

“Nathan,” Greg says when he opens the door and it instantly puts Nathan on edge because they don't talk to each other, especially using first names.

“Your boyfriend came looking for you, left you some soup.”

Nathan feels his ears going warm and his physical reaction is even more embarrassing than the fact that he doesn't need to ask who the boyfriend in question is. There is only one person who'd be weird enough to leave him soup of all things. Unfortunately, Simon really does have a good heart and Nathan wishes he’d waste it on someone else.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nathan mutters and walks to the kitchen in order to inspect this aforementioned soup.

It’s a brown mushroom soup decorated with fresh parsley and it's turned cold so Nathan guesses Simon must have come over just after Nathan left for work. There is a post-it note attached to the container reading:

“You seemed sick and I saw that you had no food in the fridge so I brought you some soup. Hope you feel better soon. /Simon.”

Nathan changes his mind, Simon isn't a good-hearted hero type, he is a full-blooded psychopath. What other explanation is there for such a bizarre action as bringing random soup to someone just because they look a little pale? The soup is probably poisoned or filled with the meat of his murder victims. Simon is probably Hannibal-ing him right now, that fucker.

He eats the soup anyway, and of course, it's delicious even if it's cold. He puts the container with the rest of the hidden dirty dishes and sneaks off to Greg's room. He knows there is a slight chance Greg might piss his pants at being interrupted in the middle of gaming but Nathan needs answers and his roommate is, unfortunately, the only witness to Simon's strange gesture.

"So, did he say anything? The kid who came with the soup?"

Greg doesn't look up from his computer screen but he doesn't sigh or groan out in irritation either which is a good sign.

"I don't know, mate, he didn't talk much," he says "just asked if you were home and when I said you weren't he asked if he could leave the soup in the kitchen."

"Then what?" Nathan presses on.

"Then nothing, he left," Greg shrugs, "ahhh, you bitch," he mumbles and Nathan assumes it's directed at the game and not him.

--

Two days later Nathan wakes up cold in a bed that definitely isn't his own. He’s not sure, but he suspects he has accidentally died at some time during the previous night. His limbs are uncomfortably stiff, his throat sore, and the throw up over his neck and pillow indicates that he probably suffocated choking on his own puke. He leaves before anyone forces him to clean it up.

On his way home, hands far down in his pockets to preserve some warmth in the unforgiving fall weather, he tries to remember anything from the night before. He knows the music was loud and the alcohol infinite, a small studio apartment filled with artistic hedge fund kids, many potential prey for a little drunken intimacy. Nathan also remembers being handed a pink pill and after that things turn blurry, like his memory is a roll of film someone has spilt acid over.

He smells awful and he's sure he came over to the party with more clothes than he's leaving in. If Simon comes over again, maybe he could convince him to use his invisibility to shoplift him a new jacket. “It doesn't work like that” would probably be his apathetic answer. Lame.

A shower and half a day of napping later, Greg shakes him awake.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, trying to hide under the blanket, the harsh light from the window a rude reminder of the existence of time.

“Your boyfriend is here,” Greg says and that wakes up Nathan more than any shaking could.

“Barry?”

“No, Simon.”

“Shit,” Nathan pushes away the blanket from his body and nearly trips trying to step out of the bed, “distract him while I find some clothes.”

Greg gives him an unimpressed look, “I’m not your little maid, mate, entertain him yourself.”

Nathan groans, “if you do this little thing for me, I promise I’ll clean those stupid dishes.”

Greg, somehow, looks even more unimpressed, “you should already be doing that.”

“What do you want then?” Nathan spits, “you need me to blow you? Comb your beard? Sit in your lap and pretend to be an anime girl?”

“You could have just said please,” Greg mutters, but he walks out of the room and soon after that, Nathan hears awkward conversation coming from the kitchen. Perfect.

He hastily looks through his sad excuse of a wardrobe, picking out a couple of ripped jeans and a thin band tee, trying to channel a little bit of that rock-star essence. He double-checks himself in the mirror. Hair, beautiful. Cock, in. Fly's up.  

As soon as Greg spots him in the kitchen opening he rolls his eyes and leaves, not even properly finishing the conversation with poor Simon who is left looking a little confused. He smiles when he sees Nathan however, and Nathan thinks he might still be a little hungover because the insides of his stomach do a cartwheel.

“Are you stalking me, Barry?” he teases.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Simon responds lamely, “you still look sick, are you feeling any better?”

Nathan sits down on the opposite side of the little table, his tall legs accidentally bumping into Simon’s knees.

“Did Kelly put you up to this, all this checking in on me?” he accuses and Simon instantly averts his gaze.

“No- well, no, but-” he stumbles, “she did tell me she was worried you weren't feeling well.”

“That bitch,” Nathan mumbles and Simon actually looks offended.

“She’s just worried,” he says defensively, “I am too,” he adds.

Nathan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly he feels less like an untouchable rock star and more like a teenage alcoholic with an endless future of no prospects.

“Did you people forget I am literally immortal,” he objects, “I could throw myself out that window and wake up the next day without a scratch.”

Nathan gestures towards the kitchen window for emphasis and Simon follows his finger, scanning over the parking lot outside. Perhaps he's picturing Nathan's lifeless body on the pavement, blood pooling below him, lips pale and eyes glazed over. We were too late.  

“But you wouldn’t, right?”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Throw yourself out the window.”

Nathan thinks he's kidding at first but is disappointed to be met with that same unfazed, apathetic look.

“Jesus, Barry,” he laughs hopelessly, “you really think I’m some tragic soul who just goes around dying for the fun of it?”

Simon doesn't answer, but his eyes move back to the window. Nathan sighs. This wasn't how he wanted things to go, not that he wanted them to go in any particular way or anything, but still.

“You don’t need to call me that anymore,” Simon says after a while and Nathan answers with a questioning hum.

“Barry,” Simon clarifies, “we’re not in community service anymore, you can call me by my real name.”

“Whatever you say, Barry.”

--

The next time Simon comes to visit, he's not alone. It’s a workday but Nathan doesn't start until 6.00 p.m. and he has spent the day numbly listening to the old records he managed to steal from the second-hand shop before he got fired. It's a confusing mix of 80’s rock and 60’s jazz, perfect for someone who’s only half-listening rather than actually enjoying the music. For once, he hasn't been drinking, but it has more to do with being too lazy to buy more alcohol and less to do with a wish for a sober and healthy lifestyle.

Nathan doesn't get any warning from Greg this time, his door is just rudely ripped open to reveal Kelly and Simon in the doorframe. Kelly doesn't waste time on pleasantries and instead just walks in like it is, and always has been, her room.

“What is wrong with you two,” Nathan protests, “I could have been wanking in here, at least knock.”

Kelly rolls her eyes and pushes Nathan’s feet aside to give herself room to sit down on the bed.

“Hi Nathan,” Simon gives him an awkward little wave before sitting down on the IKEA garden chair Nathan found in a pile of thrown away rubbish.

“I suppose you were just in the neighbourhood,” Nathan comments, giving them both a sour look that he doesn't really mean.

Simon blushes slightly but Kelly just huffs, annoyed.

"No, you dick, we came to cheer you up."

"Cheer me up?!" Nathan huffs, offended, “well I'm not in need of your services."

Simon pulls out a big chocolate bar, offering it to Nathan almost apologetically.

“We brought snacks."

"Correction- you brought a snack," Nathan mutters but accepts the chocolate anyway.

"So,"  Nathan says, taking a bite of the chocolate before passing it on to Kelly, "since you're here to cheer me up, tell me something cheery. Preferably involving nudity."

"Simon went on a date," Kelly offers and Simon blushes again.

"It's nothing serious," he dismisses but from the way he's avoiding Nathan's look, Nathan figures he's lying out of his ass.

He tries to, for once, not be a selfish arsehole and actually find joy in someone else's success, but there is nothing. It's like he's empty, devoid of anything human. That creature in the mirror is wearing his skin like an ill-fitted dress, speaking for him because it wants to practice being human. No one seems to notice, not even Nathan can tell them apart anymore.

“Well, don’t spare any details, loverboy,” he encourages.  He's almost proud of himself for sounding so much like himself.  

“Have you pissed on her tits yet?”

“Please spare some details,” Kelly half laughs, half groans, “the pissing thing is dead disgusting.”

Simon’s shy blush has now turned his entire face completely red. Nathan almost feels bad for him.

“I’m not pissing on anyone!” He reassures them, “we’ve only been on two dates.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Nathan murmurs, wiggling his eyebrows, “third date’s the sex date.”

“Shut up, Nathan,” Kelly says, giving Simon a pitying look, “he’s just being a prick, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Nathan makes a doubtful sound, earning himself a glare from Kelly.

“What,” he defends, “I just think if you don’t make a move by the third date, you send the signal that you're a pussy.”

“Dickhead,” Kelly shoves him, hard, then turns to Simon, “seriously, don’t listen to him, I don't think he’s ever even been on a real date.”

Nathan wonders who this mysterious girl is, he wants to ask but he's not sure if he’s really himself at the moment. Maybe this is what it means to be immortal, slowly having your life taken from you until you're observing every moment from the outside. Like an actor desperately wishing he could change his lines only to be spit in the eye by some sadistic director just for having an opinion. Forced to keep living but unable to take any part in it.

Kelly glances at him and Nathan reminds himself to not sound so depressed when he has mental monologues.

“She's right,” Nathan admits, “not about the dating stuff, I’ve been on plenty of dates, ask Greg, he can confirm it gets nasty in here.”

Kelly makes a grossed out sound but Nathan continues like he can't hear her.

“But you don’t have to have sweet, sexy intercourse with anyone you don't want to,” he says and he sort of feels like a lame sex ed infomercial.

Simon looks relieved however, and Kelly gives him an approving smile.

They sit like that for a while, passing the chocolate bar between themselves and talking shite. They speculate about whatever happened to Shaun, if he’s still a complete dick terrorizing teenage criminals or if he's run off to Brazil indefinitely. They argue about whether it's crazier to fuck a monkey or a grannie, Simon voting against Kelly, much to her disappointment.

“In my defence, he was really nice,” she pouts.

Kelly leaves around the time Nathan is supposed to go to work, leaving him and Simon alone in his room. Nathan knows he should do the responsible thing, tell his guests he appreciated their visit and excuse himself. But he doesn't. Instead, he gives Simon a meaningful look.

“Now that it's just us manly men in the room," he leans forward, "who is this new girl?"

Simon clears his throat, looking mildly uncomfortable.

"You're gonna laugh," he mumbles.

Nathan actually feels a little hurt by that. Once again, why he cares about Barry's loser-opinion of him is… weird. But there's no time to analyse that, instead he puts on a wounded face.

"Barry, when have I ever judged you?" he says seriously.

"Many many times," Simon answers, deadpanned.

"Well," Nathan argues, "I'm a changed man, my friend."

Simon gives him a doubtful frown but Nathan can see the gears in his head turning. Right now he's formulating whatever he's gonna say next, planning the exact word choice to best convey whatever it is he finds so hard to say.

"Let's just start with something easy. What's her name?" Nathan tries to help.

Simon hesitates a moment, then forces out a “Levi.”

“Huh,” Nathan raises an eyebrow, “your girl’s got kind of a masculine name, not judging though.”

“Nathan,” Simon says very seriously, “Levi is a man. I’m dating a man.”

Oh. Nathan feels like an idiot. To his credit though, he doesn't spew out any inappropriate comments, just makes a stupid looking o-shape with his mouth while staring at Simon with wide eyes.

“I was trying to tell you,” Simon stumbles, “I mean I was going to- I- I didn’t want you to make fun of me.”

Nathan nods. He tries to think of a funny joke but nothing pops up. Instead he feels gross, like his skin is turned inside out and everyone can see how nasty he is on the inside. He supposes this is what normal people call shame. Nathan can’t say he’s a fan.

“Considering I stuck my tongue in your throat that one time, I don’t think it’s fair to make fun of you, at least not about this,” he finally says and he can practically hear Simon exhale all that built-up anxiety.

“Besides,” he adds, “I might be an arse, allegedly , but I’m not a homophobic arse.”

Simon smiles at him and it's not one of his shy smiles, it's a proper, big one. Teeth and all.

“Thanks,” he says.

--

Nathan dreams of community service that night. They’re all there, the old gang back together, wearing their ill-fitted orange jumpsuits and wishing they could be anywhere else. They’re standing outside of the community service building and Nathan is being a prick like usual.

“Do you ever get depressed when you think about how useless your powers are?” He innocently asks Curtis whose face remains stoic, not taking the bait.

“I mean, sure, you can go back in time but not when you actually want to. It’s more inconvenient than useful actually,” he continues. He doesn't know exactly why it’s so important to get a rise from the other man, but he knows he has to. It’s a dickhead instinct he simply can’t ignore.

Kelly rolls her eyes while Alisha raises a curious eyebrow, wondering if the one-sided berating will turn into a fight. Probably hoping it will.

“It’s sort of sad,” Nathan says, faking sympathy, “you have this incredible gift but in your hands, it just becomes wasted. All that potential- for nothing…  Kind of like how you ruined the potential to be in the Olympics. Ironic, innit?”

“I’ll show you ironic,” Curtis bites out.

He pushes Nathan forward, hard, and the world turns into static. Nathan feels his body floating between time and space, the nothingness around him engulfing his very soul. The atoms in the air change and Nathan wonders briefly if this is what Curtis feels every time he goes back in time.

Light returns and the world turns back to normal, Nathan standing in the exact spot he did a couple of seconds ago. He doesn't know how he knows, (in hindsight he guesses it's just one of those dream things), but he’s sure Curtis, that bastard, has pushed him forward in time.

“Guys?” He shouts when he realises none of them are where they should be.

He's completely alone. Not a soul to be seen anywhere, the water still, untouched, and the building behind him quiet like death. Just when he begins to panic he spots a familiar, short frame, and Nathan instantly runs in his direction.

Simon is sitting with his legs in the water, looking out towards the grey apartment buildings on the other side of the lake. He ignores Nathan when he sits down beside him, his eyes fixated on that unmoving lake and those stupid blocks of cement.

“Barry,” Nathan exhales, “thank God, I was starting to think I was alone.”

Simon doesn't look at him when he answers.

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“No worries, man. I found you, didn’t I?”

He reaches out to give the other man a friendly pat on the shoulder but freezes as he feels no resistance, his hand practically moving through air. Simon finally looks at him, his eyes big and tragic.

“I’m sorry,” he says again and Nathan finally gets it. The emptiness, the quiet, the complete lack of anything living.

“So,” he says, trying his best to sound unaffected, “we're in the future and everyone is dead. Brilliant. Love that for me.”

Simon turns back to the unmoving water and they sit still in the quiet. For a while it's almost pleasant, but then the panic creeps in and Nathan feels the longer he spends in this infinite silence, the closer this world gets to turning him into one of its quiet, unmoving pieces.

“Why can I only see you?” He finally asks, “if they’re all dead, where are they?”

“The reason you can see me and no one else is the same reason you can see anyone who’s passed on.”

“Way to be a smartass,” Nathan mutters and Simon actually laughs at that. He looks at Nathan like he knows the punchline to a joke Nathan is too stupid to get. He looks at him like can’t decide to pity him or make fun of him.  

“The people you see are those whose deaths you are responsible for.”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Nathan protests.

“You don’t have to kill anyone to be responsible for their death.”

Nathan thinks back. Jamie, annoying hippie guy, sure they fit the pattern but wouldn’t that mean-

“I killed you?”

Simon smiles but it is neither shy nor big and proud. It's a sad smile that says the same thing Simon’s been repeating all throughout this stupid dream. “I’m sorry.”

“But how-” Nathan feels that panic closing in on him again, “sure, I can be an arse, but I wouldn’t do that, you’re my friend.”

He feels stupid for admitting that last fact but it’s true. He doesn't really know how it happened, their friendship, but it did, and now he's stuck with the consequences, the responsibility of it.

“No,” Nathan stands up. He can’t accept this, this impossible burden, this curse. It’s a lie, it has to be. Jamie said it wasn't his fault, didn’t he? And sure, it had felt too easy, but he had chosen to believe it, not knowing how to live with himself if he didn't. But maybe Simon is right. Maybe this is another cruel joke of the universe, to allow him the company of the dead, but only with the knowledge he is the reason for their misery. It is all his fault.

“You’re lying,” Nathan accuses, desperately clinging on to his own innocence, “you’re winding me up, this is you getting back at me for calling you a melonfucker all those times, isn’t it? I said I was sorry, what more do you want?!”

Simon smiles again, shaking his head like a parent does to a child who keeps asking braindead questions like “why is the sky blue and why won’t anyone tell me what happens when you die?”

He stands up beside Nathan, and the orange legs of his pants remain dry despite having been soaked in water mere seconds ago. Nathan wonders if it's easier being dead. You don’t have to worry about your clothes getting wet, about accidentally killing your brother, about saying the wrong things or falling for the wrong person.

“You don’t care about a single person but yourself,” Simon says simply, “you killed me with your selfishness and now you’re the only person you have left.”

Nathan doesn't know if Simon pushes him into the water or if he falls forward voluntarily, if somewhere in his mind he knows he deserves this. In the water he is back in the darkness. He can’t breathe and his body struggles to stay afloat, trying to swim back to the surface but not knowing which direction is the right one. He thinks he's sinking. Panic takes over completely as the darkness, the stillness, the quiet, captures him in its arms, possesses him completely.

Then he wakes up.

--

The next day Nathan has an early shift at work and maybe the universe has decided to be kinder to him than usual because no one seems to have made note of the fact that he didn't show up the day before. Maybe it’s one of those things where you’re silently observed on your mistakes until one day, out of the blue, you’re fired with no warning. Nathan supposes it doesn’t matter, he has an eternity to worry about boring jobs. What's the worst that could happen? He gets fired, he ends up on the street, he starves to death only to be resurrected the very next day. In the end it holds no lasting meaning, none of it does.

He keeps to himself, sorting those endless letters while blasting music in his ears and thinking about the dream. He can still see Simon before him, those tragic dead eyes, that pitying laugh. He’s not sure if he’s being stupid even considering the words of a ghost in a dream, but for some reason what Simon said has stuck with him. If Nathan can, supposedly, see dead people, why isn’t he seeing them constantly? Why has he only ever seen his little brother- the person he was supposed to protect. And that activist with the rattail who he might have let die because he momentarily forgot that he was immortal. On a technicality, ghost-Simons theory holds up and Nathan feels himself going a little crazy even considering it. God, he needs a drink.

After work he heads to the bar, hoping for some answers and to get rid of this torturous soberness. He relaxes as he sees a familiar face by the bar and Curtis gives him a lukewarm smile in return once he spots him.

“You come here for free drinks?” He asks and Nathan scoffs.

“Of course not, I wouldn’t use my friends like that,” he says, “besides, I’m economically independent now.”

Curtis rolls his eyes and gives him a free beer anyway.

“So,” he says, weirdly polite considering he never really liked Nathan, “what's new with you then?”

Curtis looks pretty much the same since Nathan last saw him. Same lanky runners-bod, same annoyed look on his face. He has a slight stubble now and a discrete silver ear piercing that matches his cross necklace. Nathan wonders if it's some sort of statement, if their little group is getting slightly gayer by the day. First Simon with his little boy-toy and now Curtis with this fierce rejection of traditional masculinity. What's next? Kelly and Alisha start a lesbian book club together while Nathan goes to watch a musical,  voluntarily .

“Not much,” Nathan responds, refraining from mentioning anything about the piercing, knowing he won't get many answers from Curtis if he’s all riled up.

“Actually, I came to ask you about something,” Nathan admits.

Curtis smirks, knowingly, “somehow I knew you didn’t just come here for a drink and a chat,” he says.

“It’s about your special…” Nathan lowers his voice to prevent any of the other drunks in the bar from hearing them, “powers.”

“Sure,” Curtis shrugs, “ask away.”

“So,” Nathan starts, “the whole rewind thing- does it work the other way around too? Have you ever been to the future or anything like that?”

Curtis gives him a weird look. He leans forward over the bar, lowering his voice as well.

“Why are you asking me about this, Nathan?”

“Can’t a fella just be a little curious?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” he warns.

“Alright, alright,” Nathan surrenders, “so I had this dream where you pushed me into the future, and I don’t know- I guess I wanted reassurance that it was just a dream and not some weird vision or something.”

Curtis fixates his eyes on Nathan, his dark eyes like lasers. “What did you see?”

“Nothing, mate,” Nathan says, leaning back to avoid his inquisitive eyes, “just the community centre and uh- Barry was there, but as a ghost I guess, it was sorta creepy.”

Curtis leans back too, “so this is about Simon?”

“No,” Nathan protests, “it's not about anyone. I just thought you might have known if it like… meant something.”

Nathan takes a big swig of his beer and Curtis pours up another one, "it doesn't mean anything," he says, "going to the future is impossible, at least with my powers."

He hands the beer over to Nathan who accepts it silently, setting the now empty glass to the side.

"I started running again by the way," Curtis continues. He says it like it's no big deal, like he doesn't care either way, but Nathan knows that's when you actually care the most. He wonders why he’s telling Nathan this, of all people. Maybe they don’t actually hate one another.

"I'm still on probation but I'm just doing it for fun," Curtis continues.

Nathan gives him an earnest smile, "hey, man, I'm proud of you,” he says, and, for once, he’s being genuine.

--

Nathan keeps himself moderately drunk after that, making sure he's at least intoxicated enough to avoid more weird dreams about ghost-Simon and his own inevitable, lonely future. When Nathan's drunk, he only ever has wet dreams or dreams he can't remember, neither of which he minds.

He goes to work on time and all hours he's not working he wastes his money on drugs and alcohol. It's a miracle he doesn't die again but his destructive behaviour has somehow alerted Greg who usually can't see beyond his own butthole. One day when Nathan is suffering from an especially nasty hangover, he asks him “you good, mate?” and if that's not a sign things are going downhill, Nathan doesn't know what is.

Simon tries to visit him but Nathan forces Greg to tell him he’s sick with some sort of highly contagious influenza that prohibits him from even saying hi. This earns Nathan more dish cleaning-duty as well as homemade mushroom soup. It’s not that he doesn't want to see him, of course he does. But for some reason he’s not feeling very keen to hear more about Simon and this new bloke he’s going out with. He’s gonna hear about it eventually, and he knows he won't be able to stop himself from asking about it either, his impulsive curiosity trumping his sense of self-preservation. But he truly dreads it.

Nathan isn’t homophobic, that's not what it's about. It's just that people who are in relationships, no matter gay or straight ones, are absolutely insufferable. The only thing they talk about is their partner, all the amazing things they do, and inevitably, all the shitty things they do. And as soon as things aren't going perfect they demand sympathy and advice from people like Nathan, never actually intending to take that advice to heart. It makes Nathan nauseous just thinking about, Simon taking cheesy pictures with this Levi, holding hands around town and giggling at some stupid inside joke. What kind of name is Levi anyway?

--

Two weeks pass before he gets a call from Curtis of all people.

“Come to the bar this weekend,” he says, “we were gonna meet up for drinks, you should be there too.”

Nathan thinks it over. On the one hand, it's been almost a year since he last saw the ASBO-five as a group and things might be painfully awkward, on the other hand, he feels like Curtis wouldn't call him unless he really did want him to come.

“Maybe I can swing by,” he settles on, “grace you people with my presence for a little while.”

“Sure,” Curtis says and Nathan can practically hear the eye-roll through the phone.

--

The rest of the gang is already halfway through their first drinks when Nathan arrives. He can tell even from a distance that Alisha is in the middle of a passionate retelling of something scandalous and possibly sexual. She's doing hand motions that sort of looks like she's cupping two boobs and Nathan adds this as evidence to his growing theory that their old gang is slowly getting gayer. She lights up when she spots Nathan and Nathan feels himself matching her big smile without even thinking about it. Last time they met they didn't even really say goodbye, just gave one another a nod in acknowledgement. He’s always liked her even though she's positively the most annoying person in the group (well, not counting himself of course). But they've never been friends, Alisha's made that very clear on numerous occasions, and yet here she is, smiling at him like she's actually happy to see him. She jumps off her seat and Nathan freezes as he suddenly feels himself embraced in her arms. Without thinking, he pushes her off like she's a blob of radiation, straight outta Chernobyl.

"What the-" he takes a step back to make sure her skin doesn't accidentally touch his. Nathan declaring he wants to piss on her tits or something equally embarrassing isn't exactly how he wants to start the evening.

"Nathan," she laughs, reaching out to touch his arm, "it's okay, look."

On instinct, he pulls back when he feels her fingertips against his skin but when nothing happens, no inappropriate comments, no half-hard cock in his jeans, he relaxes. Then confusion washes over him.

"What the fuck?"

--

Alisha explains it all, and despite all the detours and excessive details in her story, he thinks he's gotten the gist of it. Apparently there's some sort of shady dealer who trades in superpowers and thanks to him, Alisha is more or less normal. Well, she's clairvoyant now, and Nathan doesn't really get how that works but anything must be better than her previous powers.

"So technically we could all get new powers?" He says, an innocent idea that earns him a hard smack from Kelly who's on her second drink now and is starting to underestimate her own strength.

"You’re not trading your powers, you'd be dead in a week," she says.

"Kelly's right," Simon agrees, still on his first beer and much more sensible, "besides, we know nothing about the people on the receiving end of the trade or what they intend to do with the new powers. It could be dangerous.”

“Whatever. Whoever buys my old powers is a fucking idiot anyway,” Alisha says, emptying her beer and standing up to get another one.

Nathan follows her to the bar to get another beer, maybe a shot. The revelation that he could trade himself something else than eternal loneliness is filling him with dread and hope at the same time. Kelly and Simon are right, even Nathan can’t deny that. He’s lost count on how many times he’s died and there is no doubt that without his powers he won't last long. And yet he can't help but wonder if things would be different, better, less… this. He can’t help but wonder if he’d actually start caring about his own life, knowing he’ll lose it one day. He can’t help wondering if death might be the answer to that gaping hole inside him, if its presence might scare away the emptiness. Usually, death paralyses people, turns them into scared children, but Nathan’s never been scared of death, not even before the storm. He knows what it's like to die. He’s felt the life draining out of him, felt his cranium crush into pieces and his heart stop and he’s never been scared. Fear itself is what fascinates him more. He wonders what it would be like if he could feel true fear, if he could care more.

“Just out of curiosity, where did you find this dealer guy anyway?” Nathan asks Alisha once they're standing by the bar, out of reach of Kelly’s aggressive hands and Simon's annoyingly persistent maturity.

“You really shouldn’t, you know,” she says and Nathan suspects she too is getting a little tipsy because she's making no sense.

“I trust Kelly and Simon with my life,” she continues, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder just because she can, just because she's finally free now, “and if they say you shouldn’t trade your powers, you probably shouldn't.”

“Well,” Nathan sighs, suddenly feeling very tired, “I wish I could say the same thing but I doubt my life would be worth much.”

Alisha gives his cheek a little pat-pat, her eyes uncharacteristically sympathetic, “you’re a lot more depressing than I remember,” she states simply.

When they return to the table, Simon is talking about some Jesus freak by the community centre that has him worried, Kelly and Curtis occasionally humming along to show they’re still listening. They know just as well as Nathan that even if Simon usually is the one to save all their asses in the end, his constant worrying and excessive observations are tiring.

“Even if this guy has powers,” Curtis says, “It’s not really our problem, is it.”

“But he’s clearly scamming his followers,” Simon interjects, “he’s using his powers to manipulate people for their money.”

“Isn’t that the entire point of religion?” Kelly mutters, Curtis giving her an irritated glance. Maybe it's a touchy subject, Nathan notes.

“Who’s manipulating who?” Alisha chirps, sitting down with a smile despite the tension at the table. She leans her head against Kelly’s shoulder and Kelly instantly leans into the touch, relaxing. Apparently, they’ve grown closer without Nathan even noticing. He wonders exactly how much he’s missed in just a year.

“Nothing,” Kelly says, “Simon is just worried about some douchebag with powers.”

“But that's not really our problem anymore, is it?” Alisha raises a critical eyebrow and Curtis instantly breaks out in a rare smile.

“Exactly what I said!” he exclaims, “I’m so done with all the power-bullshit anyway.”

Simon sighs and Nathan sits down beside him, giving him a friendly pat on the back, “don’t be all depressed, Barry” he comforts, “I’m sure you’ll get to play hero again at some point.”

Simon looks up at him and Nathan can’t tell if it's a look of annoyance or gratitude. He has one of those unreadable faces, his lines of soft muscle unmoving and his grey eyes vacant. He’d make a good torture victim Nathan reflects, or a poker player. Either way, Simon’s face doesn't reveal a single secret if it doesn't want to and Nathan finds himself suddenly sick with the want to decipher it.

“What are you thinking, pretty boy?” he asks casually, ignoring Kelly’s little smirk.

Simon gives him a pointed, icy stare and Nathan is almost sure now that he is in fact annoyed and not grateful.

“If something happens to those people-” Simon pauses, moving his face closer to make sure Nathan hears every single word, “the blood will be on our hands.”

Nathan gulps audibly, moving back in his seat to find some distance between the two of them. Kelly gives him another smirk. Her know-it-all mind-reading tendencies are apparently much much more annoying when she’s drunk and Nathan has to think of something to get her off her game.

“I’m sure those people will be fine, besides, everyone knows cults are just harmless fun.”

He dismisses Simon with another friendly pat, then, turning to the rest of the gang, “hey, do you guys remember the time Kelly shagged a monkey?”

The comment has the desired effect of erupting the table into chaos, Alisha finding herself in a laughing fit while Kelly aggressively defends herself from Curtis’s sarcastic comments.

Simon watches the whole thing with even more unreadable staring.

“We can’t just be thinking of ourselves,” Simon mumbles, quiet enough for Nathan to be the only one who hears it, “we’ll kill them with our selfishness.”

Something about that phrase has Nathan on edge. He moves back in his seat, back into Simon’s personal space, the air around them narrow and tense now.

“Selfishness is how we survive,” Nathan says earnestly.

People like Simon, people who insist on practising kindness and hallelujah-peace are the same people that end up getting trampled on, end up getting used. This world is a sadistic bitch with a ten-inch strap on and she will fuck you raw. This world isn’t made for heroes.  

“And you might not believe this, Barry, but I do want you to survive this cruel world,” he says.  

“There's simply no one else who I like bullying more,” he adds when he hears how disgustingly sentimental he sounds.

Simon doesn't answer but he does give Nathan a small half-smile. Nathan finds himself staring at him, the ways his lips curl slightly, the way his eyes seem a little warmer than before. Maybe Simon’s face isn’t unreadable at all, maybe Nathan just isn't reliable in his translations. He wishes Simon would never stop smiling like that, the look suits him, makes him seem a little more human.

Shit, Nathan thinks, I need another drink. Preferably ten.

--

The next morning Nathan truly did wish he was dead, at least then he wouldn’t have to live through this torture of a hangover. He remembers bits and pieces of the night before. He remembers Alisha giving him a hug for the first time, he remembers them all talking about the dealer. Then he remembers that heated sting in his throat as he swallows drink after drink, Simon observing him with caution. Then he remembers Simon, the shade of blue in his shirt and the way he taps on the beer glass whenever he gets nervous.

He hears the door to his bedroom open and lets out a low groan.

“Fuck off, Greg,” he mutters, face down against the pillow, “I’m not in the mood for dishes right now, I’m on the verge of death if you can’t tell.”

Greg doesn't answer, instead he just walks into the room, stopping by the bed, probably to make a point. Bastard.

“Let a man sleep, will ya?”

Nathan moves to his side, forcing his face off the pillow to give Greg his best impression of a bitchy mean-girl face, hoping it will trigger flashbacks of childhood bullies and scare him off. But it’s not Greg staring down at him, instead Nathan finds himself holding his breath as a pair of cold, blue eyes locks his gaze in his.

“Morning,” Simon says, “or… well, afternoon.”

“Shit,” Nathan groans again, “what time is it? I need to-”

“I borrowed your phone and texted your work,” Simon calms him down, “said you were sick.”

Nathan gives him a puzzled look.

“I never gave you my password.”

“Actually you did,” he smiles, “Monkeyslut, I remembered.”

Nathan scoffs. This whole thing is making him out to be more nostalgic than he’s entirely comfortable with. He leans back in his bed and Simon walks over to the old garden chair. His chair, Nathan thinks.

“Why are you here anyway?” he asks, “don’t tell me we got drunk and had sex.”

Simon turns hilariously red at that and Nathan can’t help but laugh, “relax, weird-kid, I’m just pulling your balls.”

“I don’t think that's a phrase,” Simon mutters.

Nathan pushes the blanket off of him, immediately regretting it as cold air hits his skin. He tries to force himself up to a sitting position but feels dizzy, like his body is not his own, like he truly is on the verge of death.

“Don’t-” Simon warns him, suddenly by his side at the bed, putting the blanket over him again.

“You don’t need to baby me,” Nathan protests but his voice exudes all but confidence and health. He sounds just as pathetic as he feels.

“Actually I do,” Simon says sternly, “your pulse is weak and you’re pale which are both signs of alcohol poisoning,” he explains.

Nathan can’t help but laugh again, “alcohol poisoning?” he giggles, “Jesus, I really have become my dad.”

Simon doesn't answer that, just gives him that same pitying look as in the dream. He disappears out of the room only to come back with a glass of water and an ibuprofen. He kneels down by the bed and Nathan allows Simon to help him up to a sitting position. A part of him rejects this, rejects Simon's hands at his side, steadying him. Rejects the water he offers, the way he carefully lifts the glass to Nathan's dry lips. A part of him would rather die than let Simon take care of him like this.

Nathan tries to take the glass in his own hand but he feels his heart stop as his cold hand meets Simon's warmth. Simon looks at him, apologetic, awkward,  and lets go of the glass, moves his hand away from Nathan’s. But Nathan doesn't move a muscle. It’s like something has reset within him and he can’t tell if he's dying or if, for the first time in forever, he actually feels alive. His whole world is spinning, that depressed hamster in his brain having taken coke or something, dancing around like a maniac. There is no fucking way his pulse is weak, he thinks, his chest is beating like an angry warrior drum before battle.

The glass slips out of Nathan's grip and drops to the floor, the water splashing out over the wooden panels, staining Simon’s cotton pants.

“Shit,” Nathan mumbles, but he’s not sure if he’s referring to the broken glass or his heart that has suddenly decided to feel alive again. What a traitorous thing.

“Don’t get up,” Simon warns. He crouches down and carefully picks up each piece of glass off the floor, placing them delicately in his own hand, like he’s afraid of breaking them even more.

“So…” Nathan tries to think of something clever and distracting to say before the atmosphere in the room gets even more tense, “did anything fun happen yesterday, I don’t exactly remember much.”

Simon doesn't look up, “you called Curtis’s earring gay,” he says.

“Oh,” Nathan wants to go back in time and punch his drunk self, “it might not have come across that way, but I definitely meant it as a compliment.”

Simon still doesn't look up, wiping the floor with the tip of his finger to make sure there are no small shards of glass that he’s missing.

“I’m guessing he didn’t take it as a compliment though,” Nathan continues, “but that says more about him than about me.”

Simon ignores him and Nathan takes the opportunity to keep his stupid mouth running.  

“You should know I’m really into all that activism stuff,” he says, ”I’m an ally, really.”

“ You’re an ally?” Simon lifts a doubtful eyebrow his way and Nathan tries giving him an earnest smile back.

“Sure I am,” he says, “that’s what they call me- the gays I mean. A fierce ally of the community.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, maybe not,” Nathan admits, “but I’m not some bigot. I think it’s cool that you’re all gay and stuff now. Gay-Barry is great, go Gay-Barry.”

“I’m not gay,” Simon says and Nathan wonders if it's the hangover making him confused or if Simon is picking a bad day to try out his comedy skills.

“Well,” Nathan says, “don’t tell your boyfriend that.”

Simon actually rolls his eyes and a part of Nathan is delighted. He’s missed this, having someone to annoy on a regular basis. He’s missed annoying Simon specifically, getting under that hard exterior and finding a sensitive spot to poke.

“I like both men and women,” Simon explains, “I’m bisexual, Nathan. As an ally, you should probably know what that is.”

“I know what it is,” Nathan huffs, offended, “I read books.”

Simon gets back up from the floor, putting the little shards of glass in a neat pile on the desk. It glimmers in the light coming in from the window, leaving reflections against the surface of the table.

“Did you always know?” Nathan asks, his eyes following the lines of the broken glass, avoiding the strange way Simon looks at him.  

“In a way I did,” he finally says, “but I just assumed everyone felt that way, that they just didn’t talk about it.”

“Makes sense,” Nathan mumbles to himself.

Suddenly he feels tired again, his eyelids heavy and his heartbeat back to alcohol poisoning levels of sedation. He looks back at Simon and freezes up as he sees the red, thin streak of blood running down his left hand. Simon follows his gaze and for a moment he just looks at it, lets it bleed down his wrist, a small drop of it landing on the floor. Then he looks up again, his eyes unreadable and stuck on Nathan.

--

When Curtis calls him, Nathan almost doesn't answer. Usually he doesn't mind Curtis’s rants about what a prick he is or how he owes him money for free beer, but he still feels like shit. His muscles feel sore and awkward and his throat is dry no matter how much water Simon brings him.

“Nathan,” Curtis says when Nathan finally picks up, “I did it.”

He sounds rushed, like he’s just been running.

“I went forward in time-” he explains, taking shallow breaths between each word.

“I thought you said it was impossible.”

“I lied, obviously.”

Nathan’s almost impressed, he should probably be offended or hurt, but something about Curtis lyingto  right to his face is a little exciting. People usually don’t care enough to lie to him, they usually just tell him to fuck off.

“Alright, well, apology accepted,” Nathan says even though Curtis probably wasn't intending to say sorry in the first place.

“Now tell me what you saw.”

Nathan can hear Curtis take a deep breath on the other side and he feels a pang of fear in the back of his mind. The image of an empty community service building, the still water, the quiet, it still haunts him. If that future truly exists then maybe Simon’s accusation rings true, maybe he really is cursed.

“It’s a little hard to make sense of,” Curtis stalls, “I don’t know where exactly I ended up, It’s not like I have much control over it.”

“Did you see anyone?” Nathan presses on. He needs to know he’s not the only one left.

“Yes, Nathan, everyone was there. You, Kelly, Alisha, Simon,” he says, “it was snowing outside I think.”

“Jesus,” Curtis mumbles, “I think I’m still high.”

“Focus,” Nathan says. He’s definitely gonna make a note of that “high” comment but now is not the time. Now he needs to know what actually happened, what Curtis saw.

“Right,” Curtis snaps himself out of his daze, “you were talking to Kelly and- we were at Kelly’s place! We were drinking mulled wine and that stupid Christmas song was playing and I think your nose was bleeding.”

Nathan can practically hear the cogs in Curtis’s brain turn, the way he’s trying to recall every single detail as vividly as possible. “She said something to you, but I couldn’t hear any of it, I was standing too far away. Alisha was telling me something about a modelling job and she was really excited-”

“What about Simon?” Nathan interrupts.

Curtis sighs again, “Simon was just sitting there I think, why does it matter anyway?”

“I guess it doesn't.”

--

Simon has visited almost every day since that day at the bar. He’s convinced Nathan is still at the risk of falling ill and Nathan doesn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. He likes having him there, likes when he talks about his favourite movies and the strange customers he meets at the pharmacy he works at.

Sometimes he sleeps over, not that Nathan ever outright asks him to. But he has this strategy of distracting Simon long enough with food and idle small talk to the point where it's too late for him to go home. Then he casually suggests that Simon use the spare mattress in the closet and sleep in his room. Just for tonight, just because it's easy, simple, uncomplicated. He hopes Simon doesn't think about it too hard.

They talk about everything and nothing. The strange stories of the past, possible undiscovered superpowers that they’ll have to deal with in the future. They talk about the horrid pranks Nathan used to pull at church while his parents still had hope he’d be the perfect altar boy. They talk about Matt, Simon’s old bully, buying haemorrhoid cream at the pharmacy and his horrified face as he meets Simon at the register. They talk about their families, all their failures, all the ways they’ve fucked the both of them up. Simon’s parents never cared about the bullying, instead insisting that Simon wasn't doing enough to fit in, that just by being himself he was practically inviting people to treat him poorly. They were never on his side, Nathan realises, and for a brief moment he contemplates doing something irrational like shitting in their bed or burning down their house. No wonder Simon is so fucked up.

Simon asks him about the divorce, when it happened, if it broke Nathan’s heart, and Nathan finds himself not being able to give a satisfying answer. He’s never fit in with that image of the sorrowful child, grieving the loss of what he once knew to be family. Nathan doesn't remember much of how it happened, he just knows he was relieved. His mom and dad had never been a good match and the more they tried to be, the more they drove each other insane. The more they drove Nathan further apart from both of them.

The only thing they never talk about is that dream and Nathan never shares his suspicion that he might be the reason for both his brother's as well as Simon's eventual downfall. They don’t talk about Levi either, but it’s obvious him and Simon are still going steady. Nathan can see his stupid name on the display when Simon’s phone buzzes with a text or call and sometimes he’s even horrified to find a hickey or two on Simon’s pale neck. Apparently, Simon doesn't need his help in the intimacy department, or maybe being gay is just easier. Either way, he's relieved Simon never mentions Levi, it makes his existence exponentially easier to forget.

Greg has made it very clear he likes having Simon over, “he’s the only reason anything gets cleaned here,” he reasons, “besides, he actually knows something about video games unlike you.”

He even offers Simon naan bread when he orders home Indian food and Nathan would be much more irritated by that if Simon didn't always split it with him. But he does, and usually they end up watching some stupid reality TV show, cooped up on the sofa while talking shite about all the contestants. Nathan does most of the shite-talking but finds himself immensely proud whenever Simon too gets in a sarcastic comment or mean spirited observation.

Nathan doesn't drink anymore. Well, he hasn't since that horrid hangover at least. Simon’s made sure to get rid of all his bottles at home and he’s pretty sure he’s convinced the rest of the gang to meet up somewhere else than a bar so as to not “trigger” Nathan. At least Nathan thinks that's why the next time all of them meet up, it's at a cafe, talking over a couple of coffees like they are in an episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. or something. Secretly he thinks it's ridiculous, Simon is treating him like an alcoholic in recovery, with delicate yet firm care. But if Nathans supposed alcoholism is the only reason he’s hanging around, Nathan won’t do anything to break the delusion. In fact, he’ll refrain from drinking if that convinces Simon he’s doing good, that he’s making progress just by staying at his side, just by being his friend. And as much as Nathan loves drinking, he finds he craves it less and less the more he’s around Simon. It’s only at work where he misses that steady buzz alcohol brings, that loosening of the harsh edges of the world. That escape.

--

Tonight the universe is working alongside Nathan for once. The wind outside is scratching and the air is almost cold enough to turn the pouring rain into sharp pieces of ice. It’s not a weather you want to walk through without the protection of thick gloves and a sturdy umbrella. Nathan doesn't hesitate a second to use it to his advantage.

“Don’t be daft, Barry,” he says, “if you go home now the wind will blow you away like a little leaf, just stay here for the night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Nathan smiles, unable to hide how delighted he is at his own conniving ways. He gets what he wants and appears as a hero on top of it all. Damn, he’s good.

Simon sighs, “Wednesdays are my early shifts,” he says, “I don’t know if I’ll have time to get home and change.”

Nathan rolls his eyes, walking past Simon over to his closet, “just borrow something,” he says.

Nathan looks through his sparse collection of clothes, trying to find anything that might be at least half-decent in Simon’s mind. He fishes out a white cotton shirt reserved for funerals and weddings and tosses it to Simon.

“Try it on.”

Simon obliges, taking off his knitted sweater and letting it fall to the floor. Nathan steals a quick glance and makes note of the way Simon's abs are softly defined and how his happy trail is slightly darker than his natural hair. He has a V-line thing going on and Nathan is infinitely jealous. He’s always been on the more lanky side and he suspects even if he had the dedication to drag himself to a gym on a regular basis, he’d still remain bony looking.

Simon pulls the shirt on and closes each button carefully. It's small over the chest while the arms are too long, Simon having to fold them to get them to fit perfectly.

"It works," he assesses, buttoning it up again to change back into his own shirt.

Nathan looks away this time, letting Simon have his privacy like the true, good friend he is.

"Obviously, it looks better on me," Nathan lies, "but you pull it off."

He can't see it, but he imagines a small smile on the other man's face, secretly amused by Nathan's Nathan-ness.

Nathan has known for a while now that Simon fancies him.

Maybe he's not head over heels and maybe he doesn't realise it himself yet, but there's something there. Something almost solid enough for Nathan to reach out and touch. It amuses him. Nathan has always loved it when other people crush on him. They're so cute, fumbling around with their words and blushing every ten minutes. It fills him with confidence like nothing else, the power to make someone weak in the knees with just a look or fill them with overflowing jealousy when he gets bored and wants a reaction. Nathan loves to push people's buttons and someone with a crush has a whole new set of buttons to push. They're filled with spots of vulnerability that are just waiting to be exploited. Besides, Simon’s not too bad looking even if he's undeniably still a weirdo, and his crush is harmless so far. Nothing wrong with having a little fun.

He groans loudly, stretching his arms as far up as he reaches, making sure his t-shirt rises up on his stomach, teasing Simon with the exposed skin. He grins as Simon's eyes follow the movement of his body, not so discreetly checking him out. This is his favourite game, a game he'll never grow tired of.

The sound of Simon's phone interrupts Nathan's plans of slow seduction and Simon practically jumps at the sound. Lost in thoughts, are we? Nathan thinks to himself smugly.

"Hi, Levi," Simon answers the phone and Nathan's confidence instantly falters.

Maybe he’s wrong, clouded by narcissism and that constant need to fill the boredom. Simon doesn't have a crush on him, Simon is in a happy healthy relationship and the only reason he stays is because of some warped sense of obligation and the fact that he might be the only truly decent person left on the planet.

--

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

Nathan gives Curtis a big, toothy grin, “Oh, come on. I know Barry has this idea that my drinking is somehow excessive,” he says, “but you know what a drama queen he is.”    

Curtis huffs and turns his back on Nathan in favour of cleaning off the liquor bottles on the shelf behind him. He’s precise and efficient and Nathan wonders exactly how many times he’s done that, how long this took to become second nature.

“I just came to talk,” Nathan reassures him, “I’m not planning on having any fun.”

“Last time you were here you puked all over the bathroom,” Curtis says, still turned away, “so excuse me for not being all that fucking excited to see you.”

He crouches down and fishes out a coke bottle from the minifridge that he places in front of Nathan with a pointed glare. Reluctantly, Nathan opens it and takes a sip. Better than nothing, he thinks.

“So-” he says, skipping the small talk since Curtis doesn't seem to be much in the mood, “you never told me how you took that little trip to the future.”

Curtis sighs and Nathan almost thinks he’s gonna go back to cleaning liquor bottles. But he doesn't, instead he pours himself a glass of beer.

“Remember that time we all took E and our powers got completely fucked?”

The night his brother died.

“I remember,” Nathan says.

“Well,” Curtis continues, “I sort of went forward in time.”

Nathan considers it, taking another sip of that carbonated sugar. It’s actually growing on him. Maybe he can go through life without ever drinking again.

“That’s just ridiculously unfair,” he finally decides, “you get to take a vacation to the future while I just turn… normal.”

“It’s not like the future is that special anyway.”

Their conversation is cut short by a customer, a regular it seems because Curtis doesn't even ask what he wants, just pours up a big beer. The customer gives a half-hearted nod of appreciation in response.

“Can you do it again?” Nathan asks as soon as the regular has left the two of them alone again.

Curtis gives him another irritated groan, “is it really that important to you?” he asks, “I thought you were like a cat, never looking back, never thinking about tomorrow.”

“I’m like a cat?”

“That’s what I said. You have no concept of time.”

Curtis finishes his glass of beer and Nathan figures he should finish his coke too. Their conversation is nearing an end and Nathan hasn't made any progress with what he came here for.

“Come on, big man,” he pleads, trying to turn on that natural charm of his, giving Curtis his best attempt at puppy dog eyes, “I have this funky feeling in my balls that something’s gonna go wrong.”

Curtis rolls his eyes, “are you a medium now too?”

“Can’t you do me this little favour?”

Curtis considers it for a moment before answering.

“Fine,” he decides, “If- and only if- I go forward in time again, you’ll be the first one I tell.”

Good enough, Nathan supposes.

--

Nathan has another nightmare, this time, however, he isn’t alone when he wakes up.

“You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Nathan wakes up in a confused daze. He doesn't even realise that Simon’s holding him, let alone talking to him.

“Nathan,” he says in a hushed plea, “you’re okay, please wake up.”

Nathan’s still shaking and his breathing is rushed and desperate. He can’t remember the dream anymore, but has a sense it might have ended with him not breathing one way or the other. Maybe he ended up under water again or maybe it’s one of his incessant “falling off the community centre building and getting impaled on a fence” dreams that his subconscious seems to be so fond of.

“Simon?” he whispers when he has come to his senses, catching his breath.

Slowly, his eyes adjust to the darkness and he can make out the outline of Simon’s figure leaning over him, his hands clasping at Nathan’s shoulders to shake him awake. His look is scared and Nathan wonders what exactly he could have said or done to elicit such a reaction. Maybe Simon really is a drama queen or maybe Nathan is more haunted than he realises.

“What happened?” He asks.

Simon’s grip around him loosens and he moves away, sitting down by the end of the bed to give Nathan some space. Nathan wishes he could tell him he doesn't want any space. He wants Simon to stay close, wants his hands gripping at his shoulders even if it's hard enough to hurt. He wants Simon to ground him, to make him feel real in the still darkness that surrounds them both.

“You started screaming my name,” Simon whispers and there’s a clear note of hesitance in his voice.

“You sounded scared so I tried to wake you up,” he continues.

“Shit,” Nathan mumbles.

He forces his body upright, scooting himself down next to Simon on the bed.

“Sorry about that.”

He forces a smile but Simon doesn't look reassured in the least. There's a worried line between his eyebrows and he’s staring Nathan down like he expects him to talk, tell him what happened, tell him the truth. But Nathan doesn't remember his own nightmare and he doesn't know the truth well enough to tell it. They’ve always had a complicated relationship, Nathan and truth. Something true can turn untrue in mere seconds and sometimes you don’t even know the difference between the two.

Is he scared? Is he miserable? Is he in love? How is he supposed to know? Is one thing truer than the next or can all things be true and false at the same time? He knows he’s a liar but sometimes he worries he can’t tell where the truth ends and the lies start. If he’s begun lying to himself without even realising.

“I’m worried about you,” Simon admits and the pity in his eyes makes Nathan sick.

“Worried?” Nathan scoffs, his voice weak and unsure and his head still trying to adjust itself to reality, “is that why you’re over all the time? Because you wanna play hero, because you wanna save me?”

Realistically, he knows he shouldn't ask, self-preservation and all that, but in his dazed state, he can’t help it. In the shielding darkness he knows Simon can’t see the genuine worry on his face. He doesn't know that he holds Nathan’s heart in his hand with that question, that he can squeeze the life out of him like a little grape with just one word.

“I don’t need to be saved, Barry,” he continues, anger starting to build up, “I don’t need you to wake me up from nightmares or fetch me fucking water when I have a hangover, I can manage on my own. I don’t need you to be here.”

“Is that what you think?”

Nathan finally looks up at Simon, meets his eyes through the thick darkness and holds it steady. Despite everything, he wants to take this rejection with some sort of dignity.

“I’m not here because I pity you,” Simon says, his voice clear and unwavering, “I just wanna be your friend.”

Maybe Nathan has finally learned how to read Simon because despite the darkness, he can map out every emotion in the other man’s face. The line of worry between his eyebrows, the sincerity in his eyes, the short, anxious, inhale of breath. Simon is afraid too, he realises. He wants to be his friend, implying he doesn't know they already are. After everything they’ve been through he still doesn't know, he still isn't sure.

Nathan feels himself soften, letting his head rest against the wall, exposing his neck to the cool, night air. He exhales and closes his eyes because he can't focus for the life of him while looking at Simon.

“Okay,” he says simply.

They stay like that for a while, quiet in the darkness. The only thing Nathan can make out in the silence is Simon's steady breathing and his own heartbeat, still a little jumpy after the dream.

He opens his eyes again and finds that Simon is already looking at him. Nathan responds with an unwavering look of his own, staring Simon down, wanting answers to questions he can't articulate yet.

Simon smiles at him, that small, shy smile, and suddenly it all feels so simple. When Nathan leans over to kiss Simon he doesn't even think about it, he simply does it because he wants to. Because there's nothing else he’d rather do, no one else he’d rather kiss.

For a moment, Nathan kisses Simon. For a moment, that quiet darkness feels so loud and radiating and the cold air in the room turns hot at the heat of their lips. For a moment, Nathan is content, free.

For a moment Simon kisses him back. Then he doesn't.

“Nathan,” he breathes, pulling back.

The moment is gone, abruptly so, and Nathan exhales sharply at the loss of contact. He can still feel heat and wetness on his lips, the ghost of Simon lingering on, the taste of his mouth haunting him. Nathan tries to look at the other man but Simon turns away, and moves off the bed swiftly, like if he stays for even one more second he’ll catch on fire.

“I need to sleep,” he mumbles, laying back down on the mattress, positioning himself as far away from Nathan as possible, “early shift.”

His back is towards Nathan and he can’t see his face, can’t even get a clue of what he’s thinking, how much he's freaking out on a scale of one to ten.

They lay there for what feels like hours. Quiet, pretending to sleep while listening to the sound of each other's shallow breathing.

At some point, Nathan watches the snow cry down the sky, furiously throwing itself against his window. The first snow of the year, he thinks. The beginning of winter.

#its finally out !!!!!! #idk if tumblr will allow me to actually post this much text without crashing #and to think this is just chapter one.. JESUS #nathan young #nathan x simon #simon bellamy #simon x nathan #nimon #misfits #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #robert sheehan #Iwan Rheon

[annaphoenix1994]

Masterlist!

October 5th - Going to the County Fair

2018 Michael Myers

You trembled with excitement as the fairgrounds were getting closer as you drove - this being the second year in a row Michael agreed to go to the fair with you.

You had hoped he truly enjoyed it.

He'd never tell you that he didn't...

Not because of you, however, but he wasn't a fan of being in a crowded area.

But he'd never admit that he only went to ensure your safety.

Your own personal bodyguard, perhaps.

Although, there were a few things he liked seeing while going to the fair: the cute bunnies that could be won, the ring toss, and a rodeo if they'd have one.

Mainly because Michael wanted to see the bull ram into the rodeo clown.

He hated clowns.

"Goofy bastards."

Pushing his intrusive thoughts aside, he held out his wrist for you to put on the entry band before parking the car. "Okay, we're here!" You smiled with excitement.

"I can see that." He replied with his usual sarcasm.

You glared at him playfully, watching him smirk as he rolled his hat backward on his head.

He preferred to wear a hat 99% of the time because it made him feel like he had some sort of concealment on his head. He hated showing his face but soon came to realize that he was unrecognizable behind his mask and that nobody would recognize him.

And that he was self-conscious about him losing his hair, but he'd never admit that to you.

Just like you'd never admit that him wearing his hat backward was incredibly attractive. That, plus the short beard combo and knowing he was extremely loyal and protective of you.

100% daddy energy........ ;)

Anywho... Throughout the evening, you and Michael walked around looking at the rides that you would never go on, waiting on the crowd to die down a bit before participating in any activities such as playing the ring toss and water gun race.

He ended up winning you a teddy bear, holding it for you as you ate a piece of the funnel cake you bought, knowing that Michael will eat the entire thing without regret.

After a while, Michael stated he needed to go to the bathroom, so you stayed in the area for a few minutes before wondering where he was.

You hoped someone didn't piss him off, but that was every day, but you hoped that he didn't actually kill anyone.

Knowing that you couldn't just pick up the phone and call him, you wandered the way towards the restrooms, passing the ring toss game where you could win a live rabbit, unknowingly passing him as he was knelt down next to one of the cages, sticking his finger between the wires to pet the rabbit on its head.

Turning around to backtrace your steps, you stood and smiled at him as the only way you noticed him was the stuffed bear he won you.

"So he has a soft spot after all."

#michaelmyers #og michael myers #halloween2018 #peepaw myers

[keanureevesisbae]

Ik heb in 2022 3.377 keer iets geplaatst

571 berichten gemaakt (17%)

2.806 berichten gereblogd (83%)

Blogs die ik het meest heb gereblogd:

@diegos-butt

@samwilsonshandsandass

@shootforthestars-28

@keanureevesisbae

@thelastsock

Ik heb 1.322 van mijn berichten getagd in 2022

#comment reblog - 465 berichten

#asian ofc - 96 berichten

#henry cavill - 90 berichten

#tales of love - 86 berichten

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#chicago pd - 70 berichten

#thelastsock - 66 berichten

#anon - 65 berichten

#hank voight - 64 berichten

#sweet messages 💌 - 59 berichten

Longest Tag: 116 characters

#the fact that the tiniest amount of gluten makes me sick for at least a week and takes another week to fully recover

Mijn populairste berichten in 2022:

#5

Summary: You got yourself a puppy, however when you lose the little bastard, you meet a very handsome dog owner

Captain Syverson x fem!reader

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: None

A/N: did this idea pop in my mind after I played Best Friend Forever on the nintendo switch? Maybe...

It was safe to say, you knew nothing about puppies. You thought they were cute—which they are—and they need to go on walks and poop an awful lot. However, there is one thing you did not realize and that is how freaking fast they are. 

When you picked up the little Bernese Mountain pup at the pound, he seemed a little comatose, however with the lightning speed this bastard took off, he appeared to have an overdose of energy after all.

You thought he was simply depressed at the pound.

And here you are, in the park, looking around you, hoping to see a little light brown ball of fluff. You defeatedly sigh, tears burning in your eyes. You just lost your fucking dog, it’s unbelievable and pretty damn pathetic. A sniffle escapes passed your lips. Great, you were officially the worst dog owner on the entire planet. Who the fuck loses their dog? Their pup? You literally had him for around two weeks. 

‘Bob!’ you yell. ‘Bob, buddy! I’ve got snacks. C’mere boy.’

But it doesn’t help. The little bastard doesn’t appear.

Defeatedly, you plop on a park bench, tears dripping over your hot cheeks. You don’t know how long you cry on that bench. 

And then you hear a bark and you look up, only to spot your puppy almost tripping over his own paws, next to a German Shepherd. You jump up. ‘Bob!’ you scream, as you rush over to him, wrapping your arms around the excited canine whose disappearance almost meant your death. ‘Don’t you dare leave me again.’

You turn to the German Shepherd and smile at the animal, who pushes her nose against your cheek. 

‘Thank you for bringing back my dog,’ you say, patting her head, after you put your own dog back on his leash. ‘Where’s your human?’

’Ah,’ I hear from a distance, ‘Aika, you brought the little man back?’

The German Shepherd—who apparently is named Aika— rushes back to her owner and barks as a response. When the handsome man stands closer to you, you nearly gawk at him. He’s gorgeous, with the thick beard and the buzzcut, as he is wearing cargo shorts and a simply dark green shirt.

‘Thank you,’ you say.

‘Quite unbelievable you lost a pup.’

Okay, that hurt a lot more than you initially thought it would. ‘Please, throw some more salt in the wounds,’ you mutter. ‘I feel bad enough already.’ You don’t want to cry, but you can’t stop your umpteenth sniffle of the afternoon.

‘Oh no, I was just being sarcastic,’ the man quickly says. ‘Please, miss, don’t cry.’

‘I thought I’d lost him forever,’ you admit, wiping away your tears. ‘Thank you so much for catching him.’

‘No problem.’ His accent is thick, southern and it does things to your heart, especially when you see his light colored eyes, that despite their icy color, still appear warm. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Bob,’ you sniffle. 

‘Is this your first puppy?’

You nod. ‘Yeah, it is. I try my best, but it’s obviously not paying off.’

The man chuckles. ‘Well, you must start to discipline him,’ he says. ‘Otherwise he’ll be the one in charge, sooner rather than later. This is gonna be a large dog in the future, you must be able to handle him.’

‘I know,’ you whisper, scratching Bob behind his ears. ‘It’s just… There are no puppy schools around and I am a total noob.’

He nods. ‘Want me to help you out?’

‘Really?’

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470 notities - Geplaatst 18 april 2022

#4

Captain Syverson x fem!reader 

Summary: You and Syverson already have five rowdy boys, but Sy really wants another one..

Wordcount: 1.7k

Warnings: Some sex, slight breeding and pregnancy kink.

Sy had been thinking about adding one more kid to the Syverson bunch. He was the proud father of five rowdy boys, and said boys were a perfect mix however of the two of you.

As you were preparing dinner, Sy helped you out and the two of you looked through the window, so you could keep an eye on the five boys. 

‘Babe,’ he said, ‘can I ask you a question?’

‘Always,’ you said.

‘What would you say if we had another kid?’

It stayed silent from your side. He tried to read you, but he couldn’t get a definite answer. Were you opposed to the idea? Were you on board? 

He got nada.

‘Why?’ you asked him.

‘One more kid would make our family complete, don’t you think?’

‘A family of six kids?’ You let out a laugh. ‘That’s truly what you want?’

‘I’d love it, babe. You are so great with the boys and we always discussed we wanted a large family.’

You walked up to him, grabbing his face and gave him a kiss on his lips. ‘Well, if you can figure out a way to get the kids out of the house—in a responsible matter, mister Syverson—we’ll see what’s possible.’

˚ · • . ° .

He got the kids out of the house—responsibly—and after he took them to his momma’s place, he was quick to go back to your residence. It was a beautiful house, a place he had build when you were engaged. Back then, you were still stuck in a little apartment, but he and his builder friends put in a lot of effort to build your dream house.

And that dream house had a lot of bedrooms.

The two of you always wanted a big family. Just like you, Sy came from a family of one. Being only child had made the desire for a house filled with kids a lot bigger for you.

First you had your oldest Alexander, who is now eight years old. Second came twin boys Channing and Brady, who were now six years old. Then came number four Logan, who is four years old. And lastly, there was number five: baby Noah, who just turned two. They were all the sweetest boys, protective of their mother, desperate to become like their father, with their own special personality traits. 

Witnessing you be their mother, made Sy fall in love with you even more. Every time you got pregnant, he saw the changes of your body, he took care of you and watched you be a loving and doting mother to the five boys. Mischievous, sure, but they listened well to you.

Better than they did to Sy from time to time.

He closed the door behind him and found you in the living room, a sweet smile painted on your lips. ‘What’s up?’ you asked.

‘You really want us make a baby on the couch or you’d like to be comfortable on the bed?’

‘We would see what was possible, Sy,’ you laughed. ‘Which isn’t necessarily making a baby.’

He groaned. 

You made your way over to him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. ‘You want another baby?’

‘I’d love to.’

You chuckled. ‘Well, I’d love another one.’

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532 notities - Geplaatst 14 juli 2022

#3

Rich certified daddy in his late 40s early 50s!Henry Cavill x College student!fem reader

Summary: After the party was over on the yacht, Henry and you are about to have some more fun.

Wordcount: 1.2k

Warnings: unprotected sex, orgasms,

A/N: Once again: the coverpage might be consisting of skinny white girls, but this is the aesthetic I was going for. no worries: the reader is neutral when it comes to physical appearance. Also, I caved and wrote a part 2 (and a part 3 lol). Just a side note: going on a yacht with someone you barely know, at night as he sails it further off shore, isn't a very smart thing to do and I do not recommend doing it in real life. But for fictional sake: enjoy hehe

The lavish boat party had officially ended, however it only meant it was about to start for the two of you. Your friends had given you a thumbs up after they got on their jetski’s again, soaring off back to where they came from. The rest of the rich assemble left as well and Henry sailed the yacht to a secluded space. 

You stuck to him like velcro, unable to pull yourself away from the man. He was attractive, his aura was pleasant and in no way were you able to be further apart from him. He didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary even. You got to be at the helm, as he stood behind you, pressing kisses on top of your head, his hands wrapped around yours.

The sunset was amazing, the sky turned in a beautiful orange and pink color. You sat on the couch that covered the entire foredeck, as you stared over the slightly glimmering waters caused by the sun. Henry came down next to you, pushing some of your hairs from your face. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked you.

‘I love it,’ you admitted. ‘I wish I could stay here forever.’

‘Why can’t you?’

You rolled your eyes as you laughed. ‘Not everybody is filthy rich, Henry. I have school. It took me years before I finally had enough money to go here.’

Henry nodded. ‘Well, I can take you places,’ he said.

‘You barely know me,’ you whispered in a low tone.

‘I can get to know you,’ he said, pushing himself up. ‘Do you want us to get to know one another?’

Did the man who presumably looked like a millionaire want to get to know you? You nodded. ‘I would like that.’

It started off sweet. He pressed a short kiss on your lips, but you didn’t want to let go. Your hand was quickly placed on the back of his neck, pulling him closer for more. A deeper kiss. More intense. 

He parted his lips and your tongue evaded his mouth, all while he grabbed your leg, pulling you on his lap. You straddled his thick thighs, your fingers fumbling with the last few buttons of his shirt. You pushed the shirt over his shoulders, before he threw it on the floor. 

Your kisses became hungrier and you couldn’t stop your hips from grinding against his groin, earning you some grunts from his side. 

’Take off your clothes,’ he said. ‘Now.’

You stepped off his lap and though it felt kinda strange to shred yourself from your clothes as you were out in the open, you still took the risk. The waters were quiet, not a soul in sight, so you felt like you could do it. You dropped your bikini and the short to the floor. He licked his lips in anticipation and told you to lay on the soft couch. As you sat down and scooted back, he quickly undressed himself.

You would probably never get enough of a naked Henry. 

Having sex outside is something you had never done. Something you thought you’d never do. However, nothing had been normal about this entire day.

With Henry naked in between your legs, it appeared his hands were everywhere on your body, just like his soft lips were pressing kisses on every inch of skin of yours. 

It didn’t appear he could get enough of you either, managing to push you over the edge time after time, using his mouth and his fingers, before he finally slid his hard cock in between your tight walls.

Your eyes slightly hooded, as you were drowning in with pleasure, all because of the magic that is Henry. 

He placed his hand gently over your mouth, a clear indication that—no matter how vacant it was—you were way too loud. 

 ‘Quiet now, baby,’ he whispered, ‘think they can almost hear you back at your hotel.’

You nodded, but you couldn’t stop your moans. Not anymore. He plunged his thick length deep inside of you and you were a whining mess, squirming underneath his frame.

He pulled his hand from your mouth, before kissing you roughly. You ran your fingers through his locks, when you were bucking up your hips to meet his thrusts. 

Your walls were tightly clenching around him, right before you came and squirted all over the large couch like mattress. 

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572 notities - Geplaatst 3 mei 2022

#2

Rich certified daddy in his late 40s early 50s!Henry Cavill x College student!fem reader

Summary: You were on your spring break and one day, you and your friends end up on a yacht and... the man who owns said yacht, is quite something.

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: fingering, eating out, sex, loud sex, doggy style, squirting, orgasms

A/N: I know the girls in the pictures are white, but these pictures had the sets I had in mind and i didn't want to make them black and white because that didn't fit the aesthetic. Please know that the reader in the rest of this drabble is totally neutral, as I didn't describe hair color, skin color, etc.

This was already the best time of your life. You were in your senior year of college and finally, you had found the time—and money—to be part of a real spring break. It was filled with booze, with dancing and all while wearing different types of bikini’s, matching it with cute flip-flops, shorts and skirts.

And now, you were sitting—totally illegal and in the wrong attire—on a jet ski with your friends, all soaring over the waters. You screamed in excitement. This was so much fun. You were far of shore, however closing in on a yacht. You slowed down your jet ski and looked up. It appeared to be a party on there. Your friends and the jet ski’s were making quite the tumultuous noise, causing the guests to look over the railing, down at you. They seemed fancy and a few guys were talking to someone else, clearly eager to get your friends on board. 

They managed to succeed. Three guys helped the four of you with making sure the jet ski’s won’t drift away and after you left your dirty flip flops on the bottom of the stairs, you and your friends made your way to where the real party happened.

It wasn’t the booze fest you had been part of for the last few days. It was fancier in everything. The music, the drinks and the appetizers. You were almost afraid that what you wore screamed “tacky spring breaker”.

Your friends all gained the utmost attention of the three guys who had helped you all on the yacht. Their loafers were probably worth more than your monthly rent. 

To say you were feeling slightly out of place was a gross understatement. You grabbed something to drink and plopped on a very fancy lounge like couch. You took a sip, when you heard someone clearing their throat next to you.

There was someone sitting next to you? You had totally missed that, as you were drowning in self pity. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said, looking to your side only to make eye contact with the most handsome man you had ever seen. In between his brown hairs, were streaks of grey. His bright eyes looked intense. He wore a white blouse, however it was totally unbuttoned, revealing a hairy and broad chest. His shorts appeared way too expensive and unlike the other male party goers, he was bare foot. 

His face showed some signs of maturity and you thought he was in his forties, pushing the fifties, but it was still evident how gorgeous he was. 

You were at a loss of words. He had some whiskey in a glass and brought it to his lips. 

‘Was someone else sitting here?’ you asked.

He shook his head. ‘It’s all good, doll.’

You felt your face heating up at the sudden nickname. You took a sip of your drink and plucked your pink short, that matched your bikini. 

‘Spring break?’ he then asked.

You chuckled. ‘What gave it away? The atrocious outfit or the stench of beer and booze?’

He smirked and he looked so handsome doing so. ‘You look too colorful.’

You nodded. ‘Is this your yacht?’

‘Correct.’

‘So you’re like really rich.’

‘Something like that,’ he said. 

‘You’re kind of a cliché,’ you told him, which caused him to be interested. ‘Whiskey, a yacht, an unbuttoned blouse, handsome. The only thing that misses, is a cigar.’

‘I’ve got some downstairs,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m a walking cliché.’

‘How unoriginal.’

You discovered the handsome rich man was named Henry and he was a real looker. You hated how gorgeous he was, but what you loved about him, was that he was approachable. 

You started to sit closer and closer to him, up to a moment where you were seated on his lap, your legs draped to his left side, his large hand resting on your thigh, toying with the bottom of your short. He brought the glass to your lips, allowing you to take a sip of his whiskey, but it was so strong and not at all what you loved.

Especially not after those nearly sickening sweet drinks you had all those days. 

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729 notities - Geplaatst 22 april 2022

Mijn #1-bericht van 2022

Henry Cavill x fem!reader

Summary: During your job as a hotel maid, you walk in the hotel room, not ready for what you’re about the encounter: the hot actor Henry Cavill, who is masturbating

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: mentions of male masturbation and blowjobs and obviously male orgasms xx

You took this job, because you needed the money. There were only a few upsides to this job and fun wasn’t one of it. Time spend cleaning up, was mostly spend listening to music, as you did what you had to do: clean up.

With your AirPods plugged in your ears, you bring the card to the reader and the door unlocks for you. This was the final room for your shift and you wanted it to be over with real bad. 

You made your way inside, closing the door behind you, your hands full of cleaning supplies. Your cart had given up on you at the beginning of the shift and because there was no spare, this ought to do it for now. 

It was a quick clean up, no changing bed sheets so for that you forever grateful. You walk further into the room, before your eyes fall on something totally unexpected.

You let out a loud scream, when you realize and can finally comprehend what you had just seen: Henry Cavill—the actor Henry Cavill—naked on his bed, whilst masturbating. You stumble back, trip over the little trash bin, while he also lets out a scream, covering himself up, maintaining some of his modesty. 

He is huge, you think to yourself. They weren’t lying when they called his precious package the kraken. Oh gosh.

‘I’m so sorry, mister Cavill,’ you say, desperate to find your AirPod after it fell on the floor. ‘I thought I had to clean the room. There was so sign on it to tell me otherwise.’

He has yet to say something else, however you can’t get the Superman sized manhood you just saw out of your mind. Finally you find your earphone, before you try to collect your cleaning supplies that has scattered all over the floor. 

You had to look him in the eye eventually, right?

‘I apologize,’ he says, ‘for neglecting to put a sign on the door.’

You stand up and despite trying not to look, you couldn’t help but notice that bulge coming from underneath the blankets and as of right now, you have difficulties mainting a professional facade.

Besides: you are a wet and horny mess as we speak.

Moments go by where the two of you aren’t saying anything. The only thing you can hear, is his deep breaths and your own heartbeat. ‘I should go,’ you say, though you do not take a step. Your mind is wandering and you even find yourself thinking: This is how porn starts.

You’re not making it better for yourself. 

And then something changes in his eyes. Shame turns into lust. Humiliation turns into desire. 

Who is going to take the first step? 

‘You need help?’ 

Apparently you’re taking the first step. You cannot believe that question just left your lips. You honestly asked The Henry Cavill if he needs help? Maybe you’ve watched too much porn, to think a question like that can just leave your lips without people being freaked out.

Before however you can say something alone the lines of never mind, I’ll just go and never come back, he says: ‘Sure.’

Okay, now you need to act like you’ve got this all under control. You’re good at blowjobs. You can give him that once in a lifetime blowjob. A core memory. Raise the bar for every bed partner that is to follow you. You place your AirPods on the desk and make your way over to him, dropping on your knees on the side of the bed, while he is sitting on the edge, feet planted next to you on both sides. 

‘Just don’t tell anyone,’ he says.

You shake your head, eager to take him in your mouth. ‘It’s our little secret,’ you whisper, before wrapping your lips around his cock. He slides deeper in your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat. However, nothing fazes you. Much to his own surprise, you manage to take him all in, your nose hitting his pubes and he lets out the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard.

You squeeze your legs together, desperate for some friction. 

‘Good girl,’ Henry praises you and you physically were unable to stop the moan that escapes your lips. He hisses, taking a handful of your hair, slightly pulling you back, so forcing you to look at him. His eyes are slightly hooded, almost like he’s one step out of this world. 

You feel your jaw aching, however you do not give up. You are going to give this man the greatest blowjob he has ever had.

His breathing become more erratic, as you use your hand to pump the rest of his shaft. Judging from the most beautiful and hot sounds he makes—you’ll dream about it tonight probably—he is close. He bucks his hips up against you, as his seed fills your mouth. However, it catches you slightly off guard and the huge amount spills passed the corners of your mouth, mixed with your drool from your chin to your chest. You swallow what is left in your mouth and when you want to catch a breath, Henry leans over, planting his lips firmly on yours, not caring that his own semen is smeared on your lips as well. 

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743 notities - Geplaatst 26 april 2022

Bekijk je jaaroverzicht van 2022 →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #smut does best hehe

[iammycharacter]

SHIT! I took a tma quiz on what entity I was and without thinking I mentioned it to my brother! Who isn’t even halfway through season 2!!! Aaaaa! Time to get to him to JURGEN LEITNER? STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING JURGEN LEITNER! GOD DAMN DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE WHORE! STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT JURGEN LEITNER! I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DID HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP BOOKS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT JUST SET THEM LOOSE IS HE DEAD IS HE A BASTARD MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL EFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS SHITTIEST BEARD GET AWAY FROM ME! if i wanted to get into heaven and god told me jurgen leitner was waiting inside i would piss on gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down. if i have to deal with jurgen leitner speaking one word in person on voice in podcast not only will i close the tab i will delete my bookmark out of spite and have to relisten to the whole thing to skip all the time he is mentioned or alive i dont even know why i hate him so much. he collects books but i am just mad because i am angy. better have had a book make him kill a man cuz if he didnt im going to make him paypal.com/ifuckinghatejurgenleitner episodes not even about vaguely mentions what is supposed to be his library and i lost it where the fuck is jurgen leiter if hes still alive i will so deeply wish he wasnt crustly ild man ill puch leitner and sad frail old man bones will simply flake apart under my huge meat fist and he will disentigrate until all that is left is one final book simply titled now you fucked up in ancient yiddish im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point i hope theres a date given for when jurgen dies or will die so i can make it a reminder on my phone everyday once a year i will see it and do anything hut pay respects to the man who had so many fucked up if true books s MOTHER FUCKER I FORGOT I HAD AUTOCORRECT ON

Anyhow. I need to get him to finish season two so mentions of the entities are allowed

#tma #the magnus archives #jurgen leitener #I got the spiral on my quiz

[wholeshebangs]

cloak and dagger

( these are two scenes i wrote... 4-3 years ago? for a harringrove witcher au i was working on with @aggressiveviking during the beginning of covid. i didn’t want these to keep gathering dust in my docs so, i’m turning them into a drabble here.

the one where billy is a witcher and steve is the missing noble he needs to bring back home. )

First, he hears the steady beating of his own heart, then the crackling of a campfire.

When Billy opens his eyes, bright specks fly over his face. Embers floating above the flames, soaring like fireflies in the dark.

His pupils shrink at the sight and – immediately, it makes way for a wave of nausea. It causes his stomach to churn, and his eyeballs to throb. Leaves him feeling a bit sick and pallid. The glowing warmth beside him heating the blood beneath his skin and seeping from it thick beads of sweat.

It doesn’t take him long to realize he’s just woken up from deep slumber. His memories are blurry. He can only wonder when exactly his consciousness went adrift. His bones feel heavy and his limbs are numb. And for a moment, he thinks his body is slowly sinking into the dirt below him.

His eyes grow wide, he draws in a gasp, and suddenly a far more pleasing sight welcomes him.

“You shouldn’t move,” Steven’s face is there, the sound of his voice ever so soothing. He hovers over Billy, hair messy and ungathered. His features are gentle, handsome, save for the new cut on his nose. “M’not sure if your wounds have healed yet.”

“Wounds?” Billy all but croaks like a lake frog. He’s then suddenly more aware, and despite what he’s told, he props himself up on his elbows with a groan, desperate to get a look of their surroundings; just a bunch of fuckin’ trees and a small clearing. “What happened?”

Steven is there again to push him back, canteen in hand. He frowns. “Don’t you remember? Thought we were huntin’ for a foglet on the prowl. Turned out it’d been dead all along. A taller, much ugly bastard knocked you out cold. Didn’t value my life enough to flee.”

Billy stares at him, because Steven looks, well, not any worse than he feels. “What’d ye do?”

Steven shrugs and answers simply. “I killed it.”

“What?”

Billy figures he deserves the cold glare he receives in return. Steven purses his lips, a wrinkle growing in the space between his eyebrows. He’s never been one to enjoy being underestimated. “You had some sort of concoction on you. Threw it at ‘em and the fucker blew right up. Wasn’t pretty.” Steven isn’t very delicate in the way he pushes the canteen against Billy’s lips, but Billy drinks up anyway. His throat feels better already. “Decided to keep the head like you do, hang it up on my steed, and I must say, looks rather… morbid but the satisfaction is still rewarding.”

Right as Steven says this, Billy turns to their horses. They’re both standing together, chewing on the grass. His own carries a griffin’s head, and Steven’s -- “An ekimmara.”

“Hm.”

Steven doesn’t sound at all like he even knows what the creature actually is, a fact Billy almost finds impressive if not amusing. Its head hangs there, still fresh, oozing with blood and staining its white beard a nasty red. They are ugly. And Steven just… cut its head off like that.

What catches his attention the most is that he remains here, by Billy’s side. He’s been watching over him, tending to his wounds, eating the remains of their fuckin’ trail mix, Billy’s guessing.

He does look exhausted though. Hungry. Didn’t value my life enough to flee, Steven had said, acknowledging that he could have ran, but didn’t.

While Billy’s too conflicted to say anything, Steven unfolds the bandages he’d apparently wrapped around his torso. It is then that Billy notices the heavier parts of his armor had been removed. His skin has already scarred. “You’re lucky your kind don’t die easy,” Steven says.

But his kind do. His kind get the flu and die within a week. His kind get lost and never return. And he stayed long enough to blow a monster up. Long enough to boast about it.

Could’da ran and hid where Billy wouldn’t find him again.

Billy’s face drops. “Are ye hurt?”

Steven looks up at him, seemingly taken aback. He shakes his head and nibbles at his bottom lip. “Nearly shit my trousers and lost my bloody hearin’ for you but I’m good.”

Billy feels it, the itch of what could’ve been a laugh at the base of his throat. He likes Steven’s character.

But that slight resemblance of a grin soon falters. Steven’s fingertips brush over his abdomen, gingerly, tracing the scars that reach his navel. Billy figures he must be taking a last look. Surely, with no ulterior motive. It is Billy who draws in a breath and holds it in, not Steven.

There’s a pause that indicates hesitation. Billy’s eyelashes flutter, his skin burns up, and he waits. Stares at the hand that’s giving him a heated thrill. Stares until the red against pale skin leads his thoughts elsewhere.

“Yer bleedin’.”

When he looks up, he notices Steven’s cheeks have gone rosy. It catches him off guard for only a second. “It’s nothing,” Steven grumbles, pulls his hand away almost immediately and stands, hair askew. “I need a wash. There’s a river nearby.”

“Steven –”

“I’ll be back,” Steven gives him that authoritative look that always shuts Billy up, but it is somehow also reassuring. Enough that Billy deflates. “I shouldn't take too long, and you can look after yourself.”

“That’s not why I worry.”

“I know.”

Steven doesn’t give him a chance to answer. He turns on his heels and leaves, back to Billy, clothes so dark he blends in with the trees once the fire’s glow no longer reaches him. Billy focuses on his senses only so he can hear where Steven runs off to, catches the sound of a steady stream and of rippling water and realizes Steven wasn’t lying after all.

He feels foolish, embarrassed even. He doesn’t know whether to blame himself or Steven for having done it before.

One of the horses huff, and when Billy looks, Steven’s steed has a dark stare fixed on him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” It doesn’t look away either. “Stop.”

It troubles him when he wonders who trusts the other more. Most days he doesn’t know what to make of the things Steven does and says. Perhaps he ponders too much on it, too unused to being seen as something other than a mutant freak. He’s not quite sure why he continues to entertain the thought that Steven isn’t them, the people who spit on the ground Billy walks on and that throw their coins at his feet when he finishes the job.

He looks to where Steven took off, takes a deep breath and decides he too longs for a wash.

~

When the sky grows dark and the dim light of the sun fails to pierce the billow of fog just ahead, on the other side of the horizon, the moon rises. Tonight, it will be full, and it will mark another day where his future seems more uncertain. He doubts even an old seer would have anything good to say about his fortune. For the deadline was due a month ago and their path was still long. They’ve just gotten to the Crossroads. Novigrad was perhaps another full moon away as well.

It will also count as another day where Steven still hasn’t made it back home. Billy wonders if Steven would even want that. Or if he'd stay, in the end. Once, that kind of setting fit him like a glove. But now?

"–the poor old sod gots this look in his eyes. He's sweatin' down to his knickers, shakin' in his boots and everything. Over a ladle. Can you imagine? I've won many things over a round of cards. But a ladle? Oh. And not just any ladle," Now Billy wonders how Steven’s parents would react to a story like this. He can imagine a banquet, a feast across one of those big, long tables, with proper rich guests hearing a nobleman’s son boast about how he won a round of gwent to some old bastard in Oreton.

"A golden ladle. Made stews and whatnot taste different, he said. I myself learned to settle for roasted wild dogs, but I couldn't turn down a good challenge. I won the damn thing too, you know. Looked mighty fine held up in the sun. Didn't do shit with it though. Lost it one night I got much too drunk. I wonder what happened to it..."

Billy doesn’t know what to say, so he only offers, “My condolences,” and gets a somewhat amused look from Steven. “Can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose an item so valuable.”

If Steven notices the thick sarcasm in his voice, he doesn’t show it. “And I never got to have a bowl of stew stirred with a golden ladle. Shame.” As an afterthought, he adds, “I’ve eaten gold flakes off a tart once though.”

Billy frowns. “Did it taste any different?”

A breeze blows over Steven’s loose string of hair, before he answers, “Nah, not really.” He fiddles with the reins in his hands some. “Emptyin’ my bowels however--”

“Please shut up.”

Steven grins wide, snickers loudly, before they fall silent once again. They’re both tired, worn down to the bone. Steven no longer sits straight and proud over his steed like usual, but he hunches over him, running a soothing hand over the horse’s neck every now and again. The beast huffs louder now, flares its nostrils like a hunting hound.

"We should stay here the night." At this, Steven only hums, a throaty sound that makes Billy’s mouth water. Steven’s eyelids are heavy, his lips wet from licking, he thinks. The weather is cold, the air dry. His lips must be getting chapped. And perhaps Billy must be thinking about them for too long, because Steven turns to look at him like he’s gone mad. “You must be tired.”

Steven squints a bit, then goes, “What about you? Not gonna’ meditate again, are you? It’s so boring.”

“Ugh, stop complaining.” Billy has yet to understand why this bothers the other so much. “Yer not meant to watch. Nothing fascinating will happen if you stare long enough.”

Steven just shrugs, turns to face ahead, where the village has become clearer to the view. “Can’t sleep knowin’ you’re just sitting here. It’s awkward.”

“Uh-uh.”

The village isn’t boasting with people. The townsfolk must have gotten ready for bed. The cattle chew slowly on the grass, the poultry peck on the dirt. The candles glow from the other side of the windows, yet the village remains quiet. There’s an old man with a dog sitting on a porch, watching. But the old man does not squint, and the old dog does not bark. They seem friendly, but looks can be deceiving, he’s learned.

The mud here is wetter than usual. The wind whistles. The sky is gray as the starry night takes over. It should rain soon enough. The misty weather would do nothing to him. Steven though, he gets sick like any other person.

“We keep to ourselves,” Billy starts, beginning to grow wary now that he’s certain his luck must be turning foul. He should have been back with Steven weeks ago. “No blabbering or nothin’ with anyone. No playing cards with strangers–”

But not to anyone’s surprise, or to his own really, Steven isn’t listening. He isn’t even next to Billy. He stopped his horse to read the frayed notice board.

They shouldn’t be taking contracts anymore. Steve knows this. Billy’s been in a hurry since he first left Novigrad.

However, the closer he inches to Steven, the more cautious he grows. Because he’s staring at something, expression somber. He looks upset, almost. And when Billy takes a look himself –

It’s one of those missing posters he’d seen some time ago before he found Steven, where he’s younger and doesn’t look much like he does now. The sketch is rougher than the one Billy keeps, with thinner lines and little details. It’s still Steven though, even if the paper is weathered and yellow. His eyes look sadder in this one. Shinier even. It’s almost like the artist wanted people to feel pity.

Billy wouldn’t have thought those posters would make it this far into the area. He wonders if the villagers here even know who this boy is, or was.

“They looked for me,” Steven all but whispers. Billy guesses he must be referring to his parents. It’s a bit of an awkward predicament. He doesn’t like the solemn tone in Steven’s voice.

“Of course they did,” As far as comforting words go, he doesn’t seem to do so well. Steven’s face grows a bit more sour. “Yer their son after all. They sent me looking for you for a reason.”

“Would’da expected it from mother,” Steven comments, shoulders falling. “But father…”

Billy doesn’t have many great things to say about Steven’s father. Man’s a bit of a flaccid prick. But mothers always lose their wits when their children go missing. “You disappeared without a trace. ‘Twas to be expected.”

Steven doesn’t answer. He stares at the poster, like the sight of himself as a young lad strikes him wrong.

“Come,” Billy calls, kicking his own horse so that it moves a few steps ahead. “It’s getting dark.”

“Wait.”

Boy’s got eyes almost as good as his own. The notice board is littered with all kinds of papers and contracts, like the people couldn’t be damned to keep them in order anymore. There’s one nailed over another yellowy poster, too. Steven reaches out, rips it away, and pauses.

“Oh,” His big eyes grow wider. Billy feels his face and ears grow hot. “Oh! Uilleim – they got you all sorts of wrong. Take a look at this!”

Billy doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly what the fuck it is. He saw it from the peripheral of his eyes. He’s avoiding having to look at it, but Steven’s shoving it in his face as their horses bump together, suddenly lacking the concept of personal space.

Steven all but guffaws. It’s loud, so loud. That old man he spotted with the dog turns to look at them. “Steven –”

“By the Gods, man, what did they do to you?” It’s very fitting for him to point everyone to the wanted man. Because, it’s a Wanted poster, offering a considerable prize for Billy’s head. The scars look worse than how they actually are, deeper and rougher. His eyes? He looks like a fucking lizard in this. He doesn’t remember his eyebrows ever looking that neglected. And he knows he looks healthier than that. “Ya look like you missed a month’s worth of rations. A skinny fellow, like those bandits on the road! Remember that thin, shit-eating twat from Condyle?”

“Could you–” Billy has little luck swatting the poster away from Steven’s hands. When Billy stiffens and glares, Steven holds the poster up again to compare. He wheezes.

“They did you no justice. You’re far more handsome than this,” Flattering, except the jest doesn’t seem so funny when it means Steven’s father is quite literally out for his blood. Steven’s eyes water like he’s seeing something so hilarious his bladder may burst. “You look like a basilisk.”

“If you don’t hand over that poster right now I will rip yer guts out,” He has no such luck. Steven’s never been afraid of him. Any other day he would’ve found that endearing. Today though? “Steven.”

“Can I keep it?”

“What–” Billy scowls. “No.”

“If I leave it here the others might spot ya,” At this, Steven pauses. “I don’t think they’ll be able to tell it’s you actually. Not with their gawkers.”

Billy can’t tell if he feels embarrassed, angry, or humiliated. He’s tired however. He doesn’t want to spend all night trying to take that horrendous piece of work off Steven’s greedy hands. “If you show it to anyone–”

“What?” Steven gives him a daring look, as if this were even the time. “You’ll fight me?”

Billy glowers at him. “I’ll show them this.”

He feels and thinks he sounds ridiculous. ‘Cause he actually likes the sketch of Steven he kept. The one where he wears his noble clothes, where his hair is style, where his eyes are kind and almost soothing. But to Steven this is embarrassing, shameful, and he turns bright red at the sight of it. His little bully act? It falters. He looks horrified even. “Mother made me sit down for hours so the painter could finish that,” He’s sharing this memory like it’s the most awful experience he’s ever gone through. “My ass hurt after.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to hurt more if you don’t shut it.” It’s not the choice of words he meant to choose. Steven stammers to say something; Billy tries not to think of the hotness in his own face. He needs to be able to meditate later. “Let’s go.”

Steven follows, though with little enthusiasm. “You’re a bore,” Billy rolls his eyes. “I don’t find your quick wit amusing anymore.”

“Hey,” Billy turns back to the inn. “Feelin’s mutual.”

#witcher au #in which steve's name is steven von heitan #and billy's is uilleim #i tried to edit this a little but i was too lazy to revamp the whole thing #i also need to mention that i spent an awful amount of time studying the accents in game #so that steve's and billy's would match the region they come from #so #billy quite literally has a scottish accent #while steve just sounds like a chav lmao #harringrove #my writing #i feel like there's more somewhere

[oathkeeperoathbreaker]

“The talk is, your uncle is too long away.” Jon remembered the wish he’d wished in his anger, the vision of Benjen Stark dead in the snow, and he looked away quickly. The dwarf had a way of sensing things, and Jon did not want him to see the guilt in his eyes. “He said he’d be back by my name day,” he admitted. His name day had come and gone, unremarked, a fortnight past. “They were looking for Ser Waymar Royce, his father is bannerman to Lord Arryn. Uncle Benjen said they might search as far as the Shadow Tower. That’s all the way up in the mountains.” “I hear that a good many rangers have vanished of late,” Lannister said as they mounted the steps to the common hall. He grinned and pulled open the door. “Perhaps the grumkins are hungry this year.” Inside, the hall was immense and drafty, even with a fire roaring in its great hearth. Crows nested in the timbers of its lofty ceiling. Jon heard their cries overhead as he accepted a bowl of stew and a heel of black bread from the day’s cooks. Grenn and Toad and some of the others were seated at the bench nearest the warmth, laughing and cursing each other in rough voices. Jon eyed them thoughtfully for a moment. Then he chose a spot at the far end of the hall, well away from the other diners. Tyrion Lannister sat across from him, sniffing at the stew suspiciously. “Barley, onion, carrot,” he muttered. “Someone should tell the cooks that turnip isn’t a meat.” “It’s mutton stew.” Jon pulled off his gloves and warmed his hands in the steam rising from the bowl. The smell made his mouth water. “Snow.” Jon knew Alliser Thorne’s voice, but there was a curious note in it that he had not heard before. He turned. “The Lord Commander wants to see you. Now.” For a moment Jon was too frightened to move. Why would the Lord Commander want to see him? They had heard something about Benjen, he thought wildly, he was dead, the vision had come true. “Is it my uncle?” he blurted. “Is he returned safe?” “The Lord Commander is not accustomed to waiting,” was Ser Alliser’s reply. “And I am not accustomed to having my commands questioned by bastards.” Tyrion Lannister swung off the bench and rose. “Stop it, Thorne. You’re frightening the boy.” “Keep out of matters that don’t concern you, Lannister. You have no place here.” “I have a place at court, though,” the dwarf said, smiling. “A word in the right ear, and you’ll die a sour old man before you get another boy to train. Now tell Snow why the Old Bear needs to see him. Is there news of his uncle?” “No,” Ser Alliser said. “This is another matter entirely. A bird arrived this morning from Winterfell, with a message that concerns his brother.” He corrected himself. “His half brother.” “Bran,” Jon breathed, scrambling to his feet. “Something’s happened to Bran.” Tyrion Lannister laid a hand on his arm. “Jon,” he said. “I am truly sorry.” Jon scarcely heard him. He brushed off Tyrion’s hand and strode across the hall. He was running by the time he hit the doors. He raced to the Commander’s Keep, dashing through drifts of old snow. When the guards passed him, he took the tower steps two at a time. By the time he burst into the presence of the Lord Commander, his boots were soaked and Jon was wild-eyed and panting. “Bran,” he said. “What does it say about Bran?” Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, was a gruff old man with an immense bald head and a shaggy grey beard. He had a raven on his arm, and he was feeding it kernels of corn. “I am told you can read.” He shook the raven off, and it flapped its wings and flew to the window, where it sat watching as Mormont drew a roll of paper from his belt and handed it to Jon. “Corn,” it muttered in a raucous voice. “Corn, corn.” Jon’s finger traced the outline of the direwolf in the white wax of the broken seal. He recognized Robb’s hand, but the letters seemed to blur and run as he tried to read them. He realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he found the sense in the words, and raised his head. “He woke up,” he said. “The gods gave him back.” “Crippled,” Mormont said. “I’m sorry, boy. Read the rest of the letter.” He looked at the words, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Bran was going to live. “My brother is going to live,” he told Mormont. The Lord Commander shook his head, gathered up a fistful of corn, and whistled. The raven flew to his shoulder, crying, “Live! Live!” Jon ran down the stairs, a smile on his face and Robb’s letter in his hand. “My brother is going to live,” he told the guards. They exchanged a look. He ran back to the common hall, where he found Tyrion Lannister just finishing his meal. He grabbed the little man under the arms, hoisted him up in the air, and spun him around in a circle. “Bran is going to live!” he whooped. Lannister looked startled. Jon put him down and thrust the paper into his hands. “Here, read it,” he said. Others were gathering around and looking at him curiously. Jon noticed Grenn a few feet away. A thick woolen bandage was wrapped around one hand. He looked anxious and uncomfortable, not menacing at all. Jon went to him. Grenn edged backward and put up his hands. “Stay away from me now, you bastard.” Jon smiled at him. “I’m sorry about your wrist. Robb used the same move on me once, only with a wooden blade. It hurt like seven hells, but yours must be worse. Look, if you want, I can show you how to defend that.” Alliser Thorne overheard him. “Lord Snow wants to take my place now.” He sneered. “I’d have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs.” “I’ll take that wager, Ser Alliser,” Jon said. “I’d love to see Ghost juggle.” Jon heard Grenn suck in his breath, shocked. Silence fell. Then Tyrion Lannister guffawed. Three of the black brothers joined in from a nearby table. The laughter spread up and down the benches, until even the cooks joined in. The birds stirred in the rafters, and finally even Grenn began to chuckle. Ser Alliser never took his eyes from Jon. As the laughter rolled around him, his face darkened, and his sword hand curled into a fist. “That was a grievous error, Lord Snow,” he said at last in the acid tones of an enemy.

Jon III, A GAME OF THRONES

Through the door came the soft sound of the high harp, mingled with a trilling of pipes. The singer’s voice was muffled by the thick walls, yet Tyrion knew the verse. I loved a maid as fair as summer, he remembered, with sunlight in her hair . . . Ser Meryn Trant guarded the queen’s door this night. His muttered “My lord” struck Tyrion as a tad grudging, but he opened the door nonetheless. The song broke off abruptly as he strode into his sister’s bedchamber. Cersei was reclining on a pile of cushions. Her feet were bare, her golden hair artfully tousled, her robe a green-and-gold samite that caught the light of the candles and shimmered as she looked up. “Sweet sister,” Tyrion said, “how beautiful you look tonight.” He turned to the singer. “And you as well, cousin. I had no notion you had such a lovely voice.” The compliment made Ser Lancel sulky; perhaps he thought he was being mocked. It seemed to Tyrion that the lad had grown three inches since being knighted. Lancel had thick sandy hair, green Lannister eyes, and a line of soft blond fuzz on his upper lip. At sixteen, he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome. His recent elevation had only made him worse. “Did Her Grace send for you?” the boy demanded. “Not that I recall,” Tyrion admitted. “It grieves me to disturb your revels, Lancel, but as it happens, I have matters of import to discuss with my sister.” Cersei regarded him suspiciously. “If you are here about those begging brothers, Tyrion, spare me your reproaches. I won’t have them spreading their filthy treasons in the streets. They can preach to each other in the dungeons.” “And count themselves lucky that they have such a gentle queen,” added Lancel. “I would have had their tongues out.” “One even dared to say that the gods were punishing us because Jaime murdered the rightful king,” Cersei declared. “It will not be borne, Tyrion. I gave you ample opportunity to deal with these lice, but you and your Ser Jacelyn did nothing, so I commanded Vylarr to attend to the matter.” “And so he did.” Tyrion had been annoyed when the red cloaks had dragged a half dozen of the scabrous prophets down to the dungeons without consulting him, but they were not important enough to battle over. “No doubt we will all be better off for a little quiet in the streets. That is not why I came. I have tidings I know you will be anxious to hear, sweet sister, but they are best spoken of privily.” “Very well.” The harpist and the piper bowed and hurried out, while Cersei kissed her cousin chastely on the cheek. “Leave us, Lancel. My brother’s harmless when he’s alone. If he’d brought his pets, we’d smell them.” The young knight gave his cousin a baleful glance and pulled the door shut forcefully behind him. “I’ll have you know I make Shagga bathe once a fortnight,” Tyrion said when he was gone. “You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t you? Why?” “Why not?” Tyrion said. Every day, every night, hammers rang along the Street of Steel, and the great chain grew longer. He hopped up onto the great canopied bed. “Is this the bed where Robert died? I’m surprised you kept it.” “It gives me sweet dreams,” she said. “Now spit out your business and waddle away, Imp.” Tyrion smiled. “Lord Stannis has sailed from Dragonstone.” Cersei bolted to her feet. “And yet you sit there grinning like a harvest-day pumpkin? Has Bywater called out the City Watch? We must send a bird to Harrenhal at once.” He was laughing by then. She seized him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop it. Are you mad, or drunk? Stop it!” It was all he could do to get out the words. “I can’t,” he gasped. “It’s too . . . gods, too funny . . . Stannis . . .” “What?” “He hasn’t sailed against us,” Tyrion managed. “He’s laid siege to Storm’s End. Renly is riding to meet him.” His sister’s nails dug painfully into his arms. For a moment she stared incredulous, as if he had begun to gibber in an unknown tongue. “Stannis and Renly are fighting each other?” When he nodded, Cersei began to chuckle. “Gods be good,” she gasped, “I’m starting to believe that Robert was the clever one.” Tyrion threw back his head and roared. They laughed together. Cersei pulled him off the bed and whirled him around and even hugged him, for a moment as giddy as a girl. By the time she let go of him, Tyrion was breathless and dizzy. He staggered to her sideboard and put out a hand to steady himself. “Do you think it will truly come to battle between them? If they should come to some accord—” “They won’t,” Tyrion said. “They are too different and yet too much alike, and neither could ever stomach the other.” “And Stannis has always felt he was cheated of Storm’s End,” Cersei said thoughtfully. “The ancestral seat of House Baratheon, his by rights . . . if you knew how many times he came to Robert singing that same dull song in that gloomy aggrieved tone he has. When Robert gave the place to Renly, Stannis clenched his jaw so tight I thought his teeth would shatter.” “He took it as a slight.” “It was meant as a slight,” Cersei said. “Shall we raise a cup to brotherly love?” “Yes,” she answered, breathless. “Oh, gods, yes.” His back was to her as he filled two cups with sweet Arbor red. It was the easiest thing in the world to sprinkle a pinch of fine powder into hers. “To Stannis!” he said as he handed her the wine. Harmless when I’m alone, am I? “To Renly!” she replied, laughing. “May they battle long and hard, and the Others take them both!” Is this the Cersei that Jaime sees? When she smiled, you saw how beautiful she was, truly. I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. He almost felt sorry for poisoning her.

Tyrion VI, A CLASH OF KINGS

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #tyrion lannister #jon snow #cersei lannister #comradery of a different sort and unlikely allies... #but which is which?

[metalliceyepoker]

Forgot I wrote this. Throwing it into the void. Short drabble.

Karl Heisenberg x Male oc (guess who.)

Hunter's brother, code name Lumber, is not having a good time. After the Village incident, the group decides to 'lay low' and decide their next move. The problem is, Lumber cannot stand his new housemates. Another late night phone call ensues.

"-yeah it's crazy. One time I got so hammered, woke up next day just fucking dying, couldn't even keep water down what with someone throwing their cricket bat around in my skull, so tried to find something to help with that. Then lo and behold. The bathroom cabinet is fresh outta any and all sorts of pain medicine. Obviously there was only one logical explanation so I went straight to my bro's room. Should've thought twice.

___

Call recording #85

Walked in on during their heated mating session. For lack of better words, yeah, nono, you don't get it. No one in their right mind would look at that and say they getting it on. The guy really chomped down on that neck-shoulder juncture. Good aim too, or should I say shit aim? Maybe he was going for a kill? Anyway, was pretty sure he didn't hit any major veins but ho-oly shit.

The blood, man. Teeth were just in so deep I thought the guy tore a chunk out. Then that maniac just looked at me. His name was Karl something. Think it was german. So this 'Karl', shooting some venom-laced daggers with those laser eyes I mean. Clearly wasn't too amused how I trespassed and disturbed their 'quality time' together. Didn't even break off, I just kept staring because honestly, didn't know fuck all that was unfolding before my eyes, and guess he didn't like that. Cuz he bit down harder. And you know what? My bro just growled back at him. Like he's living a time of his life. While he's probably a few seconds away from getting his throat torn off.

You know the worst part? That hulking thing opened his mouth and the blood just gushed out from all the punctured holes. Strings of blood stuck to his tongue, stretching out like when you take Mac n cheese out of microwave and take a scoop, and the cheese just hangs like spider webs. Then he licked his teeth clean. Damn man. Straight outta horror movie. While looking straight into my eyes, no less. My brother's back like canvas, someone could slap a 'raining red' as a title on it and sell it out to an auction.

Come to think of it, don't people die from that shit? I know we are genetically different or something but losing that much blood can't be good for anyone, right? The sheet underneath him was completely soaked.

I've seen some crazy stuff in my life but hell. No, goddamn it, that ain't no regular biter. You can't just call it a bit freaky and move on! I still can't decide if that was an actual assault or my brother being so horny he's lost it finally.

That old guy, lower half of his face was just dark red. His beard was matted and the blood kept dripping from it. And after that shark grin, I didn't even know I took a few steps back, and that bastard slammed a door in my face with his power. Oh yeah, he's a real life magneto, ever told you that? Real doozy. I told him I taught my dear brother how to pickpocket and he threw my lighter at me. The one I keep in my inner pocket. All made sense when I learned he can be a human magnet.

Anyway, after that, I said never mind the pounding headache and the need to carve my intestines out or throw them all up into sink. Because I wasn't as concerned as before. Fuck. No, I was concerned that I had to get the blood off of all the linen, then I said, fuck that, I ain't cleaning up that crime scene, and then went to wash down my gullet with more alcohol.

Because, what do you expect after that? It was 10:30, you know how much I hate daylight, and yet I chose to drive all the way to the mart, showering in sweat, so I can fill my cart with six-packs. Everyone was just staring at me like they wanted to give me a number for AA or something.

You know, after all the missions, you'd think I've grown an immunity to all the nasty shit, but my brother's nothing short of a limit-breaker.

I didn't go back. Just crashed at my friend's place. Bribed him with beer, never fails. Went back next day, that little fuck had the decency to cover up the marks with probably all the dressings we had, and the house is not in flames. And that hobo guy? Kept grinning at me creepily during the entire time I was standing there making my morning joe.

Fuck him. Actually, poor word choice. Do not fuck him. I might be a masochist and am proud to say that, but that guy will straight up murder you. My brother's hooked, tho. Damn him. I taught him good but didn't know my self destructive tendency would rub off like that. On the other hand...it kiiinda makes..sense? One homicidal maniac attracted another. A match made in literal hell.

Buy some aspirin and tylenol on your way here, will you. Yes, Dave, it really is that bad, I couldn't sleep for days because of all the horrible noises that were clearly not from sex. There's no way. 2 days ago that motherfucker EMP bombed the whole house. This is a new phone. I made a goddamn portable Faraday cage to put it in.

I need a drinking buddy, aight? Oh shit wait-"

...

Crash-thump

Vague screeching noises

...

...

Booming laughter

Incoherent shouting

...

...

...

"..................yeah you know what. I'll go there. Where you at. Nah I ain't spending a second more in this place with those unhinged men. Help out a friend, will ya? Oh same place? Good. I'll be in 20-no. 10 mins. Be there soon."

End of recording

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #lord karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x male oc #the iron steed #the hunter #the woodsman #code name: hunter #code name: lumber #my writing #writing practice