#there are so many pictures where the men look unnaturally smooth

[francis-ford-kofola]

Is it just me or are the men on tumblr getting smoother and less wrinkly?

#is it like a new filter that everybody started using or what? #there are so many pictures where the men look unnaturally smooth #it's kinda unsettling

[bitch-butter]

hello! can i request "You didn't do anything wrong, there's nothing to apologize for" for any ship of your choosing? or any AU you want? i just really love how your writing flows, it's so cohesive-- don't take this the wrong way but like. i adore sitting down and actually analyzing your stuff structurally? seeing how it works and weaves together to make a whole just makes the shriveled up eng lit major inside me really happy.

w o o f this one ran away from me a little bit, it incorporates some Things I was thinking of re: forgiveness/webgott last month, and it's bit different than pure H/C but I hope you find something to like in it! Thank you for your lovely compliment~

Yes, it's webgott bc i am chained to The Rhythm

4. "You didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing to apologize for."

He cleared the drawer once more, eyes scanning into its dark corners for any sign of a missed sock, undershirt, some hidden treasure that he had many years ago deemed worthy of being put in the back of the underwear drawer. Raising his brows, Joe shook his head at himself as he closed it resolutely, tossing his bounty into his pack and stuffing the top with the sack that contained his bathroom shit.

Even remembering the days he used to be able to leave the house with just his keys made him want to sigh like a goddamn cow in the summertime. Now he needs the bag, the car, and Web just to go across the bay.

Speak of the devil, Web padded into the bedroom with his usual September expression: weary, exhilarated, slightly frustrated. Wordlessly, he crossed past Joe to the bed and slumped face-first onto it with a groan.

“Done?” Joe questioned, zipping up the bag.

Making a soft grunt of a sound, Web curled his arms around his head. “Done,” he said, face mashed against the bed.

“Well, get to it,” Joe said, stepping over to land a light smack against Web’s ass and grinning at the outraged whine he got in response. “Don’t want to be late,” he tossed over his shoulder as he stepped back out to the hall, making for the kitchen.

Even out here he can hear the sound Web makes, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “I’ve changed my mind!”

“No you didn’t!” Joe called back, grabbing the butter left on the counter and shoving it in the fridge, letting his eyes make one final sweep around the kitchen. “If you don’t show your reputation won’t ever recover.”

“Your mother loves me,” Web toned, and Joe couldn’t help a snicker as he moved through the hall back to the bedroom, where Web had at least moved to lay on his back, knees up. “She wouldn’t care, she’d probably let me move in with her if you ever kicked me out.”

Rolling his eyes, Joe stood at the food of the bed, arms folded. “Not with Yom Kippur, you’re not allowed to fuck around. She was happy you said you wanted to come, you don’t want to disappoint her.”

Heaving out a long breath, Web folded his hands behind his head, eyes lowered as he peered down at Joe. His knees tilted just so, his lips quirking, and Joe could see the fucking thought forming in his head before he had a chance to open his mouth.

“No.”

“We have time,” Web said, extending one leg to poke his toes into the left side of Joe’s stomach.

Clicking his tongue, he took hold of the other man’s ankle, giving it a soft pull and smiling in satisfaction as Web tried to pull it back to no avail. “If you think I’m going to miss my last fucking meal just to fuck you then you have another thing coming, alright?”

With a disgruntled twist of his lips Web pulled his leg in again, a little jerk that ushered Joe down onto the mattress as well. “You weren’t this dedicated last year,” he noted lightly, free of the reproach that might have accompanied the words if his family had said them.

Shaking his head, Joe decided to throw Web a bone and settled beside him, at least staying up on his elbows. “Different places,” he said simply.

Web looked up at him fondly, hand coming up to smooth over Joe’s hairline, sweeping it back and trailing behind his ear. “So, how will we spend tonight, then?” he asked quietly, eyes still following along where his hand moved. “If not in bed.”

Breath going slow with the contact, he tilted his head into the touch contentedly. “Well, tonight we’re going to eat like kings, Rach will probably be trying to get drunk in the pantry and hoping nobody notices, we’ll sleep in the attic, then tomorrow we spend a lot of fucking time at the synagogue.”

“And we don’t eat,” Web stated, assured.

“No eating, no drinking,” Joe nodded, brow furrowing at the sight of an eyelash on the other man’s cheek, reaching for it mindlessly.

Humming, Web closed his eyes to accommodate him. “Does this have a corresponding Catholic holiday I can retrofit in my mind?”

“I don’t know, you guys got a day where you feel really guilty about everything?” he asked, presenting the lash to Web balanced on the tip of his finger.

Blinking, Web frowned thoughtfully. “Birthdays.”

“Make your wish, you prick,” Joe grumbled, holding back his smile as Web grinned up at him, pausing momentarily before blowing the lash away into the room. Indulgently, he moved in closer, cupping the warmth of Web’s face in his palm and looking down on him with a feeling as close to serenity as he ever has here, in their bed, the sunlight coming in through their window.

Web returned his gaze, his own hand tracing along the back of Joe’s neck. “Do you confess?”

“Sure.”

“Alone?”

“All together,” he corrected, absently rubbing at the spot on Web’s cheek where he had plucked the lash. “You recite it, while you do this,” he said, shifting gently to bring his hand down to Web’s chest, knocking gently against him, just above his heart, with a loose fist.

Web watched his fist, a bemused smile growing over his lips. “Why?”

Settling his hand over the spot, Joe rubbed gently at him. “To punish your heart.”

Smile stilling over his face, Web absorbed his words with quiet interest, eyes floating down along Joe’s neck to the dark burrow of his chest where it pressed against the bed. “Isn’t the sinning hurt enough?”

Trust Web to try to loop him into a conversation about semantics of all fucking things. He must be more anxious to start his classes than Joe thought. “I don’t know,” he half-shrugged, eyes on his own hand over Web’s heart. “If you’re the sort who doesn’t like hurting people, maybe.”

Web nodded, accepting, smile turning more wistful, thoughtful “That’s nice, to be able to get it all out of the way at once.”

“What, you turned in a paper late?” Joe teased.

Flicking behind Joe's ear, Web looked up at him balefully, just a touch of that familiar humor at the edge of his mouth, like a dimple made of light. “I’d apologize to you, obviously.”

Huffing out a surprised laugh, Joe looked discerningly down at him. “You got something you want to tell me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Web shook his head softly, hand curling around his neck once more and seeming to anchor him down even further, their faces close enough to see the earnest upset around the angles of the other man’s eyes. “You know.”

Web does this. Likes to see monsters where there are none, invent storm clouds heading for them, and it makes him behave like a child sometimes and a man others. He’s a contrarian, down even past his bones and into the dust of the universe that lived in his being, it is an unchangeable fact. Telling him that there’s nothing to worry about accomplished nothing at the best of times.

Not that it’s ever stopped him trying.

“You don’t have to apologize to me for a fucking thing,” Joe rebuked solidly, hand moving from Web’s heart to his head, fingers resting just north of the delicate point of his hairline. “Sincerely.”

“I do, I…” Web parried, eyes unyielding where they looked up into Joe’s, somehow free of the sort of conflict he contained when he started thinking he and Joe had different opinions. “I know that this isn’t easy, dealing with me. And you do,” he continued, and this close he can see the way his eyes are stuck on his lips, the thought filling him with affection. “And you’re amazing.”

Giving in, chest bowing in like the hull of a sinking ship, he caught Web’s lips with his own, a hot smack of a thing that stole his breath, gave it to Web, who in turn gave it back to him better, better. “You don’t have to apologize for living, doll,” he shook his head, their nose practically knocking. “That’s not the point.”

Web didn’t seem soothed by the kiss, still appearing occupied with some train of thought that sought to carry him off and away from Joe’s eyes. “I still think of it sometimes, you know.”

Joe frowned. “What?”

“That day,” Web said, as though it should be evident.

He has to pause and think. They’ve lived a lot of days together, not just these ones that they’ve spent in this apartment, but the ones they spent as voices over the phone, words on a page, men in uniforms hiding from each other like chameleons. How is he meant to know which day Web means from the thousands they’ve had?

Looking down, the blue of Web’s eyes reminds him absently of Austrian skies. Mountains.

Yes. He knows.

“I think sometimes I should apologize to you and never stop,” Web said gently, managing to keep hold of Joe’s eyes as they blinked back and forth and back and forth into the memory.

He hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. Which isn’t to say he never does, but it’s been a time. If he concentrates he can still feel the sun on his neck, the unnatural sweatiness of his palms, how his face had somehow felt cold, waxy. Picturing the house, the dark guts of it with the man inside squirming like half-digested meat, still fills him with the primal sort of rage that only visits him in his dreams. All around the periphery of the memory is Web, that day he had decided that whoever David Webster was he wanted no part of it.

“It’s in the past,” he excused weakly.

Web pulled in a short breath, face carefully open. “I know it is.”

“So let it be.”

Frown deepening, Web’s brought his eyes back down, and even this small departure felt like shrapnel. Joe combed through his hair, rubbing at his scalp, jostling him enough to win his eyes back. Web opened his mouth, struggling, before settling into the intention. “Do you still think about it?”

“Of course,” he said dully, voice still caught somewhere in his memory.

“Do you ever think I owe you an apology?” Web asked, voice quiet and eyes steady.

The question drops through him like rain. He’s thought of that day hundreds of times, thousands. When he lets his mind walk back up that hill, shining in the sun like the cover of the storybooks his mother would read to him, it isn’t Web he’s thinking of. He thinks of a forest of trees, of the way that one can become millions, and those millions become legion. That day had been about a lot of things, he hadn’t ever intended for Web to be one of them.

Web has apologized to him in too many ways to count. But this memory is deeper than they are, the kind of wound that might close over but will still carry a piece of metal, even smaller than a sliver, nestled inside of them both.

Web gives him grief, for better and for worse. But he gives him peace, too. That’s all the apology he wants.

His silence has drifted over the room like fog, but Web looks at him with the sort of clarity that only a few years ago made him feel like a bug on a pin, but now simply makes him feel known.

“I’ll punish my heart for forgiveness tomorrow,” Web said softly, smile turning up his lips, hand against Joe’s neck.

Huffing, Joe shook his head, taking up Web’s mouth once more, briefly. “You have it,” he rasped, kissing just the corner of his lips, and then the soft heat of his cheek. “You’ve had it.”

Web smiled into the kiss, leaning up to press a matching one to Joe’s own cheek. “Good.”

Swallowing, he followed Web back down, their faces close. “Will you accept mine?”

A disbelieving laugh rumbled up Web’s throat, his head giving a dismissive shake as he gave Joe’s neck a hard rub. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he criticized, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

But they haven’t always been that lucky. This sort of luck isn’t a permanent state of being.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, before pausing momentarily. “Let’s say you forgive me for the first sin I haven’t committed yet.”

Laughing, Web took his hand from Joe’s skin, holding it up beside them in some offering. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Joe confirmed, taking his hand, giving it one firm shake, enough to gather up Web’s laugh, before bringing it to his lips and laying a kiss across its back. “Now come on, let’s go.”

#technically ~rivers~ #prompt #ask #webgott

[sombreboy]

Dining out⇢kth x jjk

⇢18+ ⇢pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook (brief ft.Namjoon & Jisoo) ⇢genre: Smut, fluff, mxm, married couple ⇢word count: 8k ⇢warnings: Profanity, dumb humor, lil secret touching under the dinner table, bratty sub tae, dom daddy jk, I swear the daddy kink is heavy for these boys sometimes and this is one of those times, puppy petname; CHECK, blowjob, finger sucking, fingering, filming their shenanigans with their phone, tae fucks himself on jk's big doink then gets fucked good, meme ending because i am too lazy but at least you got a good fucking in. xo

A/N: Serves as a oneshot within the Love Maze series AU, however can also be read on it’s own. Co-written with my lovely @velvetwicebang​​ <3

“Okay, remember to feed her every two to three hours.” Jimin nodded; blonde hair bobbing as he did so. The man carefully bounced the babbling baby on his hip, suppressing the need to roll his eyes at Taehyung’s constant reminders. 

They’d only be gone for a few hours; but Taeyeon’s fathers were treating this like a five-month vacation. 

“Her formula is in the bag, and so is her apple sauce! Sometimes she gets fussy right after she eats, so rub her tummy and give her a few pats on the back. Also, there’s diapers—“

“Guys, we know. We’ve looked after her before, remember?” Jimin reached out to place a hand on Taehyung’s shoulder; unknowing of Taeyeon’s infatuation with his boyfriend’s tattoos. 

He didn’t have as many as her daddy Koo, but her shiny, doe eyes curiously scanned over the new piece of art. She found his eyes cool..

“No, I know.” Taehyung sighed, knowing he needed to calm the fuck down— but, Taeyeon.. but their date night.. “Normally we would’ve left her with Namjoon and Jisoo, but obviously that isn’t an option.”

“Cool, we’re the second choice. Nice.” Jimin wasn’t truly hurt by his friend’s careless reveal, only chuckling as he reassured them of the best.

“Shit, Jimin, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just she knows them bet—“

“Tae, be quiet before I throw this apple sauce at you.”

Taehyung’s mouth was glued shut.

“Just go out and have fun, alright? We’ll look after Taeyeon, she’s in good hands. You seem stressed out as hell, I dunno, maybe even fuck it out while you’re at it.”

Tae simply sighed, detaching himself from Jungkook’s arm to press a soft kiss onto Taeyeon’s head, bidding his temporary goodbyes.

“Okay, well.. we’re leaving. We should be back soon. Thanks, again.”

"Thanks guys, don't hesitate to call us if you need to!" Jungkook chirped, a bit less worried than his husband. Surprisingly, Taehyung seemed to be the one who was always extra, extra protective and worried about separating from their little daughter. Now, Kook was a worrier himself, but he never thought he'd be the one tugging at the elder to finally be able to let go of being a father for just one second.

Kook's eyes met with the little doe eyes their daughter mirrored, his toothy grin growing as she quickly resumed her attention towards the tall man. He might've looked a bit intimidating at first, but everyone quickly learned that he was probably the softest one of them all.

Jungkook pulled Taehyung with him quickly, closing the door behind them before heading towards their car. They haven't been able to get this kind of time to be a couple for quite a while, and both of them were excited-- and anxious. It was routine by now with their child, and breaking it was harder than it seemed. BUT, fuck, did they need it. Stress was no joke with these men. Work, eat, sleep, clean, shit... Take care of the baby, make time for each other?

It wasn't easy, but they were a team. And did they make a damn good one.

"You look good." Jungkook grasped for Tae's hand to hold it cutely by the car. "We should take a picture of this rare occasion of both of us being properly put together at the same time for once."

“You’re right. This is rare as fuck..” Taehyung’s shoulders dropped to a less unnatural position, deep-set brows resuming to their place, ripening his facial muscles. He hooked an arm around Jungkook’s delicate waist, pulling him in until their sides touched. “Let the photographer do the honors, ey?” Cocky as ever, the elder’s hand uninvitingly reached inside of Koo’s back pocket, searching for the younger’s phone whilst he hummed into their short-lived kiss. Tae pulled away with a dorky smile, angling the high-tech device towards the starry sky, a wash of light shining down on them as if the cluster of stars themselves were on their side; working towards getting them the perfect picture.

It was cheesy— every second of it— but, Taehyung found his anxiety crumbling the longer they spent taking silly photos, so he said: ‘fuck it’.

“I like this one, you look like a full course meal.” Tae nudged his husband’s side, believable as he mercilessly teased. “Ah, okay. We should get going before Joon thinks we’ve bailed or something, you know he always thinks of the worst.” The elder climbed onto the passenger seat, twisting his body to reach for the seatbelt. “How much do you wanna bet Jisoo is holding him back from making a phone call right now?”

Jungkook's bunny-like grin grew at the compliment, the apple of his cheeks tinted with a rosy hue. He grabbed his cell phone back from his husband before sitting down in the driver's seat, deciding to post their selfie on his Instagram.

"I bet she took his phone away already. If not, they'll see our pretty picture." Kook scrunched his nose before placing his phone down in his front pocket. He starts the car and backs out on the driveway, giving their home one last glance before driving off.

"I'm excited, honestly. We haven't had a second for ourselves lately." The younger sighed, eyes flickering to keep his attention on the traffic. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other reached over to smooth over Taehyung's thigh as if to soothe him.. Koo could easily tell the elder was still having a bit of separation anxiety for leaving their daughter with their friends... "Let's enjoy this to the fullest, don't think too much. You know what would be nice? A few drinks to loosen up a bit."

“Yeah, I need that.” Taehyung knew Koo could see right through him. It was no secret that the elder’s mind lingered somewhere else; Taeyeon, to be exact. Tae knew he was extremely overprotective, it was never something he’d felt ashamed of in the past. What could you expect from someone who grew up in a hostile environment when they were younger?— it pained him to think this way, but.. If his own father could raise a hand at him, what would a stranger be capable of doing? Of course Tae didn’t think any of their friends would obtain such malice, nor were they strangers to Taeyeon. The opposite, in fact. Each and every one of their hyungs held a special place in the girl’s heart. The elder guessed that his past’s trauma arose now that he was a father himself. Taehyung wanted to do better.

Jungkook's smile didn't falter from his face the entire ride, the faint tugging of his lips in excitement a constant reminder of how relieved he actually is to be able to get some time alone to focus on his friends-- and especially his husband for the night. He pulled up into the restaurant parking lot, the scent coming off the building already hitting their noses even as they sat outside in their car. Kook inhaled with a content sigh, leg almost jumping in excitement. He was a foodie after all-- and since he finally has a stable income along with Taehyung, he's never had to worry whether or not there'd be food on the table. Cheesy one might say, but once in a while the younger still enjoyed to microwave some noodles on occasion either way.

"We're here." He cooed joyfully as he clicked the seatbelt off to lean over to the passenger seat, placing a haste kiss on Taehyung's cheek. He lingered, letting his lips hover over the elders skin. Taking a moment, he drank in the view. Taehyung has always been the most handsome man that Jungkook had ever laid eyes on, and as the years passed by quickly, that still never changed. One would say Taehyung only became hotter, aging like a fine wine.

"You look so good tonight... I won't be able to keep my eyes off you." Kook smiled, cupping Taehyung's cheek to draw him in for a proper kiss.

Taehyung giggled in the midst of their kiss, the sound so small and indistinct, but in the calming stillness of a parked vehicle it was impossible for its vibrations to go over one’s head. It definitely went noticed by the culprit himself, who blushed at the abrupt realization that even after many years spent by Koo’s side, the latter always knew how to make him feel beautiful..

“Thanks. You look really good too, baby..” Tae licked over his lips, able to still taste Jungkook despite the younger having pulled away. “Fuck, okay. Let’s go in; I’m hungry and Joon’s probably losing it by now.”

“Where the hell were you guys? We’ve been waiting for what—“ Namjoon’s eyes flickered down to his watch, “—fifteen minutes?”

Taehyung snorted, “What do you want us to do? Get down on the ground and bow at your feet?”

“You know what? Hell yea—“

Jisoo stepped in, speaking on behalf of her husband, “No need for any major bows here.. Ah, please sit down. Joon’s extra dramatic when he’s hungry.”

"You're not you when you're hungry." Jungkook recited the old commercial with a giggle, shaking his head at how bad it was-- but so funny to his young mind. He sat down in the booth across from Jisoo, with Taehyung sliding down next to him to sit across from Joon.

"Fifteen minutes is precious cooking time at a place like this, Kook. Don't joke--"

"Won't happen again hyung!" Jungkook saluted clearly, his toothy grin too effective towards Joon-- whether he wanted to admit it or not. His bunny-like smile would never cease to work as a secret weapon...

"Whatever." Namjoon grumbled as he picked up the digital device on the table used to order their food. 

"How have you guys been?" Jisoo chirped as she glanced over at the little tablet, clicking occasionally to help navigate Joon's confused behavior towards the device.

"Stressed." Jungkook sighed, leaning his head against Taehyung's shoulder. "Having a child is no joke, there's never a dull day. But I love it, though." Kook mused, waiting for their turn with the tablet, reaching out for it when Jisoo had completely taken over to order for her and her husband. He stares at the contents for a moment, showing Tae the various choices of alcohol, hovering with his finger over the stronger drinks with a coy eyebrow.

“You know me too well.” Taehyung returned the favor, imitating Koo’s raised brow before pointing at the drink of his choice; Tae was aware he needed to chillax. And alcohol never disappoints.

Once they were finished ordering their starting drinks, the elder dismissed the tablet to the side. He scooted closer to Jungkook until they were practically squished together in spite of the extra space; playing with his husband’s fingers from under the table.

“Yeah, Taeyeon’s a handful.” The corner of Taehyung’s lips twitched upwards as he amusingly breathed out through his nose, mind tracing back to their daughter. “But she’s cute though, so it makes up for it.” The elder turned his head to look at Kook, “Also, this guy right here is pretty good with babies.”

Jisoo voiced out her agreement, reminded of the older days when Jungkook would help her with Yuna once he was done with school. Now her friend was married, and caring after a baby of his own.. Proud was an understatement in Jisoo’s mind. Every time she looked at Koo her heart swelled; the boy she once knew had grown into a man. But then again, Jungkook had always been really mature. In a sense, it’s the same guy Jisoo’s always considered her close friend— and fed on the daily.. “Joon could learn a few things..”

The mumbling under the older woman’s breath didn’t go unnoticed by Namjoon, who came to his own defense as quickly as lightning strikes the ground, “I showed up to the wrong preschool once!”

Taehyung butted in, confused but amused, “You forgot where your son goes to school?” Tae’s shoulders vibrated as he laughed, suddenly feeling much better about his own mishaps as a parent.

“The drinks can come out anytime now..” Namjoon tried to swerve away from the topic; his failed attempt at being sly earned himself a couple rounds of laughter.

Yeah, maybe Taehyung needed this..

As the tray of drinks finally arrived, they were left to sip on whatever they've ordered while waiting for their dinner. Jisoo and Namjoon both opted for the simple choice; beer. While Jungkook was an avid enthusiast of alcohol, whether it be beer, tequila, wine... He did settle for a large glass of wine, perfect for the occasion on his end-- and perfect as it always got him pleasantly warmed up.

"Ah, I'm so hungry...." Jungkook groaned, waiting for that big, fat juicy steak he'd seen on the screen. Meat was his one true love-- if you'd disregard the fact that his husband existed. He worked out just as avidly as he did in their younger days.. Well, tried to, and therefore his appetite was comparable to that of a horse.

"You're always hungry!" Jisoo joked, slapping Joon's shoulder as she laughed.

"Yah! Why'd you hit me?!" Namjoon nudged her shoulder back with his dimpled smile.

"Ah, food!" Jungkook's big, doe eyes sparkled with a childlike joy when the food finally arrived, jaw hanging open in pure admiration.

Taehyung chimed out loud along with Koo, ignoring Jisoo’s and Namjoon’s playful banter in the background. All that was on his mind at the moment was, ‘must eat’. Taeyeon snuck in there once in a while, but Tae trusted Jimin and his boyfriend. They’ve always returned his baby back in one piece, so that’s that. Maybe the alcohol was helping; he wasn’t as restless.

“Fuuck,” Taehyung knocked his head back, resting it against the backrest of the booth whilst he chewed on the piece of meat, savoring the burst of flavor that’d just popped in his mouth. “Koo, here.” It didn’t matter that they ordered the same meal, Tae still cut out a small piece for his husband to try. He blew on it before guiding it into Jungkook’s mouth, “Fucking delicious, right?”

Jungkook chomped the piece of meat off the fork with his bunny teeth, chewing it happily. His eyes widened as he nodded, humming in content. Food did taste better when it was from your husband's plate, confirmed. "So fucking good, oh my god.. " Koo agreed. Both men were just feeding off of each other's plates at this point, letting out all their curses and groans occasionally. Being censored on the daily was harder than they thought, and finally letting it all out--- somewhat satisfying.

Namjoon eyed the couple with a mix of disgust for their cheesiness, yet the dimples proved that he couldn't hold his smile for the two. They were grown ass men, and yet they acted like dorky the teens they’ve always been the moment they are together like this. It was endearing.

"What? You want me to feed you too?" Jisoo nudged Joon with a coy smile on her lips, immediately laughing when he shook his head.

"Definitely not." He joked back. He hated to share his food-- but so did Jisoo, so it was okay.

The evening went on for a bit, everyone talking-- rather, Namjoon rambling about everything and nothing while the rest ate, drank, and drank....

Jungkook couldn't help but continuously look over at his husband. He was just so fucking hot, when was the last time he was able to truly admire him like this? Forever ago.. A few drinks in and Koo's cheeks were hot, hazy eyes only half listening to the rambling from the other side of the table, nodding absentmindedly. His hand, however, decided to snake over to the elder's lap, gently rubbing up and down the soft fabrics, feeling the firm muscle underneath.

Taehyung was just as buzzed; their conversations only stuck with him for a couple of seconds before he reached for his glass of wine, downing the remainder of the scarlet drink. He was loosening up, or so he thought.. The meat of the elder’s thigh clenched, and his dimmed eyes averted downwards towards the source of the unexpected caress on his leg. With barely any space between the two, Tae awkwardly shifted around in his seat— however, he didn’t bother on pushing Jungkook’s hand away.

He liked it..

It’s been a hot minute since his husband put this much attention on him. The touch was small, but even such delicacy had Taehyung’s hormones in a twist..

“What are you doing?” He leaned in to whisper into Koo’s ear, resting his own hand on the younger’s thigh. Tae told himself that it was for balance, but even he knew that wasn’t exactly the truth. “Fuck, you’re hard,” his hand had slithered upwards to Jungkook’s crotch, groping his husband’s cock through the fabric of Kook’s pants.

"What are you doing? ah.." Jungkook's thighs quivered, gently bucking up into Tae's hand as he desperately tried to act unaffected. Not that the other couple would notice-- they were just as buzzed, just rambling, occasionally bantering... Koo barely noticed their presence at this point.

All he could think about was Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung...

"You just look so hot, babe, how could I not be hard?.." He huffed quietly, the hand on Tae's thigh mirroring the elders movements by palming his husband's cock right back, able to feel the shape and girth of it through the fabrics. "Shit, what I'd do to have you on your knees below this table instead..."

Taehyung’s shrunken pupils vigilantly switched between his husband and the other couple in front of them, until he realized there was no need..

Joon and Jisoo weren’t quite at their level, but it was obvious the beer had gotten to their systems if the cheesy mumbles and sudden display of affection were anything to go by. They were never cheesy— in front of them, at least.

“Don’t tempt me, we’ll probably get banned from this place or something..” Tae’s drunken smile beamed in the dimmed lighting before his lips abruptly took the shape of an ‘o’. Embarrassed, he nuzzled his nose in the dip of Jungkook’s neck, continuing to rub and squeeze Koo’s prominent bulge at a fixed pace despite crumbling underneath the younger’s teasing himself. “It’s been so long since I really got to feel you like this, and it’s been too long since you’ve felt me; really felt me..” 

“Let us in on the secrets! Don’t be so secretiveee, it’s not nice, y’know.” Jisoo loudly sipped on her water’s straw, lips closing in on the frail plastic after her third try— her aim when drunk was amusing.

“This feels like all the way back to, uh, second grade was it? When all my buds talked shit behind my back ‘n crap.”

The woman pouted, “Awe, babe, fuck those kids. Look at you now, with mee! They wish they had me.”

Namjoon understood in spite of her strong slurring, “They’ll never have you, mine.”

Taehyung turned to look back at Jungkook, face reading; ‘what the fuck’. “Wanna get out of here? Kinda want some.. privacy.”

Jungkook couldn't even play it cool at this point, his eager nodding proving just how badly he wanted to get out of there as well-- if his throbbing erection wasn't enough to go by. "Yeah, please." Kook’s ragged breath whispered back, withdrawing his hand from Taehyung's crotch to inhale deeply. "Follow me... I have a fun idea." Since they couldn't go home, nor did they have a hotel room for the night-- there was only one option the younger could think of. A fun one, in his own mind. It's been a long fucking time since they did something a little risky... Jungkook was gonna try to say something to the other couple, but it was easier than he expected to have them accept their disappearance, so he simply got up, leaning down to whisper once again into Tae's ear.

"I'll be waiting in the bathroom... You have two minutes. No more, no less." He cooed, a mischievous grin on his lips as he placed a gentle kiss on the elders cheek before strolling off towards the bathroom area, closing the door behind him. The anticipation-- the small amount of waiting was enough to rile him up even further. And surely he hoped it did the same to Taehyung.

Fuck the bathroom, I’ll willingly get down on my knees right at this second— Is what Taehyung wanted to say, but he was far too stunned to even respond with a dumb nod of his head. Jungkook had strutted away without waiting for an answer, and for that Tae was glad.. Every time the younger asserted his natural dominance, Taehyung was left a flustered, unable-to-form-coherent-sentences mess. The elder was convinced the alluring words that slipped past Koo’s lips tasted like honey; they were sweet and sticky, making it awfully hard for Taehyung to forget them.

“I’ll be waiting in the bathroom.. You have two minutes. No more, no less.”

The man didn’t realize he’d been stalling until Jisoo asked him where Jungkook had gone off to.

“He’s.. somewhere. I’m going to the restroom, I’ll be back.” He kept it short ‘n sweet, knowing that whatever was going to happen in the secluded space would be anything but. Jungkook liked taking his time, and Taehyung enjoyed taking all his husband had to offer. The elder loved drowning himself in the moment, which is why he’d grown keen of using his beloved camera for other reasons.. Taehyung looked back on the films a lot— it was hot, and it gave him an excuse to miss Jungkook whilst he was away at work. More often than not Tae couldn’t act on his sexual desires; only settling for giving Koo a messy hand job before they called it a night. But today? It was going to be different.

Taehyung’s eager hand slowly turned on the doorknob, brows arched in anticipation when he’d met Jungkook’s gaze on the other side. It was a family restroom, meaning it was quite small. There were no stalls, only space meant for one. Or two..

Tae’s back was pressed up against the door as he pushed it shut, making sure to lock it. He stayed still in his place, arms shyly tucked from behind him. “I think I went over two minutes, daddy.”

"You did, puppy." The corner of Jungkook's lip curved into a smirk as he moved forward, barely a few steps before he was already towering over his husband. Internally, he was eager.. Impatient in every sense of the word. But tonight was a once in a while occasion, and it didn't occur often enough for him to waste it on a quick fuck. He'd been longing for this opportunity to truly feel Taehyung again, and boy.. was his body itching to feel everything.

"Can't even follow one simple instruction.." Jungkook tsk'd playfully, pressing up his body against Tae's, deliberately brushing their crotches together to make sure the elder felt just how hard he was for him already. "What do I do with a boy that misbehaves..." Now, Taehyung was anything but a boy-- but making the elder feel smaller was one of his favorite things to do, belittling him until he was nothing but a whiny, pleading sweetheart. Kook grasped Tae's chin in his long, tattooed grasp to demand eye contact, tilting his head lightly to the side like a curious pup would. "Do you need a reminder of why you call me daddy?"

“Hmm... I think I do..” Taehyung’s tongue peeked out from the small, surprised opening of his flushed lips, brushing over the moisturized skin and wetting it with its saliva. A hitched gasp followed suit, emphasizing the gloss-like effect he’d made for himself; Taehyung knew Koo was a sucker for the posh look. Slowly, his lips relaxed, and Taehyung’s intense gaze clashed with his husband’s. He allowed the latter to feel superior by standing tall before him, while Tae cowered in his place. The delicate, firm hold on his chin was beginning to make itself known, but the elder didn’t dare move out of Jungkook’s clutch. “Remind me, Koo.. why do I call you daddy?” Taehyung’s hands gripped at the younger’s hips, stifling his faint moans as their crotches pressed against one another.

It’s been too fucking long.

“What makes you worthy of that title?” He kept on pushing, wishing Kook would drop the foreplay and fuck him numb once and for all.. The elder was less patient, but he was just as needy.

Jungkook's lips curled into a smirk to serve as a response to Taehyung's daring words, knowing just how needy his husband was to just be stuffed with his cock already. But what the younger loved even more, was the buildup-- to make Tae so flushed and desperate that when he finally gets what he desires, it'll be more than worth the wait.

"Ah, my baby has already forgotten...." He huffs through heavy breaths, leaning forward to kiss his husband. As his tongue claimed the elder's mouth as his own to explore as he wishes, his hands hungrily roamed down his body, feeling and groping at every curve before they began to unbutton Tae's shirt, exposing his flushed skin. Without wasting another second, Jungkook's hands smoothed up Tae's stomach, his thumbs swiping over the elder's nipples softly-- at first. He groaned into the hot kiss, not stopping his hungry ministrations all while continuously teasing Tae's perky nipples, lightly pinching them between the calloused pads of his fingers.

Taehyung’s frail body squirmed in delight, the skin of his chest buried in small goosebumps whilst Jungkook spared him no mercy on one of his most responsive areas. The filthy noises of mild fulfillment scratched at the back of the elder’s throat, calling out for vocal release only to get pushed back down by Kook’s tongue. 

“Mmhm..” Tae vaguely hummed into the heated kiss, hot puffs of air slipping past his nose, warming Jungkook’s already sultry skin. Everything about the younger was hot; like a predictable summer’s day.. Just one kiss and Taehyung began melting against him, his smaller body frame molding against the barely-noticeable dip from Jungkook’s chest to his pelvis. Eager, Tae never stopped rubbing their crotches together, driving his husband’s hips towards his own.

“Fuck, babe...” Tae whimpered once he pulled away from the kiss, chest rising while his lungs worked to retrieve back air. Taehyung’s head tipped backwards, bottom lip caught in between his teeth as he nonverbally encouraged Koo to continue playing with his sensitive nipples.

“Daddy.. please film me.” Tae might not have his camera at hand, but something about the quality of a phone turned him on. The elder wants to be able to look back on this moment.. He wants to be able to see his reflection in the mirror while Jungkook fucks him— phone held tightly in his hand. Tae wants Koo to focus on the way his cock sinks deep into him, catching Taehyung’s loud, hiccupy moans on video. They’ve filmed themselves a few times in the past, but Tae’s camera was set up on a tripod. Now, they had the opportunity to pilot a phone how they pleased. Jungkook could pan in on whatever he wanted, get a close-up of the goodies.. “Please, daddy. I’ll be a good boy... I’ll squeeze around you so tight. I’ll be so warm.. fuck— I’ll be your little bitch until you stuff me full of your cum. Then I’ll be nothing but your cum dumpster..”

Jungkook's cock twitched heavily beneath the fabrics, the thought alone of filming his husband in such a scenario bringing him more excitement than he expected. Tae’s cameras were fun, the quality superb... but using his phone seemed so much more intimate, it had the younger heated in excitement.

"Fuck yes... I'll stuff you so well. But first..." Kook placed his hands on the elders shoulders, using his strength to force him down on his knees. With a swift motion, he unbuckled his pants and tugged them down, too eager to wait for his cock to be engulfed by Tae’s plushy lips. His cock bobbed when set free, letting it freely taunt Taehyung as he dug for his cellphone in his back pocket. "Suck on it, puppy." His low, raspy tone was laced with lust, eyes staring at Taehyung's lips through the camera screen on his phone when he pointed it down from his view. "When it's nice and wet, I'll fuck your tight ass until you can barely walk out of here."

“Whatever you say, daddy..” His warm hands skimmed upwards from Jungkook’s beautifully muscular thighs to the latter’s base, where Taehyung took his time feeling the younger’s cock. He began by lazily flicking his wrist, multitasking while the other hand kneaded his husband’s balls. Taehyung played innocent, staring up at the camera whilst his tongue circled around the head; his long eyelashes fluttering in a coy manner. 

“Daddy.. daddy, you’re so fucking hot when you’re in control.” Closing his eyes, Tae leaned back in, slowly taking all of Jungkook into the warmth of his mouth. He’s had plenty of practice, his gag reflex was practically nonexistent at this point in their relationship. Taehyung guessed all of those times he’d sucked Jungkook off under the covers when their friends were around— or when he got too impatient and gave Koo the suck of his life in the middle of the grocery store’s parking lot. Not to mention, the birthdays when he’d woken Jungkook up with his limp cock throat-deep in Taehyung’s mouth. They all paid off when it came to unplanned moments such as this one.

Tae hollowed out his cheeks, bobbing his head as he dragged his tongue from Kook’s base to the tip, leaving a trail of saliva along the hardened girth. He’d gotten so consumed in the moment, that Taehyung had forgotten all about the camera.

"Whoa, so pretty when you take my cock like that..." Jungkook's voice was shaky, already feeling the muscles in his thighs tense up. Taehyung knew exactly how to suck him off properly, every drag and movement done with the utmost purpose, hitting every sensitive nerve that riles up Kook to the max.

"I can tell you love it, fuck..." He stated as if it was a fact, and it was. Kook kept one hand gently combing through Tae's dark curls, brushing his fringe away to be able to get a proper visual of the elder through his phone screen, focusing on how his husbands plush lips stretch with the younger's girth, the slick saliva on his silky skin glistening even in his digital eye. "Okay, baby, that's enough... Spit on it and get up, pull down your pants and bend over the sink. Need a good view of your pretty ass."

Taehyung might be a natural-born brat in other aspects, but he never disobeyed Kook’s orders inside of the bedroom. Or a public restroom.. No matter how much Tae wanted to keep going, he did as his husband told, leisurely withdrawing from Jungkook’s cock as if it was the last thing he wanted to do. The elder stalled at the tip, glistening eyes peeling open to meet the phone’s unwavering perspective from above him, keeping a digital memory of Taehyung’s lightly damped, crimson cheeks. His swollen lips pulled off with a loud pop, eyes dimmed as they switched downwards to his husband’s cock. He gathered saliva, swishing the warm, thick substance around his tongue before allowing it to drip down on Jungkook’s already-drenched head.

“It’s so wet..” Tae’s thumb rubbed deep circles on the small slit, moaning to himself at the sly muscle spasms in Jungkook’s clenched thighs. Once Taehyung was satisfied, he followed through with the second order. Shimmying out of the tight jeans that hugged around his thick ass, Tae let them drop to his ankles along with his boxers.

He really was one impatient boy.. He couldn’t wait to get utterly fucked; Taehyung was always horny for cock.

With each hand gripping onto the side of the sink until his knuckles turned white, the elder stood before Koo, back slightly arched whilst his soft stomach pressed up against the cold surface.

“You like what you’re seeing, daddy?” He spoke, looking at Jungkook through the mirror, feeling more cocky now that he wasn’t kneeling down in front of his husband.

"Mhm." Jungkook hummed in approval, his eyes dilated with lust as he dumbfoundedly stared at Taehyung's full cheeks. He's seen his husband naked more times than he could ever count, but every single time it turned him on just as much-- He was insatiable when it came to Kim Taehyung. He angled the camera down as he approached Tae from behind, using his free hand to grab a handful of the flesh, squeezing hard just to see the skin redden underneath his fingers, watching the fat protrude in between his digits. "I love what I'm seeing... Fuck, I've been thinking about doing this to you all day--work was dreadful."

Jungkook's blunt nails dragged across the tanned skin, leaving faint pink marks in it's rake. He spread his cheek with one hand, just enough for him to see his unused entrance. By now the elder had gotten used to Jungkook's sizable stretch without much preparation, although some would still be needed... It had been a while after all. Kook switched the angle to the reflection, making a show out of the way he sucks his finger until it's nice and slick, however wasting no time in massaging Taehyung's delicate rim, and then finally sliding his middle finger inside of his heated flesh. He films Tae's expressions through the mirror before switching back to filming the way he drags his finger in and out of him. A low groan slips past Kook's lips, his cock throbbing as it rests against Taehyung's ass, still wet and impatiently waiting for it's turn to feel the warmth it craves.

"Stretched so easily tonight-- you're that cockhungry, huh." Kook digs his finger deeper past his knuckle, glancing back at the reflection to watch the blissful expressions on his lover's face.

The elder wasn’t given the chance to come up with a vague answer, only mewling softly as he felt his insides grip around Jungkook’s finger; the squeeze so tight while it clenched and unclenched that it almost forced Kook’s single digit out. Still, Taehyung worked on regaining his breaths, relaxing his muscles for a deeper stretch. Jungkook’s cock must’ve plunged deep into him over a million times, but that never meant Tae would lose his tightness. Every time felt just like the first.

“Oh my g-god.. move your finger— please.” Taehyung deliberately squeezed harder, squirming in delight when he felt the pad of Jungkook’s digit brush against his prostate.

Jungkook's lips tugged into a light smirk, a hot breath huffing through them at the beautiful sound of his husband pleading for more. Everything his man did turned him on, but the begging.. It was next level music to his ears. He kept the camera close enough to be able to see the skin of his finger coated in Tae's juices as he pulled out, only to shove in a second along with the first when he pushed it back inside, effortlessly with the sheer amount of force he used to refill the elders tight heat. Kook curled his fingers ever so slightly, just enough to reach that sweet spot better as he began to curl and uncurl his fingers a few times, relishing in the visible contractions around his digits.

"Your ass is squeezing me so tight... Ahh, the camera loves you.." He groaned, now fucking his fingers in and out of Taehyung, his stable hold on the phone capturing every single drag, clench and wet squelch. "You think you could take me already? It's gonna be a tight fit, but fuck... I want to feel your ass crush my cock."

As if the rest of his body was beginning to give out, Taehyung’s head dipped forward, panting heavily until he could make out the hot puffs of air grazing against his own chest. 

“D-daddy— fuuck..” His hips rocked into the younger’s nimble fingers, relishing in the toe-curling way Jungkook teased his prostate. “Y-yeah, ‘m ready. First— a-ahh..” Taehyung hissed, raising his head once more to look at his husband through the mirror, long fringe reaching his pleading eyes. “Can I have a taste? Wanna suck on your fingers.” Taehyung didn’t shift eye-contact; eager to swirl his hot tongue around the same fingers that’d been deep inside of him.

Jungkook's small dimples grew more prominent along with his smile, crooking a coy eyebrow as he slowly popped his fingers out of Tae's stretched hole, leaning forward to press his chest against his lover's back, his wet cock pressed between Taehyung's cheeks. He brought his slick digits to Taehyung's hungry mouth, filming the reflection to get a proper view of both men.

"Here you go baby. Daddy's fingers are coated in your lovely juices... Have a taste, give me a good show."

The hand closest to Jungkook’s let go of its numbed grasp on the sink, instead reaching for his husband’s wrist as Taehyung enveloped the two fingers whole. The elder moaned; one that advanced from deep in his chest and rang throughout the otherwise quiet restroom.

He tasted sweet. Tae fucking bet he’s the sweetest Jungkook’s ever had..

He grinded his ass against Kook’s pelvis, staring at his man through the mirror with an intensified gaze, tongue lapping around and between the delicious digits, lips puckered whilst Taehyung bobbed his head. Thick drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, running down his slobbered chin; but he didn’t mind. Having yet to avert his strong eye-contact, Tae arched his back further to really press against his husband, having fun teasing the hell out of him. 

“Mmm~..” Taehyung’s lips were past Jungkook’s tattooed knuckles, sucking roughly on the latter’s fingers as if it was the younger’s cock tucked in between his cheeks.

Jungkook's normally strong facade of stoism struggled to remain intact right at this moment. Too many things went on, from Tae's ever so piercing gaze, the way his tongue lapped at the younger's fingers, and last but definitely not fucking least; his plump ass grinding against Kook's aching cock. It was too much, and it had been way too long. Jungkook didn't care anymore, his expression morphing into that of pure admiration and lust for his husband, gawking like a dumbass at the show he did so kindly ask for.

"Fuck, that's hot... you're so fucking hot, puppy." He growled lowly, almost frustrated at how Taehyung was allowed to be this gorgeous. It should be illegal. Kook watched the elder work his fingers for a short moment before he had enough, withdrawing his hand to harshly smack his husband's ass. "You're too sexy, it drives me fucking crazy.." Another smack, this time keeping his palm on his ass before squeezing it hard between his fingers, spreading the cheek to grant himself better access to grind his tip against the lightly gaped hole. "Shit, look at this... All mine." Kook huffs under heavy breaths, panning camera down Taehyung's prominent cleavage of his spine runs down his back, until the lens settled on where the head of Jungkook's length prodded at Tae's entrance.

"Move backwards baby, fuck yourself on my cock." Jungkook commands, loud enough to clearly capture his voice in the recording-- knowing Taehyung will love looking back and hearing these specific words.

Taehyung’s body jolted forward with every firm, jaw-clenching slap to his ass; his cheek grew tender the more Jungkook’s palm came in contact with the agitated skin, leaving behind a noticeable outline of his hand to linger for days on end. If the video didn’t serve as enough of a reminder, the sting sure as hell will. The elder was on the brink of crying out loud, having to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from screaming Jungkook’s name.

“Feels so good..” Taehyung sank back until the slick head of Jungkook’s cock popped through the gateway to his familiar insides, instantly clenching down on his husband’s skin as a warm greeting. “Fuck, fuck... so big, daddy.” Moving backwards until he nudged Kook’s pelvis, Tae took a minute to adjust to the length, muttering filthy curses under his heated breath. “Is that tight enough for you, hm? You’re so hard inside of me, ahh..” Once he deemed himself ready, Taehyung slowly began fucking himself on Jungkook’s cock, stopping at the tip before he plopped back in with more force, wiggling his hips against Kook before repeating the action. “So hard, I can feel you twitching, Koo..”

"Ah, fuck-- Taehyung..." Jungkook doesn't hold back letting his husband know how good his ass feels. He runs his flat palm down the prominent line on Tae's back where his spine hides, keeping his hips still for a moment to allow the elder to fuck himself on his cock. Kook keeps the camera focused on the way his slick length disappears inside the stretched hole, in awe of the view through the screen. "So tight, you're so fucking tight-- good god... How could I ever get enough of this?" He hisses through his ragged breath. When satisfied with the good work Taehyung put into getting himself used to Kook's size, the younger decides that it's time to reward his lover.

With a rough snap of his hips, Jungkook thrusts forward to meet Tae's ass as it moved back against him, the loud echo of their skin slapping together drawing a guttural moan from the tattooed male.

"You're such a good boy for me." He redirects the camera back towards the reflection to capture Taehyung's jolting body as he began to build a momentum to the way he fucked into him, slow but rhythmical, forceful but precise. "Aren't you? My little good boy?"

A loud, unavoidable gasp left past Taehyung’s loose lips as he hunched over the sink, toes tightly curled in his shoes as one of his many reactions to Jungkook’s quickened thrust. His hands were balled up into fists; forearms resting on each side of the sink whilst he arched his ass further back. “Y-your good boy, yes,” the elder rasped out, voice as thin as ice, and tone as unstable as his legs while Jungkook fucked him. “Hngh.. I love you, fuck me harder.”

If harder was what Taehyung wanted, Jungkook was in no position to deny his wishes. He knows just how whipped the elder was for his muscles, and the endless hours spent building and maintaining them surely didn't go unnoticed by his husband. Rather the opposite, Kook loved the attention-- ever since they were younger, the elder seemed to have a special fascination towards the strength Jungkook possessed. He allows his body to serve as a response to Taehyung's request, the hand on his hip digging harder into his tanned skin, holding him in place as the younger increases the force of his thrusts, at first dragging his entire length in and out to ensure that every single inch of Tae's insides feels the friction of being filled to the brim.

"Oh my god.." Jungkook huffs out, throwing his head back, screwing his eyes shut in rapture as he pounds mindlessly, focusing only on how good it feels right at this moment to just fuck his husband dumb. The phone in his hand became less of a priority at this point, shaky and blurred, however it captured every wet sound of their bodies joining, every breathy grunt, and every single squeak of the sink as Kook's powerful hips jerked Taehyung's body forward roughly.

The gnawing weight of a hundred curse-words on Taehyung’s tongue never subsided. Every invasive jerk of his husband’s quick hips made him want to scream out in rapture; to sob from the overwhelming feeling of Jungkook’s rigid cock entering him over and over again until he was so fucked out that his eyes no longer saw the faded blue-wash of the tiles on the spinning bathroom wall.

Taehyung fuckin’ loved that. He felt as if he was floating on cloud nine; as if he was reliving his brief encounter with drugs when he was a young teen. His husband’s fucking was a heavy drug, there was never a time where Taehyung didn’t enjoy the high it gave him.

“I love it when you put me in my place, hmph!” Tae’s voice was sultry— breathy. Still as deep, but far more hitched. Every menacing smack of Jungkook’s pelvis against his rosy skin stole his breath away, gasps getting caught in the man’s throat before they were reduced to soft mewls. “F-fuck, daddy’s fat cock never disappoints..” The elder straightened his spine, caramel shoulder blades flexed as he depended on his weak arms to keep him in place. Taehyung stared at Kook’s diverse expressions through the mirror; internally praising himself. Moaning, one of his arms blindly reached backwards until his hand groped Jungkook’s ass, feeling the muscles twitch with every thrust. He tipped his head back against Kook’s shoulder, turning his head until Taehyung could smell the odor of built-up sweat on the small dip of Jungkook’s pale skin.

His back remained lightly arched, driven forward from every slam to his wet insides. “Ah, fuck.. yes, daddy!” The elder’s nose was burrowed in the crook of Kook’s neck, brows twitching slightly as a sudden warmth approached his lower stomach.

"Love when you call me daddy." Jungkook breathes out his words in a haste, grunts following with every thrust, smacking his pelvis against Taehyung's plump ass to feel it jiggle against him. He snakes one strong arm around his husband's torso, the one holding the cellphone to angle it back to film the reflection, as the other keeps a tight grip on his hip to ensure his lover doesn't fly forward from the rough effort he puts into every sloppy thrust.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, baby. Look at your pretty, big cock--fuck.." Kook couldn't look away from the view in the mirror, the elder's body was erotic in this position, skin glistening with sweat, cock swollen and red, looking as if it was about to burst at any second with how well Kook fucked into him.

"A-are you close? God, I'm gonna cum... fill your ass up so well, I want you to hold it in until we get home, okay?" Jungkook nudges the elder's cheek with his nose to bring them face to face. "Kiss me, wanna taste your pretty moans as you cum."

Taehyung enthusiastically attached his touch-starved lips to Jungkook’s smaller, sweeter ones. His warm hand extended upwards to eagerly cup his husband’s face, the pad of his thumb swiping across the younger’s scar whilst he deepened their messy kiss, low hums of approval ringing from profound in his rising chest. His squirming body jolted forward with more force, the ability to withstand Jungkook’s irregular thrusts slowly drained out of him, leaving Taehyung frail to every insignificant nudge.

“G-Gonna cum.. gonna cum so much..!” The elder leaned in once more, unable to take the empty feeling in his mouth. He generously sucked on Jungkook’s tongue, their drool running past his chin and slowly cascading down Taehyung’s neck, illuminating the way his Adam’s apple would bob with every forceful swallow. His husband’s spit was so warm. It was like medicine to his drained throat.. There came a time where Tae’s breathing was getting scarce; he pulled away with a soft gasp. His curtained eyes were glazed with fresh tears, vision blurry as he looked down at his swollen dick and the way it hit against the sink’s cooling edge.

So close..

“F-fuuck! Oh.. hngh, daddy, I’m gonna— A-aahh— ah.. hmm!” His high-pitched moans were muffled against Jungkook’s slick lips, mouth unmoving as Taehyung focused on giving his husband every drop of his filthy sounds.

He stayed still for a few seconds, twitching against Jungkook’s larger body, whining whilst his eyes fluttered shut.

“Fuck... I’m hungry.”

© sombreboy 2020. Do not repost, edit or translate.

#fic: dining out #taekook smut #vkook smut #jungkook x taehyung #bts mxm #bts mxm smut #mxm smut #dom jungkook #sub taehyung #taehyung smut #jungkook smut #boymeetsmxm #bangtanarmynet #sombreboy

[jetsetlife138]

Are you still accepting prompts/requests? Could I get #74 or #75 with Alastor x fem reader if you are? Please and thank you in advance :)

Whew! Sorry this took so long! I just kept rambling on, haha. I hope that it’s enjoyable nonetheless! Cheers! xo 

74) “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you wanna fuck me and kill me at the same time.”

75) “Touch her again and I’ll rip your heart out through your fucking mouth.”

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature

You just wanted a drink. After the day you had of being Katie Killjoy’s bitch at the 666 News, you were utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically. Being her assistant was your eternal punishment, and it was a fate worse than death.

The sound of the glass hitting the counter as the bartender set the much-needed shot down in front of you drew your attention. Raising the shot to your lips, you toasted the bartender before downing the dark brown liquid that left behind a delicious burn in your throat on the way down. 

Lifting your hand, you subtly asked for another, to which the bartender nodded with an understanding grin.

You downed the next shot, shaking your head at the bartender when he glanced back at you, silently checking to see if you wanted another.

You sighed, turning your back to the bar and surveying the scene. The bar was packed with the usual obnoxious crowd. All of them were repugnant and not worth the time of day to strike up a conversation with. Not to say that you thought too highly of yourself, but if you had to choose between forcing yourself to bear the company of one of those fools, or keep to yourself, you always chose the latter. 

Too caught up in your own thoughts, you hardly noticed a fiendish character approach you, taking a seat beside you, and leaning in too close for comfort. “Hey there, gorgeous. What’s a morsel like you doing over here all by yourself?”

Ignoring your signals that repelled men like him, he placed a hand on your thigh, waiting for an answer. Usually, you would smack it away, but your mind was hazy and your body was compliant due to the effects of the alcohol.

His hand continued to smooth over your thigh as you eyed him with disdain. “Remove your hand, please,” you asked nicely, finally coming to your senses.

He frowned. “Oh, come on, baby. Don’t be like that. I just want to show you a good time.”

You pushed his hand away, glaring at him. “I’m not interested. Please, leave me alone.”

For a moment, the masculine creature looked angry before he smoothed his expression over and made the motion to return his hand to it’s previous placement on your thigh, ready to sweet talk you into allowing him to stay, until a very noticeable and unnatural chill swept over you both. 

The man stopped in his tracks as a dark void seemed to sweep across the entirety of the bar, over the walls, floor, and the patrons, narrowing in on the two of you. 

It was then that you saw him next to you, morphing into a physical being rather than the shadow from which he had formed. 

The Radio Demon.

The demon whose very name brought panic and dread to those unfortunate enough to know of his reputation. His back was arched forward, poised to lunge as his crimson eyes pierced through the dark room, glaring directly at the man next to you, who was practically choking on his own breath at the very sight of the terrifying demon.

The unwelcome bar patron who couldn’t take a hint took a moment to collect himself before straightening his posture and closing his mouth, which had fallen agape due to the initial shock of the Radio Demon’s appearance. “Uhm,” he stammered, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I-Is there s-something that I can h-help you w-with, Mr. Radio Demon, s-sir?”

The tall figure leaned in even closer to address his trembling inferior, showing off his mouth full of sharp, dagger teeth in an unsettling grin. “Touch her again and I’ll rip your heart out through your fucking mouth.”

The man looked tack aback, creasing his brow in disbelief as he acted on instinct, immediately beginning to defend himself against the alpha male. “Excuse me? Listen, I just--”

The Radio Demon’s patience had snapped as he lunged forward, his already terrifying fangs now becoming several rows of fine needles as his jaw unhinged to an unnatural length, the cracks of his bones popping out of place loud enough to echo across the bar. His once round pupils were now threatening slits that could burn a hole through one’s soul. The claws at the end of his fingertips extended, shredding his gloves in the process. Suddenly, from beneath the flirtatious man appeared a void where black tentacles emerged, surrounding the terrified creature who cowered beneath the harrowing stare of the reputable demon. 

“Get out of my sight,” he warned one last time, the static in his voice producing a painful feedback over his barely unintelligible monstrous tone that crawled up from deep within his chest.  

Without allowing even another second to pass by, the man scrambled out of his seat, tripping over the tentacles as he rushed out of the bar through a path that had been cleared for him by the remaining patrons who were awestruck by the scene.

Returning to his former appearance, the Radio Demon turned to address the onlookers. “This is a social gathering, not a picture show for your entertainment,” he snapped. “Go about your business.”

Too afraid to argue, everyone turned their attention away from him, muttering among themselves over what they had just witnessed.

Taking the newly vacant seat beside you, the demon silently requested your hand, to which you hesitantly granted, placing your trembling palm gently in his own. Enclosing his fingers around yours, he brought the back of your hand to his lips as he kissed it lightly, smirking at you with his crimson orbs. “The name is Alastor, dear. I must apologize for that aggressive display, but I could sense your discomfort and wanted to assist you in ridding yourself of that unpleasant company.” 

“Uh… thank you… sir,” you added, earning a smirk from the demon. Grabbing your purse, you turned to leave. “I should, um… I should go.���

“Stay,” he warned, his eyes flashing. “Please, if you would be so kind as to keep me company, I would be in your debt. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s difficult for me to make friends, and you seem like a delight.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you countered skeptically, “You don’t even know me. I could be a complete bitch and a bore to be around.”

Pausing for a moment to allow his crimson gaze to take in your form, he snickered. “I doubt that.” 

You exhaled a nervous laugh. “Uh- yeah. Anyway, thanks for ridding me of… unwanted company.” Your face flushed as your words sounded odd coming out of your mouth. Even though you seemed to be speaking coherently, your words sounded awkward to you, but his presence had you tongue-tied.

“So, dearest… what brings you here?” Alastor asked, his fanged smile beginning to creep into a smirk, and your stomach dipped.

“I just got off of work,” you replied, gripping the edge of the bar and breathing slowly to try and calm yourself. “I-I’m Katie Killjoy’s assistant for the… um... 666 News.”

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze holding you captive as you struggled to remember how to inhale and exhale normally. “You’re afraid of me.” It was just a statement; simple and true.

“Of course I am,” you reply breathlessly, chest still heaving.

His head tilted with curiosity for a moment before he turned to the bartender, signaling him in a silent request for drinks. The bartender swiftly prepared two glasses of what you had recognized as an Old Fashioned.

Sliding them down the bar, Alastor winked at him before placing a glass before you. “Drink,” he demanded, to which you immediately complied with, taking a deep swig.

Your heart was still pounding against your chest even though your breathing had slowed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured you before taking a sip of his own drink. “I am simply here for a chat. That’s all.” 

Finding some liquid courage from the prior shots and the strong drink, you snapped, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like you wanna fuck me and kill me at the same time,” you swallow through a parched throat.

“Ha! My, that’s abrasive,” Alastor chuckled, “I said I wouldn’t hurt you, and I’m proving that to you. Nothing to be afraid of.”

You gauged him with a skeptical glare. “Why are you even talking to me? You don’t like interacting with others, especially not in a romantic capacity…” Or so you’ve heard among the many rumors that had circulated, making you feel safe in the certainty of that knowledge.

“Except when I do,” he confided, his smile stretching even further up his cheeks to bare his fangs at your menacingly. “And I find your company to be very appeasing.”

“What… um… why did you single me out?” The tremor in your voice is obvious, but you don’t bother to try and mask it at this point.

He waited several beats before answering. “Darling, think of this as an experiment.” His head tilts again as he waits for a reaction. When you fail to indulge him, he continues. “You see, I’ve lacked inspiration for decades. My work has become… untamed, lacking focus - aimless, if you will. I’ve come to crave a new form of entertainment.” “Excuse me?” You feel your cheeks heat with anger as it begins to dilute the fear. “Am I understanding this correctly? You think I’m just a damned experiment solely for your entertainment?”

His wicked smile doesn’t falter as he inspects you once again. “You will not be a casualty, if that is your concern.”

Chest tightening in rising panic, you struggled to find words. “That’s not… I won’t… what?”

Your built-up courage quickly deflated as he leaned in closer to you, a determined gleam in his eye.

“Relax, my dear,” he urged, his voice low and smooth. “The fun is just beginning.”

#prompt request #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin hotel

[blissfulalchemist]

"steam rising from a bowl of soup" + dealer's choice!

Dealer’s choice said....

“I don’t care that it’s an inconvenience for you,” Stasia rolled her eyes, arm crossing over her chest, “You’re there to keep things under control.” Fifteen minutes, that’s how long she had spent talking to Jack, well arguing was probably the better term. She rubbed her temple listening to the flimsy excuses of her underling, calculating the time it would take to fly down there herself and fix the situation. “Jack I need you to fix this, that’s all I’m asking of you. If you think it’s an inconvenience for yourself imagine how much of one it’ll be for me if I have to go down there.”

His excuses continued as Stasia looked up at Carly, with her pale skin and blood red eyes, giving a small smile. Carly returned it making her way to the stove in the three bedroom house lifting the lid to inspect the contents inside. Stasia paced the kitchen lips tightening into a thin line, “Look I’m going to give you ten hours to fix this whole situation or to at least be in the process of doing so, got it?” She paused her eyes narrowing as she lowered her voice, “Jack if I have to go down there, you will regret it.” Stasia hung up the phone tossing it onto the table as Carly set the fresh bowl of soup in front of it. “You know I miss when you could slam a phone closed.”

“Or slam them against the cradle,” Carly laughed lightly, her smile widening showing off her elongated canines, “Can’t tell you how many of both I broke.” The two women laughed as they took a seat, Stasia leaning down to the bowl, steam brushing along her cheekbones. “Should I start making arrangements for the jet, Stasia?”

“Hm,” she waved her hand, “Not yet, no. They’re all incompetent but Jack is the least out of them all.”

“Which Jack is it?” Carly asked resting her chin on her hand, “Hit the Road Jack or Jack Hammer?”

“The one in New York,” Stasia smiled with a small eye roll, “You just love giving all of them code names?”

The pale woman shrugged leaning back in the chair, “Makes it easier to keep track of the region and we have like five different Jacks in leader positions.” Carly bit her lower lip focusing on the space behind Stasia, “New York is Jack DiCaprio, I don’t think that’s saying much.” Carly’s eyes focused back on Stasia as she brought the spoon to her mouth, “I can make some calls, have Hugo on the ready.”

Stasia gave a nod, a smile coming onto her face as she took the first bite, “My god Carly, you managing to keep your cooking prowess after all these years seems unnatural.” Carly smiled, head tilting down pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear, some human habits never left, her embarrassed mannerisms being the most prominent. “I am forever grateful that I get to be the one to reap that fact,” Stasia praised taking another bite, the phone vibrating once more. 

She rolled her eyes, “I’ll go and make the call,” Carly said softly making her way to the basement of the house.

Stasia answered, putting the phone on speaker, “This better be life or death Jaqueline,” Maybe we do have too many Jacks.

“Kind of,” the woman on the other end replied, “We lost hold of Bexley ma’am.”

Her spoon clattered into the bowl, “You WHAT!”

“We lost-.”

“I heard you the first time,” she growled, rubbing her forehead, “What I want to know is how you managed to lose hold of it?”

“Uh,” Jaqueline’s voice wavered, “Well there’s a new Strigoi, he was some MMA fighter or something, and well he’s wanting to have a region to call his own.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well he’s very charismatic,” the woman added quickly, “Some of the uh women and men helped him.”

“Some of our people helped him.”

“That’s correct ma’am.”

Stasia took a deep breath, “So what do you plan on doing to get Bexley back?”

“Uhm,” Stasia could hear the movement of the woman shifting, “Well I was hoping to get your input on that.”

Stasia stayed silent, the woman doing the same for the next ten seconds, “Well tell me your plan.” 

“Right, uh, yeah. My plan.”

“You don’t even have a plan,” she slammed her hand on the table, standing, “So what you just thought you could call me and I’d have one magically ready for you?” The woman on the phone stuttered, “That’s not how this works Jaqueline. I put you in charge so you could put out fires like this, so that I can focus on the bigger picture. I can’t keep coming over and doing your job for you otherwise what’s the point of having you around, hm.” 

“I-I- Well you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll get. I’ll take care of this.”

Stasia crossed her arm, resting it in the crook of her elbow, “You better, because as your predecessor would tell you,” she lowered her voice, “there are no second chances.”

“But didn’t you uh,” the woman started to ask, swallowing hard, “You know uh that doesn’t matter. I’m gonna go and get right on remedying the situation.”

The woman hung up, Stasia gripping the phone, knuckles white, teeth grinding, “INGRATES!” 

Her free hand shot out slapping the ceramic bowl off the table, its destination the wall to her right. The pieces fell ringing in Stasia’s ears, her hands resting on the table, nails digging into the dark wood. Carly approached her quietly, hand reaching out to her shoulder, “How hard is it to keep an eye on territory, Carly? Tell me, because you seemed to handle it just fine all those years ago.”

“Well back in my day,” Carly’s voice taking on a crotchety lilt, “I made sure there was loyalty among my faction, all I needed was a good punch.” The corners of Stasia’s lips quirked briefly in a smile, “You know how these kids are, they think the way to win is through mind games only.”

Stasia let out a sigh, “It makes it irritating,” her eyes met Carly’s, “Did you get Hugo on standby?”

She nodded, “Just needs to know where we’re going.”

“I hope you’re craving British,” Carly groaned, “We lost Bexley.”

Carly’s mouth fell open, “How-. We lost Bexley.” Stasia gave a short nod, “That should have been the easiest to keep an eye on.”

“Well Jaqueline had some traitors in her midst.”

Carly rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up, “Of course it’s Jaque the Ripper.” She shook her head, “I’ll call him and let him know we’ll be leaving after your-.”

The sharp ring of the doorbell had both women looking to the front of the house, Stasia glancing at the clock on the wall. Still too early for her apprentices to be showing up for their lessons. Carly gave a nod, making her way back down to the basement, Stasia glancing through the peephole once she made it to the door. She cocked a brow seeing the multi-colored hair of her newest addition. “Tia,” she greeted, opening the door, smile easily coming to her face, “I didn’t expect you to come by until later.”

The young woman looked down, pushing some hair behind her ear, “I know, I’m sorry. I just-,” Tia inhaled deeply, “I need to talk  to you Stella.”

Stasia opened the door farther, “Of course, sweetie, come in.” Tia nodded, shoulders hunching over as she made her way over the threshold, “Can I get you anything to drink? Tea or water perhaps?”

Tia swallowed, shaking her head, Stasia catching a glimpse of the tears in the twenty year old’s eyes, “No thank you.”

Stasia put her arms around Tia’s shoulders, guiding her to the living room sofa, “Honey what happened?” The tears started to fall as the two women sat down on the sofa, “Oh Tia,” Stasia whispered, pulling her closer, smoothing her hair, “You can tell me anything.”

She nodded, sniffling, “I know. I know, but I-I have to drop out of my lessons with you.” She pulled away wiping at her face, “I have to go back home for a- Well I don’t know how long actually.”

Stasia’s brows knitted together, “What happened at home, sweetie?”

“My mom’s sick,” Tia whispered, eyes cast down, “I have to go and take care of her.” 

“Your mom’s sick,” Stasia repeated, as the young woman nodded, “Well that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” She smoothed the dyed hair, “Don’t worry about the lessons,” Tia’s eyes went wide, “You have enough skill to be able to practice on your own.”

“But I might not have the time to learn what you want to be teaching me. She might need around the clock care.”

“I was actually thinking that we change your curriculum,” Stasia grabbed her hands, giving her a sympathetic smile, “Magic is mostly about practice. So matter what kind of spell you do it will strengthen your power. I have some books downstairs that contain healing spells and rituals.”

“I-. Are you saying I could get rid of whatever is wrong with her?” Tia sat straighter, her lips quirked in a hopeful smile.

“Well,” Stasia looked down, letting out a slow breath, “no, not really. These are spells meant for minor illnesses and injuries.”

“Oh.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t use them to help your mom still,” Stasia brushed some of Tia’s hair back, “I assume it’s cancer?” 

Tia nodded, “Currently Stage three.”

“Well you can use these to help in providing comfort and relieving some of the pain that comes with it.”

“Maybe stop it from getting worse?”

Stasia smiled, “Possibly. I can’t guarantee that though.” She patted Tia’s knee, “Here let me grab them for you. You just stay right here.” She stood making her way to the basement, smile spreading across her face. 

Carly smirked watching as Stasia skimmed the library, “What’s got you all happy all of a sudden?”

“Tia’s mother is sick,” she glanced over her shoulder, “Stage three cancer.”

Carly blinked, her smile falling away, “Oh, that’s terrible,” Stasia nodded, mumbling to herself, “So why do you seem so happy about that?”

“A-ha,” Stasia pulled a black leather bound book, eyes scanning for another, “Well I told her that there wasn’t anything that could fully heal away her mother’s cancer.” She pulled a brown leather bound book along with a thinner journal, both with matching Nordic runes, “There is though.”

“So why not tell her that?”

“Because Carly,” she answered, setting the books down getting some supplies together for travel, “Tia could prove to be more useful than just a power source. I could make her a full time apprentice.” 

Carly nodded along slowly, “Be nice to have someone like you on the other side of the world.” Stasia beamed at Carly, “But she seems so….nice.”

“Not until she gets a little taste of the power she could have,” she held up a vial to the light, “and ailing parents are such great motivators to try something a little more unethical in her eyes at the current moment.”

Carly’s red eyes flicked to the black book, “There’s a spell in there that can do that.” Stasia hummed, “And what if she doesn’t take the bait?”

Stasia looked at her slowly, “Don’t tell me the Jacks have gotten to you, Carly.” The undead woman put her hands up, “She’s still of use just less than if she does the spell I want her to do.” She closed up the box, bringing it to the stairs, “Trust me though, a girl like her always takes the bait. She’s just going to be the first to live through it.” Carly looked her up and down, frowning with her brows knitted together until Stasia was out of the door. 

Tia stood hearing Stasia make her way back to the living room, “Here let me help you with that, Stella,” she rushed over grabbing the box from the bottom. “This is a lot of stuff. I don’t think I can accept all of this.”

Stasia waved a hand, “I insist. It’s just something to get you started anyway.”

Tears brimmed her eyes once more, “Thank you. Thank you so much,” Tia reached out with one arm, Stasia following in the embrace, “This means so much to me.”

“Oh of course honey,” she pulled away, hands on Tia’s shoulders, “Now you just call if you need anything in those spells that you can’t find at home okay? I can send some out to you no problem.” The young woman nodded enthusiastically, Stasia smoothing her hair once more, “Now you get going to your mother. She needs you right now.” 

Stasia leaned in the doorway watching as the mint green VW bus drove off in the midday sun, hearing the basement door start to creak open. She closed the door coming face to face with Carly, “What did you mean she would be the first to live through that spell?”

“The one that’s needed takes a lot from a witch, some girls didn’t have the power needed. Shame for a few of them actually.”

Carly crossed her arms, Stasia gliding past into the kitchen, “What makes you so sure though?”

Stasia paused, looking over her shoulder, “Because I know exactly what Tia is and the power that comes with someone like her.” She gave a chuckle, grabbing the broom, “Well if it's at the same level of a Moroi.”

#stasia e. oc #not that long but a little something for the queen

[alexandralyman]

Bite Me

Halloween may be over now, but if you’re still in the mood for a bit of darkness then I’ve got this not so little CS vampire AU you might be interested in. 

Once upon a time Emma Swan was a princess. But that was before she died and was reborn as a vampire, forever thirsting for human blood. Now she works nights as a bounty hunter, chasing down bail jumpers with her enhanced senses and she's out on the hunt after a mysterious dark-haired man whose blood calls to her like none before. Can she resist taking a bite?

Now a few little notes about this, it has an open ending but I’m considering it a complete one shot, I just needed to get the creative process flowing again and this was the idea that came to me. I’m using “Rogers” as Killian’s alias, which I know is touchy for people who didn’t like S7, this is still a Captain Swan story though and no S7 characters appear. It’s a vampire AU, so there’s biting and blood drinking but I don’t think it’s super graphic or heavy on the gore factor.

Words: 8300, Rating: M AO3 Link  FF. net Link

                                                bite me

Once upon a time, Emma Swan was a princess.

Not one that was famous, or noteworthy, or of any great importance. Her royal house had been a minor one and was long forgotten, from when what was now Germany had been ruled by a collection of provincial dynasties and grand duchies, but she'd been born a real, actual princess, in a castle nestled deep in a forest of ancient myths and folklore that warned pretty young maidens not to wander alone in the woods after dark.

She'd died as a princess too, in the arms of the man who'd hid his sharp teeth behind a lazy smile and lured her away from the safety of the tall stone walls to take both her virginity and something far more precious from her on one moonless night, centuries ago.

Her life was supposed to have been a fairy tale, of balls and banquets and happily ever after with a handsome prince.

Now if was a horror story, of blood and death and a thirst that could never truly be quenched.

Emma Swan was a vampire, and she was on the hunt.

For a bail jumper, not for blood (although she'd take a little of that too, a girl had to eat, after all) just another scumbag who hadn't shown up for court and disappeared into the night. Bounty hunting was the perfect job for a vampire, she was a predator at heart, and she could set her own hours and work exclusively after sunset without raising any suspicion. And if a skip was a little paler once she'd brought them in and collected her reward? Well, no one ever noticed the tiny little bite marks on their necks.

She hadn't drunk for days, too preoccupied with her latest case to hunt for mere food. Not that it was ever that hard to find sustenance, Emma wasn't a princess anymore but she'd been bestowed many other titles by men over the years, a doll, a looker, a fox, a babe. It wasn't difficult to entice one into the woods, or an alley, or back to her apartment for "coffee,", letting them think they had been the one to seduce her and then turning the tables on them once they were alone and there was no one to hear them scream when the sexy, flirty blonde turned into a stone-cold bloodsucker. Sometimes she just drank, piercing a vein with teeth that went pointed and sharp as fangs at the scent of the blood moving just beneath the surface of the skin, rich, red elixir that was thick on her tongue and gave eternal life to the dead and damned. They stopped screaming then, Emma could make it feel good, so good that they surrendered willingly into her embrace and would let her drain them completely dry if she wanted to, although she hadn't done that in years. Too messy, to have to find a way to dispose of the body afterwards, and too complicated these days to have meals suddenly go "missing."

If she wanted to play with her food then she'd take them to bed first, on the nights when the need between her legs equalled her hunger and it was even more satisfying to fuck and feast, sometimes doing both at the same time.

That's what *he* had done, coaxing her thighs open with his pretty lies and false promises on that night so long ago, stealing her innocence before sliding his fangs into her slender neck, only he hadn't stopped when her heart did.

Either way, Emma made sure they forgot exactly what had been done to them and they woke up in the morning with nothing more than a headache from the blood loss and what they thought was a dream of a beautiful woman with lips stained crimson and skin as pale as moonlight.

She didn't dream, not since her last one turned into a nightmare from which she'd never woken up.

The bar where they were supposed to meet sounded like a dive (The Dark Hollow? Seriously, what kind of name was that?) but it was surprisingly upscale, sleek and modern, the kind of place where all the liquor was top shelf and the staff could double as models. Still, Emma turned her share of heads when she walked in and she could hear heartbeats around the room speed up as the men (and a few of the women) took her in. Tight dress, towering heels, tousled curls, she was dressed to kill and more than capable of actually doing it. The urge never fully went away, but tonight she'd have to settle for the satisfaction of only capturing her prey instead. She quickly scanned the dim interior and zeroed in on a man sitting smack dab in the middle of the room, seated alone at a table for two. As if he sensed her arrival he looked up from his phone, meeting her gaze and giving a smile that was the most dangerous thing in the room after her.

John Rogers. It was almost certainly an alias, probably a bit of identity theft on top of the charges of stealing from his employer, Gold Enterprises. He had dark hair, just the right amount of stubble on a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes as blue as the midday sky.

Not that Emma had actually seen the midday sky in person since the day she'd died, a perfect, clear day where the sun was warm and the gentlest of breezes had stirred her long skirts about her ankles as she walked into the forest without knowing that she'd just lost blue sky forever under the thick canopy of the trees and the shadow that lurked on the path ahead.

The memory made her falter for a moment before she pushed it away and strode right up to his table, putting a swing in her hips that made his heartbeat stutter and skip a beat. Emma was a vampire, but she was still a woman and it was gratifying to have such an effect on him, even though she was only here for the bounty and the unofficial bonus that had been offered by the owner of Gold Enterprises to bring him in and face justice.

"Anna?" he asked, getting to his feet at her approach. Emma smiled and nodded, she'd used an alias as well on the hookup app where she'd finally found a profile picture that matched his mug shot. His smile grew even wider. "I'm John. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He had an accent, something that hadn't been listed in the police report and the sound of it sent a tingle right down her spine. One of his hands was unnaturally stiff, covered by a black glove that matched his black jeans and black vest. The missing hand had been in the report, with a notation that he wore a prosthetic but there'd been no info about how he'd lost the limb and no one at Gold Enterprises knew the story either. He pulled her chair back and waited until she was settled before sitting back down in his own seat, he might be a thief, but he clearly had some manners. There was a glass in front of him already, half-filled with a dark amber liquor that carried the rich aromas of burnt sugar and heavy spice.

Rum.

Emma ordered wine, she could eat and drink like an ordinary human, but her body took no nourishment from food and nothing could truly slake her thirst except human blood. Everyone tasted slightly different, some people were sweeter, like smooth chocolate or ripe berries, and some were more savoury, like a sharp cheddar or perfectly rare steak.

John Rogers looked like he'd taste like the rum, sweet and spicy at the same time.

And damn, if she didn't want a drink of him.

"More wine?" John asked, after she'd finished her second glass and they'd shared a plate of artful little hor d'oeuvres that did nothing except whet her appetite for something else instead.

"No, I'm good," Emma replied, pushing the empty glass away and eyeing the vein that ran along the inside of his wrist when he reached for the last canape.

"What's the matter love, a bit worried you'll find me too irresistible after another libation?"

From another man it would have come across as smarmy, but somehow he pulled it off. She ran a foot teasingly up his calf under the table, watching his throat bob with a heavy swallow. The honey trap was the easiest way to corral a skip, since Emma found most men couldn't resist a pretty face and the thought of getting lucky even when they should be lying low. John Rogers might be more attractive and have a larger vocabulary than the average deadbeat, but he wasn't any different than the rest of them and when she leaned forward and rested a hand high on his thigh she could hear his blood pumping even faster through his enticing veins, pooling a few inches away from her pointed nails.

"Who says I want to resist you?" she murmured in his ear. The muscle under her hand twitched and he quickly tossed back the last of his rum.

"Well then, I suppose I just have one more question. Your place or mine?"

Normally she'd invite whoever she was tracking back to her place and then take them to the nearest precinct instead, minus a pint or two of their blood. The Rogers case was different though, since whatever it was he'd stolen from Gold Enterprises (the police report was strangely vague and just called it "something of value") hadn't been found after the initial arrest and stringing him along for a little while longer might be the only chance to recover it. There was just one hurdle, a not insignificant one, to her plans.

But the reward would be worth it in the end.

She slid her hand the tiniest bit higher. "Why don't you show me yours?"

There was a flush on his whiskered cheeks as more blood rose to the surface and if Emma still had a pulse, it would be racing with anticipation.

"If the lady insists," he said, voice a low rasp that curled enticingly between her legs while he pulled out his wallet and carelessly tossed a few bills on the table without even looking. They rose in unison, ignoring the knowing looks from the neighbouring table and making their way to the door with his hand settling on the small of her back to guide her. Outside the night air was cool, the sky a deep indigo and plush as velvet while the pavement was slick and the sidewalks damp. It must have rained while they were flirting over overpriced drinks and puff pastry, Emma should have heard it with her vampiric senses but she'd been too focused on John Rogers and the ancient dance of predator and prey. He clearly thought he was the hunter, seducing her into going home with him with his dark good looks and silver tongue, getting what he wanted and then swiping onto the next girl on the app without a second thought. His hand moved, brushing her hip and she tensed, wondering if he was going to cop a feel and grope her ass right outside the bar. Or try to, anyway, since she could break all his fingers before he could blink. But then it was pulled away as he went to shrug off his jacket, draping the soft leather over her shoulders instead.

"While I must say that you cut quite the figure in that dress, it's a bit of a walk to my flat and there's no Swyft drivers around right now."

She realized with a jolt that he'd given her his jacket because it was cold. Emma was dead, she didn't get cold, or hot, not anymore, and she wasn't used to anyone being concerned if she did. She'd been cold when she died, wracked with chills as her life slowly dripped into her murderer's mouth and he hadn't bothered to cover her, dress still hiked to her waist and pale legs splayed open as he drank at his leisure. The twin scars that were left on her neck were a reminder, to never trust anyone again.

John didn't care, not really. He just wanted to get laid.

That's what made her cold, not the nip in the air, cold and hard under her crimson dress and fuck-me heels even as she gave a kittenish smile and thanked him with a delicate hand brushing his chest. She was the real hunter tonight, for his bounty *and* his blood, and she was going to get both.

They walked together like lovers without a care in the world and eyes only for each other, each carrying their own secrets behind the flirty looks and sly innuendo. Emma could see perfectly for blocks and scent everything in the air, the exhaust from cars that had driven by hours earlier, the smell of chicken noodle soup being heated up in one of the apartments above them, every note in the perfume a hooker on the corner was wearing (lilacs, white tea and middlemist flowers) as well as other, more hidden odors, like the drugs in the hooker's blood from when she'd shot up not too long ago, the refuse running through the sewers deep underneath the asphalt and that there was something dead in a nearby dumpster. Too large to be a rat or a raccoon, it was rotting away unseen underneath old coffee grounds and moldy bread.

Most of all she smelled her prey, the metal of his jewelry, rings on his fingers and a necklace just visible at the open collar of his shirt, the fainter scent of whatever shampoo he used still clinging to his dark hair, and the more recent smell of the food they'd just eaten at the bar mixed with rum on his breath.

And his blood.

Always the blood.

He smelled good enough to eat.

John's flat was a small apartment in an older, nondescript building not far from the harbour. He put his key in the lock and opened the door with an offhand, "Come on in," that solved a major problem for Emma. Thanks to his careless invite she was able to cross the invisible barrier and step over the threshold, her stiletto heels making no noise on the floor. Inside it was shadowed and dim, but she could see everything perfectly and took a quick glance around. Couch, coffee table, TV, nothing out of the ordinary but there was also nothing personal about any of it. There was no mail left sitting out, no photos on display, no knicknacks or any kind of hint about the life of the man who lived here and while his scent was present, it was shallow and recent and hadn't had time to fully permeate the space. The apartment was probably a temporary residence, a safe house where he could hide from both the cops and Gold Enterprise's extensive private security, hopefully with whatever he'd stolen from them.

A lamp switched on with a faint click and bathed the room in a soft yellow glow. "You know, I was just about to delete that app when your message popped up."

"Were you?" Emma asked, turning to face him and taking a step back as she did, deeper into the apartment and encouraging him to follow. And follow he did, reaching to pluck the jacket from her shoulders and dropping it over the arm of the couch. His voice was pitched low, intimate, still thinking that he had the upper hand.

"Aye. Never quite found what I was looking for on it, until I met you."

Emma would have said it was just another line, a bit of flattery to help get her out of her dress and into his bed, if it wasn't for her extra little superpower. Vampires had more than just a thirst for blood and eternal youth, they also had special gifts that had given rise to the host of legends and superstitions about the children of the night. Some could jump so high and for so long that it looked like they were flying clear across the sky, some could control and command animals, like a female vampire Emma had met once in the 1920s who kept a pack of spotted dogs to do her bidding, and Emma herself had discovered not long after being turned that she could tell when humans were lying.

John Rogers was being sincere.

Maybe that was why she gave into the impulse, not to bite him, but to kiss him, closing the brief gap between their bodies to press her lips to his. He reacted instantly, mouth opening to match the movement of hers, hand pulling her to him so that they were pressed together from shoulder to knee and a deep groan rumbled in his broad chest at the contact that she felt echo through her right down to her toes. Their noses bumped and their tongues met, she sucked a little too hard on his bottom lip but the rock of his hips to press the hard outline of his erection to her stomach when she did it again told her that he liked it a little rough.

"Fuck," he gasped when they broke apart, pupils dialated with lust and cheeks flushed nearly scarlet under his stubble.

"I think that was implied," Emma laughed. She never slept with skips, but there were hours left before dawn and her thirst was quickly being matched by the growing ache between her legs, one almost as insistent as the urge to feed.

"A gentleman never presumes such a thing," John said with a wink and a grin, another line

that should sound cheesy as all hell and Emma had heard a lot of cheesy pickup lines over the centuries, but somehow he was just enough of a charming bastard to make it work. She almost didn't want to turn him to the cops in at the end of the night.

Almost.

By the time they stumbled into the bedroom Emma still had her heels on but her dress was on the floor somewhere out in the hall, left in a tangled pile with his discarded vest and belt. His shirt was barely clinging to his shoulders, open down the front to reveal a muscular chest covered with a thick dusting of hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared into his boxer briefs. The jeans were undone too, she'd been a bit careless with her strength and hoped he didn't notice that she'd accidentally twisted the button right off before tugging down the zipper. Since his eyes had rolled back in his head and he'd let out a strangled gasp of pleasure when she slid her palm over the bulge of his erection and gave it a good squeeze, she was pretty sure he hadn't seen the little bit of metal rolling across the floor and disappearing under the bed.

She gave another squeeze, just to be sure, and certainly not to hear that delicious noise bubble out of his throat again.

The room itself was like the rest of the apartment, as impersonal as a hotel. Bed, check. Emma could smell that the sheets were fresh and clean, which was a point in his favour. Bedside table with a lamp on top, check. Generic Ikea dresser, check.

A ship in a bottle.

Her eyes narrowed over John's shoulder. It was sitting on the dresser next to some loose change, an actual ship in a bottle. The ship itself was finely detailed, the hull painted with yellow and blue stripes in perfect lines, miniature sails raised on tiny rigging that must have taken hours to set into place. It almost looked real.

For a moment she wondered if that's what he'd stolen from Gold Enterprises, but she dismissed the thought just as quickly. A major corporation wouldn't go to such lengths to recover a kitschy bit of bric-a-brac, it had to be something like a confidential client list or important files. She turned her attention back to the man in front of her, still far too dressed for her liking. Emma went to finish peeling the shirt off his shoulders, only to be stymied when it wouldn't slip off one wrist.

Right, or left, in this case, his missing left hand.

"Ah," he said, when he saw her looking down at the gloved prosthetic. "Long story, which I'd rather not get into now, but if it's a dealbreaker for you, I understand."

He said it easily enough but he was tense, she could see it in the ripple under his skin as muscles tightened and cords flexed while he braced himself for her answer and she wondered if that had happened before, women walking away after discovering he was different.

As someone who was also different, albeit in a way that wasn't so readily apparent on first glance as a missing limb, Emma felt a pang of sympathy for him. She knew was it was like to lose a part of yourself and never get it back.

"It's not," she assured him, reaching out and grasping the prosthetic as gently as she could. They stayed like that, his chest rising and falling for a few quiet breaths and his long lashes resting against his cheeks until he opened his eyes and instead of a cocky smirk or another come-on, he gave her an unguarded, boyish smile that reminded her of the suitors who used to come pay court to her in her father's castle, when her life was still full of laughter and light.

"Just who are you, Anna?" he whispered, and if her heart wasn't silent and still it would lurch at both the longing in his voice and the sharp reminder that she wasn't that starry-eyed princess anymore who nothing of the evils that could lurk behind a man's pretty words. Who was she? She was death incarnate, the wolf in sheep's clothing with blood on her lips.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she countered, flip and flirty, knowing that he didn't, not really. Not if he knew.

"Perhaps I would."

The sentiment was nice, but Emma wasn't the sentimental type so she simply reached behind her back and flicked open her bra, letting the cobwebby lace fall to the floor before thumbing her underwear down her hips and sitting on the edge of the bed to slide the silky bit of nothing off one leg and then the other. The lack of a hand didn't slow him down one whit, he had his shirt completely off and his pants down with speed and dexterity that was impressive even to a vampire. He'd invited her in but she was the one beckoning to him now, sliding back on the duvet and crooking a finger with her tongue just poking from between her teeth. He crawled forward after her on his knees, dark hair falling over his forehead in a careless sweep as his head dipped down and hot breath touched her cool skin.

Lips closed over her nipple, already hard and pebbled with anticipation. She felt it tighten even more when he swirled his tongue around it and flicked the tip before sucking hard. He did the same to her other breast, callused fingers tracing delicate patterns on the inside of her hip and she widened her legs, expecting him to settle between them and get on with it like most men did after a bit of foreplay. But he clearly had something else in mind first, moving lower and lower down her body until that warm breath was hovering right over where she ached the most. The blue eyes looked up, reminding Emma of the sky she never saw anymore and had almost forgotten as he waited for her to give him a sign of assent.

A hand on the back of his head was enough and she quickly found herself clutching a fistful of inky hair as his mouth descended and he began to feast. Damn, Emma thought to herself, he was good at this, really fucking good, circling with his tongue and increasing the pressure on each pass until she was a writhing mess, hips rocking against his face and desperate for more. Just as she was about to fall over the edge he backed off, using only the softest of licks and the faintest of flicks and if he didn't finish the job then she literally was going to kill him.

"Patience," he whispered at her needy whine, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "We've all night, love."

All night, but nothing more. That was all she could ever have now with a man.

His beard scraped against the delicate skin, a shocking contrast to the gentleness of his mouth as he went back to his task, working her up again with lips and tongue and fingers. Pleasure sparked along every nerve, building to the peak at a torturous pace until finally, finally, he sucked hard on her clit and shoved two fingers deep inside her at the same time. Emma's back arched and her jaw dropped from a silent scream, it looked like agony but it was pure ecstasy, her thighs flexing and tightening around his head until the climax finally faded and she went limp against the mattress, boneless and spent. John went up on his knees, looming above her and she didn't even care about how smug the bastard looked, he'd more than earned it. His lone hand wrapped around his erection and he gave it a few slow pumps, raising an eyebrow and asking another question without words.

Emma answered by letting a bit of her vampire strength loose again, flipping him onto his back and pining his wrists to the bed while she swung her leg over him and straddled his lean hips. He blinked up at her in surprise, face still deliciously damp, his pulse fluttering against her thumbs as rapid as a hummingbird's wings. The hard ridge of his erection was now trapped between them, twitching hot against her stomach while she leaned down and let her breasts brush his chest, scraping her teeth on his neck and making the skin redden before tasting herself when she pressed her lips hungrily to his. The urge to taste him was almost overwhelming as her fingers tightened on his wrists, holding him down, her teeth begged to sharpen behind her kiss, but as he said, they had all night. Or almost, since she couldn't linger too long in his bed and risk the sunrise.

There was also the not so insignificant matter of dropping her alias and turning him over to police custody to deal with, but she'd worry about that later.

Emma was more interested now in the way his stomach muscles clenched when she shifted her hips, the drag of his lips between his teeth and the sharp inhale when she almost, but not quite, took him inside. It was her turn to smirk, teasing and torturing him until she was sure he was about to beg for relief.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Anna?"

She faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. "What?"

"Your Happy Ending. The app?" he clarified at her confused look.

Right, the dating app. It had launched with this whole cheesy fairytale theme and commercials about meeting your charming prince and living happily ever after and all that bullshit, but it had quickly morphed into just another hookup app instead, where people got off and got out.

A happy ending.

Life (and death) has taught her that there was no such thing.

"I found you," she said. It was supposed to be flip and flirty, but for some reason it came out far too serious for a one night stand who was looking up at her like she was everything he ever wanted.

The air in the room thickened with tension that only increased as she sank down on him, slowly, inch by inch. Her hands spread flat on his chest to brace herself and she relished the stretch and burn until he was finally buried to the hilt. Emma was dead, had been for centuries, but she felt alive again with a living pulse throbbing inside of her, a heartbeat thudding against her palm and the spreading warmth from the friction as she started to ride him. His knees bent behind her, large feet planting on the bed and finding the leverage to start meeting her moments with his own upward thrusts while she threw her head back and closed her eyes. Their tempo increased of its own volition, a heavy and hot slide of rigid flesh against yielding softness that hovered deliciously on the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. Emma could hear his blood pounding through his veins and the call to her most primal need was almost too much. She fell forward, latching onto his neck with enough force to leave a bruise and only just managing to stop herself from breaking the skin to get to what lay underneath.

"Do it!"

His voice was thick as honey and dripped with promise while his arm wrapped around her back and he turned his head to the side, baring even more of his long throat.

"Bite me!"

It was an invitation Emma couldn't resist and her fangs came out, piercing straight into the plump vein throbbing against her lips. An obscene moan spilled out from above her while her mouth flooded with his blood, warm and rich, like cocoa made fresh on the stove. It was full of life and went straight to her head like alcohol used to but better than any drink or drug could possibly be. And not only did it taste amazing, it briefly tethered them together even more than where they were joined so intimately, letting her feel everything he was currently feeling.

Lust.

Longing.

The sensation was overwhelming, he was still inside her, still rocking up with heavy thrusts even as she took deep pulls from his neck that had to be draining his strength. It would be easy, so easy, to take a little too much, drink a little too long...and then there was a surge that was almost her undoing as he came undone, the blood flowing even harder as he came and the echo of it triggered her own climax, both of them trembling with his body still locked in hers and his vein still open in her mouth until his loud gasp for air and his sluggish heartbeat broke through the haze of blood and sex like a dash of icy water. Emma forced herself to let go, sealing the wound on his neck before it could scar or before she could give in to the worst of her urges whispering seductively in her ear, the dark desire to turn him into something no one should ever have to become.

To make him like her.

"You knew I was a vampire."

It came out harsh and biting, an accusation, not a question. Once the post-coital and post-feeding bliss had faded and she'd realized what had just happened, Emma had stood up and silently gotten dressed before turning to face John Rogers again, still lounging in the rumpled bed with an amused look as if he didn't have a care in the world and wasn't missing a few pints of his blood.

"I had my suspicions, aye. Confirmed once I saw in person that you don't breathe anywhere near as often as you should and you have no heartbeat or pulse."

She folded her arms across her chest, somehow feeling completely exposed even though he was the one who was still naked, arm propped behind his head and sheet draped low across his hips.

"Most people don't notice that. And even if they did, they don't know vampires are actually real."

A dark brow lifted and he gave her an arch look. "When you lived as long as I have, you learn a thing or two."

Emma snorted at that. Lived as long as he had? "John Rogers" was definitely a false identity, but whoever he really was, he didn't look older than thirty-five. Her skepticism only seemed to amuse him further and he gestured showily along himself, the sheet dipping down even lower with the movement. Fresh with his blood she flushed and looked away, which was stupid considering they'd literally just had sex, but she needed to distance herself from that so she could do what had to be done.

His voice lost that honeyed mirth and went more serious and flat. "Don't let the youthful countenance fool you, darling, like you I am far older than I appear. A few centuries older, in fact."

"How?" she spit out. "You're not-"

"-A vampire like you?" he finished. "No, I'm not. In fact, I'm the opposite. I've been magically cursed with eternal life."

That was not what she was expecting, not that Emma even knew what the hell she thought he was going to say, and she stared blankly at him for a few seconds.

"Magically cursed," she repeated at last. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Says the undead vampire who just drank a considerable portion of my blood," he pointed out, and she flushed again with said blood.

"Fine," she said, conceding the point. "You were magically cursed. How?"

His smile curled into something different and for a moment Emma thought she heard the crash of waves upon a shore, the scent of salt in the air and the kiss of the wind on her skin.

"Now that is a rather long and unhappy tale, but let's just say that I once took something of considerable value from a man I considered too cowardly to fight back, and he was, then. Only people sometimes change, don't they, and not always for the better. He came back years later and he was no longer the snivelling coward I'd humiliated in my own arrogance, he was something different, something no longer fully…human. He took this-" John held up his stump of a wrist, "-as punishment, and cursed me with eternal life so that I would always have to live with what I'd done. I can't die, and believe me, love, I've tried."

That got Emma's back up at once, a familiar feeling settling between suddenly tense shoulders. "So is that what the whole 'bite me" thing was about? You've got a death wish and you thought a vampire was your answer?

She was moving before he could say anything, tossing clothes onto the bed in a blur and avoiding his piercing blue gaze. "Get dressed. You skipped out on your bail and there's a warrant for your arrest. I'm taking you in."

"Anna-" he tried to protest.

"Emma," she corrected. It would be on the paperwork down at the station, he was going to find out anyway. "Emma Swan, bailbondsperson. You've got five minutes."

She stormed out of his bedroom and shut the door behind her, needing to put some space between them. Not that it helped much, he might be out of sight but his blood was racing through her veins and she could still feel the echo of his body inside hers. This was why she didn't get too close to skips, they all had some ridiculous sob story and claimed someone else screwed them over.

Her fingers crept up to the scar on her neck and groped blindly for the small patch of maimed skin. Don't trust anyone.

Emma shut out everything else except that. The long years of practice made it quick, if not easy.

She hated that it wasn't easy.

It was both too quiet and too noisy in the small apartment. She could hear the hum from the refrigerator, the rumble of pipes in the walls, the footfalls from someone walking around above and the whistle of a breeze coming through an open window in the...

"Shit!"

Emma wrenched the door right off the hinges when she flung it open and rushed back into the bedroom, hearing everything except his heartbeat. Sure enough, a window stood open and the gauzy curtain was fluttering like a sail. She leaned over the sill and saw an iron fire escape attached to the side of the building that led down to the street, when a pair of headlights suddenly sprung to life from a parked car that fishtailed as it pulled away from the curb and took off in a squeal of rubber that made her wince. As keen as her eyesight was, the angle was all wrong for her to catch the license plate and all she got was a glimpse of the driver, clearly him, looking up at the window with an expression that wasn't angry at her deception, wasn't smug at having tricked her, it was just resigned.

And then he was gone.

She spent the next few days cursing herself for her own carelessness in letting him slip away every time she woke when the sun set, she should have kept her guard up and stayed while he got dressed, or at least left the door open, she was a vampire, for fuck's sake, not the naive princess who had died all those years ago. She could handle being in the same room with a naked man for five minutes.

His profile was still up on Happy Ending but the picture had been changed from the mirror selfie he'd used before to one of a swan, something Emma knew had to be a deliberate jab that she'd definitely felt when she first saw it. Her stakeouts at his apartment had been fruitless and his scent was quickly fading, it was clear he wasn't coming back. Not that there was much to come back to, she'd searched the place thoroughly and there was only a few clothes, some barely touched toiletries that were so new the Target receipt was still crumpled up in the trash, and the ship in the bottle.

The ship was now sitting on her coffee table, since it was the only thing that seemed like it might have some sentimental value to whoever John Rogers really was. Or maybe Emma was just kidding herself and he was nothing more than a thief and a liar.

Gold Enterprises had doubled the reward for his capture and every bounty hunter in three states was now out looking for him. It was only a matter of time before someone tracked him down, and while Emma had a lot of advantages over her human competition, she had one big disadvantage in that she couldn't go outside in the daylight. All of her speed and strength were completely useless from dawn until dusk and it grated at her, always a reminder that she was different from everyone else.

She was currently cooped up alone in her own apartment, waiting for the sun to finish dipping below the horizon before she ventured out in search of new leads. She'd woken up a bit early from the deathlike sleep that was her own eternal curse, which happened from time to time. It was because of the dream she'd been having, of a woman she didn't recognize, dark haired, beautiful, dressed in the clothing of another time and holding a large knife with a jagged blade in one hand and a bright red object in the other.

"Take me away," the woman whispered. "Forever."

When she lifted the knife and pierced it straight through the red thing Emma realized it was a human heart, blood flowing between the woman's fingers and the scent of it hit Emma even in the dream, making her fangs sharpen and jolting her awake.

She was musing on it when her phone buzzed, lighting up with a notification and she snatched it off the table in a blur with sudden wild hope flaring where her heart didn't beat that maybe it was him, messaging her through the chat function on Happy Ending. It quickly turned into a frown of disappointment when she saw it was actually just an email, framed against a photo of the castle where she'd grown up that she'd found online a set as her wallpaper. She thumbed the email open, the frown freezing on her face when she saw what it was.

"Gotcha!" she said out loud to the empty room, shooting the ship in a bottle a triumphant look before jumping to her feet and going straight to her laptop. When she'd first taken on the Rogers case she'd entered his mug shot into a facial recognition program that would auto search the Internet for potential matches. On TV or in a movie it would have spit out a near instant result, but real life didn't work that way and it had been running quietly in the background ever since, going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole of umpteen social media pages, news archives and alumni pages looking for a match. It was a heck of a lot more expensive than a simple Google image search, but the bounty would more than cover the cost and once Rogers had snuck out on her, Emma had to admit that it was personal now, so she'd paid extra for the highest level of data.

And it had returned not one, but *two* potential hits. Emma clicked the first link and watched eagerly as the page loaded, scrolling down until she reached the picture.

And stopped dead. Literally.

It wasn't actually a picture, it was a drawing. Of a man who looked exactly like John Rogers, sketched out in what was probably charcoal on a yellowed piece of paper. They had the same dark hair, the same sharp jaw, same smile that promised danger and excitement both in one fell swoop. But the resemblance wasn't the reason why Emma could feel his blood rushing hot in her ears, it was the other sketch displayed next to his, of a woman with a shawl draped loosely around her shoulders and a large pendant around her neck, staring wistfully out at the viewer from the page.

It was the woman from Emma's dream.

"Milah."

The name fell unbidden from her lips as she quickly scanned the site the images were posted on. It was for an antique and consignment shop in Bermuda, and the pair of drawings were up for sale either individually or as a set. The listing stated that they were believed to have been done by the same artist, and were approximately three centuries old.

"Don't let the youthful countenance fool you, darling, like you I am far older than I appear. A few centuries older, in fact."

His voice whispered in her ear while she clicked on the other link with a numb finger, not sure what to expect. It opened in a separate tab as a wall of mostly text and the picture itself was little more than a thumbnail. Emma enlarged it to get a better look, even though her vampire sight was more than enough to confirm that it was a perfect match.

This one was a photo, and like the one she'd fed into the program it was another mugshot. She wasn't really surprised that he'd been arrested before, what was surprising was that it was clearly much older than the crisp, digital image that had been taken of John Rogers after he'd been hauled out of Gold Enterprises's downtown headquarters. It was in black and white, faded with age and a corner had been torn away. But it was still him, although he was clean shaven and his hair was cut much shorter, in almost a military look. The placard he was holding read:

STORYBROOKE SHERIFF'S DEPT 52-07-20 B&E, VANDAL, THEFT JONES, KILLIAN

Jones, Killian.

Rogers, John.

Quickly, Emma clicked back on the charcoal sketch. Sure enough, there, just where the drawing ended at the man's waist, smudgy and indistinct, were the remains of a name. The "K" was still legible, as were the "a" and the"n."

Killian Jones.

Pieces were rapidly clicking into place as more of the puzzle started to come together. It hadn't been Emma's dream at all, it was his, a memory carried in the blood and passed along when she'd drunk from him for so long and so deep, a memory of a dark haired woman named Milah. The knife and the heart didn't make much sense, but dreams were funny that way. John, no, Killian, had said he was cursed with eternal life, and the sketch and the old mug shot certainly seemed to confirm that he actually was telling the truth about that.

Emma went back to the mug shot. B&E, that was shorthand for breaking and entering, vandal, probably a charge of vandalism, and theft. The 52-07-20 took her a moment longer, until she realized it was the date. He'd been arrested on July 20th...1952. In some place called Storybrooke, wherever that was.

Maine. After a few more clicks she learned that a grad student named Henry Mills was doing an in-depth research project on the history of a small fishing village named Storybrooke, in Maine, and posting parts of it on his blog as he went. The entry with the mugshot had gone up the day before, explaining why the facial recognition program had only just found it. In July 1952 there had been a break in at a local pawn shop that was the talk of the town, if this Henry Mills was to be believed, where windows had been smashed and "an object of value had been stolen," to quote the pawn shop's owner.

His blood was still warm in her veins, but it suddenly ran cold as Emma read the name of the pawn shop where the theft had taken place.

Gold & Son Pawnbrokers

Gold Enterprises.

That couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

An object of value had been stolen.

Killian had told her that he'd taken something of considerable value from a man who'd later taken his hand and cursed him with eternal life. He'd been arrested four months ago for stealing something of value from Gold Enterprises, and apparently had also stolen something of value almost seventy years ago from Gold & Son Pawnbrokers. It had to be connected, but why, and to what end?

The Rogers case had started out as just another skip, but now it was a mystery that had gotten under Emma's skin as an itch that had to be scratched. Or maybe it was because Killian Jones's blood had turned out to be as potent as a drug and she was desperate for another taste of it, of him, and while she wasn't a princess anymore and hadn't been since the night she'd followed Baelfire into the woods and never went home again, she felt more alive than she had in years as she packed a bag and prepared to set off.

She locked up her apartment and headed down to her old yellow Bug, already anticipating salt air and sea breezes at her destination, it would be a welcome relief to her vampire sense of smell from the city stench. Her tight, honeytrap dresses were left behind in favour of more practical jeans and boots, and she'd also changed her profile photo on Happy Ending to send a pointed message back to the man whose taste still filled her throat and made her mouth water.

Crimson text on a black background.

I don't bite...unless you ask me nicely.

A red leather jacket the same shade as fresh blood was slipped over her shoulders and she tossed her bag into the backseat of her car before typing in an address into the Google Maps app and checking the estimated time of arrival. It would be a long drive, but since she didn't need to stop for food or bathroom breaks, just for gas, Emma would reach the little town of Storybrooke Maine just before the sun rose over the ocean.

Her prey had slipped from her grasp once, but the hunt was far from over.

It was just beginning.

#cs fic #cs ff #my fic #captain swan #bite me

[greensaplinggrace]

Barret Apocalypse AU Pt. 2

PART 1 | PART 2 of Prompt: “Hello! This is kind of out there but I was wondering if you could do a post apocolypse au? With tons of Barret but not very shippy. With lots of found family though! Thanks” ~ @eilesgiire

CAN BE FOUND HERE ON AO3

Three hours and seven houses after leaving camp, Barret still hasn’t found a single shelter even remotely suitable for living.

Most have been the victims of roaming Mobs, walls shredded and marked by the distinct silver shards of glass bombs, destroyed simply for the safety and seclusion of their locations, and the select few that haven’t been touched by the Mobs are overrun by the infected instead. One place is even reduced to shambles by what appears to be an earthquake, not even slightly inhabitable.

Every single time, the houses will look stable from a distance. Safe to explore and eventually settle in for the winter. And every time, they all turn out to be unusable and they all reveal themselves to be disappointing in some way. He’d headed out to look for any house worthy of a home, but not a single place he’s come across so far is even close to meeting his criteria. 

It doesn’t have to be much, but it has to be enough.

He won’t settle for anything less when it comes to his little girl.

It hurts to even be separate from her for so long, but he has to do this. If he wants to keep their camp safe, but especially if he wants to keep her safe.

Barret only wants what's best for Marlene; it’s always been what he’s wanted. Beyond the bid for environmental change and the firm rise against corrupt policies. Underneath rebellions and uprisings and what the media had once called terrorism. Throughout all of it - the loud, brash call for freedom and challenging the winds of fate themselves - Barret’s interests have never strayed from Marlene. 

Everything he does, he does for her. Keeping the world safe keeps Marlene safe, and providing for Marlene is all Barret has ever wanted to do since the first moment she settled in his arms.

Unfortunately, providing for Marlene means taking risks, and taking risks means leaving her.

Used to be, taking risks meant risking Marlene as well, but Tifa’s solid presence at his side has been a boon the likes of which Barret had never expected. Sent by the planet herself, Tifa had come into their lives not in a whirlwind but in a steady drive back to camp after the day she’d recovered - the day he’d thought she left for good - with a truck bed full of three years worth of supplies and four suitcases brimming with clothes and toys for Marlene.

She’s done nothing but prove her worth every day afterward, pulling her weight around camp and helping to ease the burden of responsibility just a bit. Just enough for him to feel like he’s finally getting somewhere - like he can finally do what he needs.

So now, Marlene is always safe. Tifa stays with her when Barret goes out. Or Barret stays with her when Tifa goes out. Leaving Marlene no longer means abandoning her, and taking care of her doesn’t mean putting her at risk, and recently the world has stopped looking as bleak as it once had. Filling instead with just the faintest, glimmering tinge of hope. 

But no amount of hope can change the fact that they need a solid roof over their heads, and no amount of trust in Tifa can help Barret miss his daughter any less.

Hope certainly isn’t getting Barret any closer to finding salvageable shelter, either, and he’s just beginning to give up on the last of it when a woman’s scream rips through the silence of the forest.

Barret hits the brakes with a grating screech and skids over to the side of the road immediately. Eyes wide through the shade of his glasses as he peers intently out the smudged windows of his truck, attempting to gauge any sort of threat level. He’s reluctant to exit the car just yet in case it’s a trap, but if it is a call for help Barret can’t just sit idly by while someone suffers.

He searches for a time before he notices where the screams are coming from, but eventually he sees it. Just down a small pathway in the forest that opens up into a wide clearing sits a house. It’s a massive, immaculately pristine mansion practically crawling with the infected, but that isn’t what chills him to the bone. 

Dawn has started to break out the first light of the next day, and the vivid red rays cast a gruesome pallor over the scene laid out before him. 

Littered across the blood slick grasses of the clearing are dozens of bodies - possibly hundreds - skewered and piked and cut to pieces like cattle. He’s stumbled into a damned battlefield, Barret realizes, and there’s only one group savage enough to do something like this.

SOLDIERs.

Without another thought he’s out of the car and slamming the door closed behind him. Infected he can deal with. SOLDIERS he can put up a fight against. But whoever is in that mansion? He doubts they can do either, otherwise they’d already be out amidst the fallen.

He sees the group of SOLDIERS almost immediately when he reaches the dip at the end of the pathway, the whole of the clearing opening up before him like some sick wartime display. There’s a man sprawled across the ground right in front of him whose eyes have been burned clean out of his skull, mouth smeared with blood and chest caved in. Laying dead beside him is another person, a woman with her head half severed at the neck and legs bent at an impossible angle. Then another and another, extending out in front of him and beside him, leading into the trees and up to the mansions doors. 

At a guess, Barret would say they’re guards, but most of them aren’t even whole enough to identify, either butchered by their aggressors or gnawed at by the crowd of zombies currently tearing at the walls of the mansion.

It’s a level of cruelty Barret has never seen before in his life, and he considers himself a strong man when it comes to violence, but even entering the clearing has his stomach turning at the mere sight of the blood, pooled in wet patches of mud and glinting off matted blades of grass. It’s a massacre.

Killing the sick fucks who did this wouldn’t be punishment enough.

The fact that they’re still here, though? That’s what really pisses him off. There’s only two that he can see, gathered nearer to Barret than the mansion and both looking down at something on the ground, weapons drawn and ready as if they’re not already surrounded by the bodies of their victims. One has red hair and the other has long, distinct silver hair that Barret would be able to recognize anywhere, based on the propaganda that had run rampant throughout Midgar before it’s collapse. 

Which means the other must be Genesis.

The first time Barret finally gets to come face to face with the war criminals who have destroyed the lives of so many - who worked gladly for the company that destroyed Barret’s life - and it’s when the world has been overrun by knock-off zombies and mako addicted gangs. And to make matters that much more complicated, there’s only two of the five he knows to exist currently present.

Two people who did all of this.  

Shinra really did create monsters.

The heat that burns through Barret’s veins is pure rage when he hears the screams in the mansion cut out in one last abrupt, terrified screech, still standing surrounded by the brutalized bodies of the dead, a horde of infected not even a few meters away and a sea of blood like the earth is bleeding. While these people - these murderers - just linger at the scene of their own crime and talk like this is a damned vacation and not a fucking massacre. 

Without even thinking of the danger, Barret is whipping his gun into the air and preparing to fire, free hand clenched into a furious fist at his side and vicious words already at the tip of his tongue. Ready to finally do something for once - ready to fight back and take control -

Yet before he can so much as consider firing, a movement catches his eye. A shock of matted blonde hair that shifts between the only two men still standing. Pale, bloodied limbs struggling to gain traction against the soaked and unforgiving earth. The hacking cough that follows is enough to sober Barret like a bucket of ice cold water as he realizes that somebody is still alive. Pinned between two super soldiers and lying prone as Sephiroth’s sword descends for the final blow.

Barret’s heart hits the back of his throat.

“Hey!” he yells, starting forward as they turn to face him. He ignores the warning frowns that mar their faces, Sephiroth’s sword drawing back ever so slightly as if to attack him instead, and powers on with his gun raised. “Hey! Get the hell away from him!”

It’s Genesis that ends up facing him fully, snapping his sword to attention in one quick, smooth motion and pointing it directly at Barret. It forces him to stop dead in his tracks a good few feet away from them, but Barret’s close enough now to see the pallid state of their faces and Sephiroth’s unnaturally slitted pupils. He looks like a ghost of the pictures Barret had once seen, cracked at the edges and wild eyed, paler than the dead and hair askew like some tormented ghost.

He doesn’t look alive.

And Genesis isn’t much better. Barret never had the chance to get a glimpse of him the way most had been able to with Sephiroth, but he can take a wild fucking guess that the graying, unwashed hair and sallow complexion isn’t normal. Nor is the way he’s acting right now, sword extended in a threat as a twisted smirk graces his delicate features. 

They’ve both gone completely off the deep end.

The blonde on the ground isn’t faring too well, either. They’ve done a number on him, kicked and beaten him until his skin is coated in bruises, hair caked in blood and clothes ripped. There’s a cut down his shirt that looks like it was made by the straight edge of a sword purely for the purpose of exposing skin, and Barret’s veins run cold in a different kind of fury at the sight.

It’s easier now than it had been even days ago to believe the rumors. That the SOLDIERs were the ones to start this apocalypse; that it was Shinra’s precious little lapdogs who let the world fall into chaos.

Gaia, Barret is endlessly grateful that Marlene and Tifa aren’t here to see this right now.

“I ain’t playing around,” he snaps, “back the fuck off before I shoot.”

“This isn’t any business of yours,” Sephiroth sighs, sounding as if he’s discussing the weather instead of some poor man’s life, and Barret has to unclench and clench his fist again to refrain from shooting that smug mug right off his face, “I suggest you move along.”

“It’s not going to happen, you twisted fuck.”

Sephiroth’s lips thin at that, his blade finally falling away from the blonde completely as he turns to face Barret alongside Genesis. He looks incandescently angry, eyes alight with a demented sort of fury that has Barret’s hair standing on end, but he doesn’t back down. SOLDIER or not, he’ll find a way to stop them.

“I ain’t gonna let you murder somebody right in front of me!” he protests heatedly, swinging his gun around to face Sephiroth when the other’s eyes narrow dangerously. “The hell is wrong with you?! He’s on the ground right now. He can’t even fight back. ”

“This is SOLDIER business.”

“Of course, that’s why it involved the eighty guard rotation of some rich fuck’s manor? Dead servants and a horde of zombies clawing at the doors of a building that doesn’t even belong to you? SOLDIER business, my ass.”

Sephiroth sucks in a sharp breath, grip tightening ever so slightly on the hilt of his blade, but Barret doesn’t waver an inch as those hateful eyes glare venomously. 

“I don’t know you and I don’t care to,” Sephiroth hisses, “but if you continue to try my patience, you’ll soon become acquainted with my blade. This is your last warning.”

“To hell with your fuckin’ warnings. How ‘bout I don’t shoot you for murdering half a small town’s worth of people.”

It’s Genesis that reacts this time around, letting out a laugh as he weaves the tip of his sword through the air. “You think you could hurt us with that toy?” he scoffs, smirk rapidly turning into a mocking sneer, “you’re nothing compared to us. I could put my sword through you before you even got a single bullet out of that worthless pile of scrap.”

“Take your best shot, asshole!”

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment Barret is standing his ground against two furious supersoldiers, Genesis baring his teeth and winding up in a snarling fury, sword moving so fast Barret can hardly see it cutting through the air as he prepares to meet his end. Then the next there’s a blur of movement and the screech of metal against metal, a massive buster sword reverberating just inches above Barret’s head with the force of Genesis’s blade. 

Barret instantly recognizes the blonde hair.

“What the-?”

“Cloud! Enough.” Sephiroth’s own sword is extended now, pressing with careful precision into the pulse point of the blonde, and he does not look any happier than he had thirty seconds ago.

“You two know each other?” Barret’s beginning to suspect this person might not be another unfortunate guard from the mansion. He’s holding his sword level with Genesis - of all people - as if it’s nothing. The weight of his blade alone should have been enough to send him keeling over.

That’s when Barret notices the uniform - a SOLDIER’s uniform. It doesn’t look the same as a first class uniform, but it's definitely not a civilian’s outfit either. 

Barret had been protecting a SOLDIER.  

A rush of emotions floods him at that. Anger and confusion and frustration making him growl out a warning and direct his gun right back at Sephiroth.

“What is going on here?” he demands, “you’re standing in the middle of a massacre about to kill one of your own?!”

Sephiroth chuckles, tone lightening for the first time since Barret arrived. “Well, we’ve already killed the other.”

Dead silence. 

Not even Genesis moves for a second, and the blonde’s arms start to shake beneath the pressure. Though the sword above him poses a massive threat, Barret can’t help the way his eyes are drawn like magnets to the dead body that had been right beside the blonde. The torn, blood soaked remains of a SOLDIER uniform tells him all he needs to know.

They killed him. One of their own. Just as they’d been about to kill the blonde. There truly is no end to Shinra’s cruelty. Even after the company’s demise its loyal soldiers gather to slaughter each other like cattle and destroy the lives of those only trying to get by. Even after Shinra has died the planet still burns, and the SOLDIERs are still the tools of its destruction.

Yet a SOLDIER had also been the one to save his life.

Cloud, Sephiroth had said.

His reflexes are slow, movements groggy, and Barret would bet his only remaining arm that the guy has at least a medium grade concussion. He’s already breaking under the strain of holding back a super soldier - already crumbling beneath an impossible weight. There’s no telling if he’d be able to run or keep up with the fight - no telling if he’s a good enough person to even try it...but he’d been a good enough one to save Barret’s life.

Barret’s determined to get him out of this in one piece. 

The next moment is a blur of movement. The snap decision to fire, not at Sephiroth but at his blade, until the sword is ripping the man’s arm sideways and his expression is slackening in surprise. Barret doesn’t even take a moment to contemplate the true suicidal stupidity of attacking someone like Sephiroth before he’s charging forward, grabbing the blonde by the waist and using his gun to take the brunt of Genesis’s sword. It’s only for a second - only to garner enough time to pull the kid back and free him from the lock of blades - but it’s enough for Barret to holler as an electrifying pain numbs his gun arm. The shriek of tearing metal splits the air, accompanied by Genesis’s own noise of outrage, and Barret hauls the kid backwards and onto his shoulders without hesitation.

There’s a beat of tension as Sephiroth recovers his footing and Genesis regains his bearings, Barret staring right at two infuriated super soldiers through the sparks of his shredded arm.

Then the world is rushing back around him. Panic and noise and the need to get the hell out of there. To return home to his daughter.

So Barret takes the kid and he runs. 

And hell, he doesn’t look back for anything.

——

Barret winds down several backroads as he makes his way back to camp, determined to shake any tail he might have now that he’s possibly angered some of the most powerful people in the world. He hadn’t seen them pursue him after he’d dumped himself and the kid in his truck and torn out of there like a bat out of hell, but there’s no telling what their kind has up their sleeves.

There’s no telling what the one in his truck has up his sleeve, either, and it’s damn ridiculous that Barret is risking any part of his life for a Shinra lapdog that might turn on them at any moment, but he can’t bring himself to abandon the guy. Can’t allow himself in good conscience to leave someone so clearly injured out to fend for themself, let alone someone who’d happened to save his life. Even if Barret had also happened to save theirs. Barret would say that makes them even, but he knows it’s more complicated than that - knows that ties of any sort of blood can lead people to do bad things. It's hard to break from that mold. Hard to choose something good over those you consider family.

Cloud turned on his people. That takes more than guts. Though Barret doesn’t know if 'more' is a bad thing or a good thing, considering it had led him to being a turncoat. No matter how justified it may have been.

He brings the blonde back to camp because it’s the right thing to do, and because apparently he’s made a habit of picking up strays. But it’s with a heavy heart and a host of fears, millions of horror scenarios playing out in his head. A swirling mass of dreadful scenes depicting Marlene and Tifa hurt and dying because of his actions - his family hunted now by people they have no hope of beating alone. 

Scenes that follow him all the way home.

Yet when he pulls up to camp he doesn’t even think to let those worries show, and when he steps out of the car and slams the door shut behind him, there’s nothing on his face but a massive, beaming smile as he sets sights on his little girl. She squeals when she sees him, dashing forward in a mad scramble of flying cookware from the portable oven.

“Daddy!” she screams excitedly, “Daddy, you’re back!” She hits him with all the force of her tiny body and he laughs as he takes her up in his arm. The warmth and relief that fills him almost brings tears to his eyes, and he hugs her so tight to his chest that he can feel her breathing and alive against him.

“That’s right, angel! Safe and sound, just like I promised.”

She giggles against his neck, small fists rising to press at the nape of his neck in a hug. “Tifa and me were making you dinner!”

“Oh, is that so?” He chuckles, looking up to see Tifa standing a short distance away. She looks relaxed and happy, smiling with a languid sort of bliss as she watches the two of them. 

Then her eyes drift down to his destroyed arm and the expression drops to one of pure panic, her gaze darting back up to his own with alarm.

He winces and shakes his head, silently telling her he’ll explain it all later. But he refuses to let go of Marlene right now - refuses to let her out of his sights - so he nods at the passenger seat of the truck, observing pensively as Tifa finally seems to catch his drift, circling around the car to check inside.

“Did you bring back anything fun, Daddy?” Marlene asks sweetly, leaning away to peer up at him with wide eyes. He hums for a moment to stall, hearing Tifa’s small gasp as she catches sight of the battered SOLDIER, and tries to keep his tone light when he answers.

“Not this time, baby. Had to focus on houses instead of stuff, remember?”

“Uh huh! You were house hunting!” She exclaims proudly, eyes crinkling with the force of her smile.

It’s impossible not to return one of his own, warm and loving as he moves them both away from the situation about to unfold, further into the camp. “That’s right! When did you get such a good memory?”

Marlene kicks her legs in the air with an offended sniff. “I always have a good memory. It’s you that forgets things. Like my necklace!” She pouts.

“Well, you’ve got me there,” he laughs, forcing his tone into something unworried as he turns to see Tifa haul the blonde from the car. She slams the door shut with enough force to make Marlene jump, and as she carries the blonde bridal style into the clearing he notices the dark shadow of horror in her eyes, lips tight and arms shaking as she stares down at him. 

Marlene can’t help turning at the noise, and Barret has no power to stop her as she gets a look at their new guest. She gasps, mouth dropping open as she begins to squirm eagerly in his grasp. “Who’s that?! Is he another friend? Is he staying with us too, like Tifa?”

“I don’t know!” He keeps a hold of her as Tifa sets the blonde down on her own mattress, instantly digging around in her pack for supplies. Then turns his full attention on Marlene again, looking sternly into her pleading brown eyes until she stills enough to listen.

“We don’t know if he’s staying, yet,” he tells her honestly, voice gentle, “But we can’t bother him right now, okay? He’s hurt and he might be dangerous.”

“Dangerous how? Who is he?” It’s Tifa who speaks, although she doesn’t look back at him as she does so, and Barret sighs as he crouches to lower Marlene to the ground. She races over to them both before he can do anything, but he trusts that Tifa won’t let any harm come to Marlene.

“A fool, apparently,” Barret snorts with bitter self reproach, “and a turncoat too. ‘Less his friends were just…” he glances at Marlene, shocked and curious as she hides behind Tifa and peaks out at the blonde from around the woman’s shoulder. “...hurting him for the fun of it. They looked past the point of sanity, though, so who the hell knows.”

“A Cluster?” Tifa frets, “I thought they didn’t wander out this way.”

“They usually don’t. Stick to the roads and such. Don’t got time for the likes of backwoods campers. But this wasn’t a Cluster, it was worse.”

“Worse how?” She finally turns to look back at him, and the furrow between her brows makes his heart ache for her. He almost doesn’t want to say it, but -

“SOLDIERS.”

She freezes, expression going blank, and he knows nothing good can be going through her head right now.

“What?” She croaks breathlessly, “You brought a SOLDIER back here? Are you insane? ”

“What’s a soldier?” Marlene’s voice is small and afraid, and Barret swallows the conversation in an instant at her tone, falling to his knees and beckoning her over. 

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. Come here.”

He sees Tifa drop the conversation as well, biting her lip to keep from speaking as she settles a comforting hand on Marlene’s shoulder. She forces herself to relax as she gives Marlene a warm smile, nudging her toward Barret, and after a few seconds Marlene begins to approach with tiny steps. She’s fidgeting, casting fervent looks back at the limp body next to Tifa.

“Is our new friend a bad guy?” she asks hesitantly, eventually working up the courage to speak as she gets closer. 

Barret swallows thickly. “No, he’s not- not a bad guy. He saved my life.” Then, louder as he directs it to Tifa, “he saved my life.”

She sighs and nods, shoulders tense as she turns back to keep working on Cloud, and Barret leans forward the rest of the distance to sweep Marlene up again into a comforting hug. Like magic, though, she’s already moved on from the emotion of two seconds ago. Fear turned to a palpable interest as she hums curiously against him and vibrates with a new kind of energy.

“So he’s a hero?” She asks as he stands to take them to her tent.

“I suppose he is,” he admits reluctantly, holding back a scowl.

“Then why is he so hurt?”

He parts the flaps of her tent and carries her into the muted blue shadows, laying her gently down on her sleeping bag. She yawns widely, rubbing at her eyes and sniffing, but she doesn’t let up on the questioning gaze for one second.

Barret toys with his next words. “His old family...didn’t treat him very well.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Families aren’t supposed to hurt each other. They’re supposed to take care of each other. Like you do with me.”

His gaze softens and he brushes a stray lock from her eyes, mulling over his next response. “I take care of you because I love you, and you’re my precious little girl.” She giggles when he leans down to smother her in a sloppy kiss, pushing his face away playfully. Then he leans back and sobers up, saying tenderly, “These people...they weren’t like us. They didn’t agree with him, sweetheart. I don’t know the whole story, but I know they tried to kick him out.”

“They wanted to abandon him?”

She sounds so sad, and Barret doesn’t know how to make it better. Doesn’t want to lie to her but doesn’t want to hurt her. 

He exhales slowly and presses her back into her bag when she tries to rise. The heavy weight of his hands rests on her chest for a moment in solid comfort, and after a time her small fingers come up to rest atop his own. She pats at him solemnly like it’s him that needs the comforting, and he chokes back a laugh.

“We should keep him,” she says, “so he can know what a real family is.”

“We aren’t his family, sweetheart.”

“But you’re a Daddy. And you said that we should always help and protect people.”

“That’s-” He huffs in amusement and relents beneath the insistence of her hopeful eyes. “Very kind, Marlene. And very brave.”

Her smile is shy with the light pink in her cheeks, but her eyes sparkle victoriously. Barret doesn’t know how to tell her that the SOLDIER probably won’t be around come morning, if he even stays that long at all. So he turns his palm to catch her wrists between his fingers, bringing her hands up to lay a kiss on the back of each. Then he lowers them back down to kiss her goodnight as well, hushing her worries with a gentle touch to the forehead.

“I couldn't be more proud of you,” he says lowly, “my kind girl. You’ve grown up so well.”

“I think you’re the kindest, Daddy, for helping people even when they’re mean. I think you’re a hero, too. You and Auntie Tifa and…”

“His name is Cloud,” Barret admits, already regretting saying the words. And sure enough-

“And Uncle Cloud!”

“How about we wait until he’s awake to see if he wants to be called that, huh?” It’s a lot more rational than he wants it to be, but he can’t bear to snuff out the flickering light of hope Marlene’s found in the situation.

“Fine,” she pouts, before brightening excitedly, “and then he can tell us a story! About how he was the hero and saved you.”

Barret rolls his eyes and stands to leave. “I saved him too, you know.”

“Sure, Daddy.”

“Yeah, yeah...Goodnight, little bug.”

“Night night!” He exits the tent and zips up the flaps, and it’s only after he’s turned and made his halfway across the camp that he hears, “don’t let the bed bugs bite!” sound out behind him.

Barret chuckles fondly, wincing at a sudden sting of pain in his gun arm, and glances over at where Tifa’s working on the SOLDIER. 

His smile drops almost instantly as he sees her leaning back on her heels, hands raised defensively against the harsh movements of her patient.

He’s awake, Barret thinks.

And acting exactly as Barret had feared, judging by the distress clear from across camp. He grits his teeth and storms over, hand already clenched into a fist.

“Hey!” Tifa jumps in surprise, turning to face him as he approaches, and Barret only faintly registers the lack of fear on her face before an infuriatingly cold voice is piercing the air.

“You can’t keep me here,” Cloud says, rising to sit up despite the obvious agony it brings him. He wraps an arm around his stomach, but the intensity of his glare doesn’t waver once.

Tifa worries at her lip as he moves, hands hovering over his battered body as if she doesn’t know where to place them. “You’re still injured, you can’t be up and about! Let me help you,” she practically begs, and Barret’s blood boils at the sound of it. What right does this kid have?

“Not interested.”

“Oh you can’t be serious!” Barret finally snaps, coming to a stomping halt right next to the both of them and scowling furiously down at the kid. “Drop the tough guy act and suck it up. You ain’t helpin’ no one with that attitude, least of all yourself.”

He opens his mouth to say more and falters almost violently when he catches sight of Cloud’s exposed upper body, teeth clacking shut as his eyes widen.

The kid’s shirt is cut right off of him now, with the tight black binder around his chest exposed for all to see. Yet what really horrifies Barret is the garish mass of bruises painting every inch of his skin. He’s coated in cuts and stab wounds, shaking with exhaustion and ribs stark against his thin body, with what looks like an actual bullet wound still red and seeping in his shoulder. Under the pale light of the moon, with blood and dirt washed away, he looks worse than he had sprawled out on that battlefield.

Barret’s stomach turns.

“Shit,” he breathes out before he can stop himself, “what the hell did they do to you?”

“A lot less than what they did to Zack!” His voice cracks and his teeth clench after he speaks, as if the words have spilled unwillingly from his mouth.

“The other SOLDIER?” The one they killed?

The words spark a fire in Cloud that has him whipping to attention so quickly Barret’s surprised he doesn’t keel over from the pain. “It ain’t any of your business!” he grinds out, voice desperate and guarded and hurt all at once, lashing out like an injured animal, “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Stop talking like you’re familiar with me. You don’t even know me.”

Tifa crosses her arms and raises her chin defiantly, unflinching in the face of Cloud’s anger, and meets his gaze head on when he turns to glare at her. Barret’s hit with another sense of profound respect for this woman, who doesn’t even blink at the unnatural glow of mako eyes in the night, upper body rising to match Cloud’s own harsh tension.

“You’re not being treated like glass! Your injuries are getting taken care of. Last I checked, there’s a hell of a difference.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Ya can’t take care of shit, soldier! Do you hear yourself?” Barret hisses, “do you see yourself? You wouldn’t make it a day out in the wild alone.”

Cloud works his jaw, the stubborn set of his shoulders unrelenting for just a second before his expression shifts, softening in surprise as his trembling body finally can’t take the stress anymore. Tifa reaches out just in time to catch him as he collapses, and the way his lashes flutter, eyes glazing over, speaks more about his wounds than whatever shit was spilling out of his mouth.

Barret snorts. “What a dumbass.”

“Barret!” Tifa scolds, lowering the kid with such a painful amount of gentleness that he’s half convinced the kid may have been onto something about being treated like glass.

“Look, he’s an asshole!” Barret defends, waving his gun arm at the kid in a momentary lapse of judgement that has it zinging with pain. He covers up a wince before Tifa can see it and continues on, growing tenser with each passing moment, voice heated with the pain and frustration of the day. “We’ve done nothing but help him and he’s acting like he doesn’t give a single shit. Dozens of people died today. I almost died! He almost died!”

“And his friend did die, so maybe cut him some slack.”

“That doesn’t excuse his shitty behavior.”

“It was one conversation, Barret! For a few minutes, while he was concussed and injured and barely coherent. He probably won’t even remember it in the morning.”

Barret grinds his teeth and quiets, because he knows she’s right. Know he’s overreacting but damn, everything about the kid had rubbed him the wrong way. “He’s a SOLDIER, Tifa.”

“One who apparently saved your life. One that you brought back with you, which tells me a bit more about what you really feel about this situation.”

“I just don’t trust him,” Barret says, “and I don’t like him.”

Tifa just shakes her head. “Go to sleep, Barret. You’ll want to apologize in the morning.”

“You said he wouldn’t remember the damn conversation anyway!” Barret huffs indignantly, the thought of apologizing makes his hackles rise like nothing else, and he’s thinking he may need to take Tifa’s advice, after all. That he should go to bed before he does something else he might regret.

Something- not something else- because there’s not anything else that he-

Dammit .

“Yeah,” he sighs, waving his hand as Tifa opens her mouth to keep fighting, “yeah, you’re right.”

He gives her a soft goodnight, feeling a bit better when she relaxes and sends him a reassuring smile before turning back to work on Cloud, and heads over to his own tent to settle in for the night.

He just needs some time to cool down - just needs to take a moment to himself so he can grieve the brutal loss of his prosthetic and the deaths of every single person he’d seen today. Needs to be able to reconcile with the horrifying levels of destruction he’d witnessed.

Once that’s done - once he’s had the time to settle down - he’ll apologize. Or find the guy some ice cream. He doesn’t know. But right now, just for the night, he needs to rest.

He goes to sleep with a calm mind that night, content and soothed by the knowledge that things turned out okay, with the firm resolution that he’ll get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow and lighten the air between him and the new guy.

Unfortunately, come morning, Tifa’s bedroll is empty. The top kicked aside and the buster sword missing from where it had been propped up against a tree.

Cloud is nowhere is sight. 

And as Barret looks around in sleepy bewilderment, he realizes that neither is the truck.

“Mother fucker!”

#barret wallace #dad barret #soft barret #fanfiction #marlene wallace #tifa lockhart #cloud strife #protective barret #whump #ff7 #ffvii #remake #hurt comfort #cloud strife needs a hug #barret needs a hug #promptfills

[visionofnoxus]

♛ - for your muse to beat mine until they can’t fight back (@defiant-blade) //if you're still accepting

// Warning: This turned out rather… Brutal. Not anything really bad. But definitely a rough ride. Regardless, I hope you like it and please do give feedback. Defiant-blade

General Swain has returned to Ionia. Such was the rumor. The man who had taken The Placidium and nearly crushed Ionia under his heel had returned. The rumors were spreading like wildfire about his return and the possible reasons. Flocks of ravens had taken fancy with southwestern archipelago. Noxian troops and warships had taken port in the port city of Faelor, the westernmost island of Ionia. One of the few regions still under noxian occupation.

The atmosphere of fear and dread spread over the Ionia, especially so to the province of Navori where Jericho Swain had many times proven his nickname, the Master Tactician, with catastrophic results to the local militia and civilian population alike. 11 years ago, this man had been defeated in combat by a group of resistance fighters, led by a teenage girl Xan Irelia, who’d led a charge against the general’s elites, cutting them apart and winning against the villain in single combat. Ionia had celebrated her victory and the death of Swain. Less than a year after Placidium, the war ended with the battle of Dalu Bay. Irelia personally once again slayed the commander in battle, admiral Duqal, the man responsible for commanding the Noxian navy. It could well be argued she’d put down both men responsible for the near destruction of Ionian lands and people.

The supposed survival of the general Swain and his resurfacing in Noxus as the new Grand General had been largely dismissed as propaganda and lies of the foreigners, but now seeing the warships once more gathering, the noxian legionnaires with three indents of Trifarix in their platemail being sighted, the stories of man’s return were becoming painfully realistic.

Eventually these rumors had landed in the ears of the Blade Dancer herself and after meditating on the matter, weighing her options and duties, Irelia had once more taken up her blades. Now looking over the fortified port city of Faelor, Irelia felt the dark and murky thoughts drifting in her mind. Once again she found herself weighing her options, wondering if what she was doing was for Ionia, or for herself. The Blade Dancer did not consider herself prideful or vain. What she’d done, she’d done for Ionia. And there had been great pain involved along the way. She felt little for the Noxians her blades had cut down, but the war had extracted a heavy toll on Ionians and to her ever lasting shame and sorrow, she’d been forced to cut down some of her countrymen whose fevor had been… Miss guided. 

Navigating her way through the city streets, she sneaked through the city. It was somewhat surprising, seeing such a blend of cultures. The buildings were sturdier and often lacked the attention to small artistic details that so ruled in Ionia, but they were definitely still ionian and not those blocks of stone and iron that the invaders built their fortresses like. The people walking on the streets wore combinations of foreign and ionian clothes, and the civilian population did not avoid the patrolling soldiers despite their intimidating and brutish look. It was all very confusing to Irelia, but she did not stop to consider this, keeping her focus on the task she’d set out to accomplish. A task that might very well be her final pledge of love to her beloved country. Steeling her resolve, she aimed her steps towards the governor’s palace, located in the heart of the city. It would had served her well to maybe observe the city more closely, for above the rooftops and sitting on the ropes from which the street lights hung, blood colored eyes took note of the roguish intruder sticking to the shadows. The fluttering of the ravens’ wings was lost to the soundscape of the night time city.

Governor’s palace was a fortress. High built walls of the foreigners design formed the perimeter for the palace grounds, a more traditional ionian palace sitting at the heart of the fortifications, but even this old palace had undergone changes, it’s lower levels reinforced with steel and stone, the pools of the gardens dug deeper to serve the dual purpose of aesthetics and as a moat. As Irelia scaled the walls silently, she took note of the guards. The palace guards of governor Kalan were accompanied by the heavily armored men dressed in iron and crimson cloth, the three marks on their chest marking their elite status. Slipping past the guards with little effort, the ionian allowed herself a small, joyless smile. She was on the right track. These were surely Swain’s guards.

A half an hour of sneaking and elaborate gymnastics later, she finally climbed up the castle wall, slipping in through a window that the defenders no doubt considered too small for an intruder. Maybe a brutish warrior, but not a silk dancer. Landing gracefully with a roll on the inside, the woman straightened herself up, finally drawing her blades. Not a drop of blood had been spilled so far, but it was from this point on that it would change. Looking at the gleaming, pure blades, the woman felt a shudder travel through her. This was a man she’d thought to defeated and left to die before. This time she wowed to make sure. Sneaking into the castle, she went searching for her foe. 

It was surprisingly easy. Predictable, looking back at it. All the woman had needed to do was observe where the foreign warriors were most well armed and alert. Then it was just a simple matter of dispatching them. Irelia felt a pang of guilt as she withdrew her blades from the last two warriors, the men having collapsed against doorframe of the entryway they’d been set to guard. She cast her saphire colored eyes down to meet the lifeless gaze of the dead trifarian, his earthy brown irises staring back at him without the flicker of life behind them. “I am sorry” She apologized faintly, reaching for the door. For the first time, the Blade Dancer felt sorry for the invaders and it puzzled her. These were the enemy who’d brought destruction and misery to everywhere they went. They’d no doubt committed numerous atrocities just to earn the “right” to stand guard outside Grand General’s room. And yet still… To have their lives ended in such an emotionless and cold manner, the men never seeing their death arrive… She shook her head, the tiniest click of her headdress breaking silence. This was why she’d been a warrior, not an assassin. But it was an assassin her country needed right now. Steeling herself, she pushed open the doors, stepping into the living quarters of her foe. This one at the very least, would see his doom arrive. Just like he’d seen it those years ago. With that thought pristine in her mind, she pushed open the doors.

The room was a large lounge. There were pillows and small tables, pieces of art lined the walls and where there was no picture, the very wallpapers were gorgeous enough for one to lose themselves in the patterns. On the center of room stood a dark figure, the few sources of light from candles illuminating his silvery hair, the man’s shadows reflecting near demonic images on the walls. Irelia felt her mouth dry up, swallowing unconsciously as she stared at the man who looked calmly at his would be killer, the bronze colored eyes assessing her coolly. “Xan Irelia” Came the smooth voice, almost peaceful, yet Irelia’s mind brought up an image of a sharpened blade, beautiful and calm, yet readied to strike. “When you left me for dead, you were but a girl. Now, as we meet again, you are a full grown woman” The foreign general spoke to her, those unnerving eyes never letting go of her own. She tried to say something, but her body felt like it was frozen. Something was off, her intuition screaming out loud at the danger in front of her. Something was different. So very different from the last they’d met. 

Once again the man spoke: “Curious. Last we met you came at me with zeal worth the whole Ionia. You poured all of the pain, suffering and rage into those blades and tore apart my troops, cut me down with frightening ease”. As the man stepped closer, she finally regained control of her body, lifting her arms into the initial stance of her dance. “I’ve come to finish you. That horror will never happen again” She asserted, drawing breath and starting to sink into her dance. “You lack the resolve to challenge me. And while you’ve cherished your victory, I have reforged myself from the defeat”.  

Lifting his left arm up, the very one Irelia had cut, the noxian called forth unnatural sorcery. Streaks of crimson lightning struck out like a tidal wave, Irelia’s eyes widening in shock, the woman instinctively bringing her hands up to protect herself, her blades guarding against the attack. It was for naught however, the sorcery skirting the blades easily, striking her body and eliciting a scream. “I’ve had time to prepare for this” her foe explained in calm manner, as if holding a dinner conversation. Swinging her arm wildly up, Irelia ignored the words, three of her blades launching forward but the man dodged them with a small but precise step, his eyes glowing with crimson. “You are uncertain. You doubt yourself” He accused her, shooting another bolt at her which the Blade Dancer dodged, dashing to the side, recalling her blades and summoning them back, preparing for another offensive.

“I know what I must do!” she shouted back at him, hurling her blades forward in a deadly storm of blades similar to one she’d once broken through his ranks with. But it was mere imitation of that force. A crimson colored claw the size of a man rose to meet her attack and struck against them, the blades scattering as the spell struck forward, catching the ionian woman square in the chest. She flew against the wall, vases and paintings destroyed with her body and the crimson claw bashing them. Biting back a scream, she felt the cutting edges and the vile sorcery pin her against the wall, the noxian walking closer. His hand was still extended, the transparent red hand mirroring the enormous claw currently pinning her. “You are but a shadow of yourself miss Xan” the man spoke out, his voice sounding almost disappointed. She lacked the power to answer, feeling the searing pain like hot iron against her skin as the claw pressed her against wall, shocks of pain rocking her body for what little room she had. 

The claw dissipated, Irelia’s legs giving out, the woman starting to fall forward. But her enemy was not intending to give such mercy. Stepping forward with intent, the noxian landed a punch in her gut, the strength of the blow lifting the Blade Dancer on the tips of her toes, air escaping her lungs. “Satisfaction… I admit” the man growled, pulling his hand back, letting the battered form of his enemy fall on the ground. As she hit the wooden floor, the man leveled his hand at her again, another spark of crimson shooting out, this time eliciting an actual scream from the weakened woman. Another spell followed, and then another. Finally, the noxian knelt down, grasping her head, lifting the woman’s head up, the searing pain gripping her scalp at his hold. The blood colored eyes stared into hers and Irelia felt the man.. No. The demon reaching into her very soul, glimpsing at something she could not understand. “Yes… You have not become weak. You are just filled with doubt and hesitation. Lacking a cause”. He let go of her head, the woman falling on the floor without even tiniest attempt at softening her own fall. “And you were correct to doubt yourself. My death would had brought forward exactly that. While my life may yet spare your people” The man stood up, looking down at her bloodied form. “Consider us even, girl”.

#rough ride this one. #you have been warned #also long AF so #but I wrote it so felt wrong to cut down large swathes of it #could had used the trimming tho #papa burd storytimes #defiant-blade

[missblissy]

SO I ACCIDENTLY DELETED THE ASK BUUT! Anon asked about my OCs so here they are ;v;

These are my two important children. I do not have their demon forms drawn out yet because THIS IS A VERY OLD REF OF THEM ((I drew this in 2017. I do not have a working tablet but im GETTING ONE FOR CHRISTMAS SO IM GONNA BE DRAWING AGAIN SOON!! This is just their general bio, not necessarily Hazbin hotel))

Sage Helvig:

Age: 26 Gender: Female Race: Mixed. Japanese/Europen Descent.   Status: Alive Build/Body Type/Physical Frame: Smol Height: 4′9″ Weight: 160 lbs Skin: White Hair: Long black hair that stops above her waist, wavy but little to nose curls Eyes: Blue Other defining features/extra anatomy: Has many piercings on her ears, both ears are completely covered with piercings. Voice: Soft-spoken and relatively monotone. Doesn’t express a lot of emotions when speaking. Often mistaken for being tired. Style: POP PUNK!!! EDGY!!! EMO!!!!

Loves/Favorites: - Tol Husband - Magic/Pagan worship - Japanese cuisine and culture - Archery/Bowhunting - Studying Mythology - Pepsi ((She’s addicted)) - ALL BREAKFAST FOOD - And fruits. She prefers fruit over candy - Chemistry - Cleaning ((It’s a form of therapy for her)) - Science ((in general)) - Crabs ((She keeps them as pets and thinks they are the cutest things every)) - Winter and Fall - Swords/Daggers/Blades

Hates: - Candy, like unnaturally sweet things ((like taffy, lemon drops, sour patch kids, etc etc)) - Math - Cooking - Most internet culture. - Evil/Dark spirits/Demons ((Anything malevolent)) - People who don’t know how to shut up about cars - Bugs - Spring and Summer

Hobbies: - Studying different culture’s mythology/history/religions. - Witchcraft/Spellcasting - Demon slaying - Archery - Chemistry - Swordsmanship

Hopes/Dreams: - To one day rid the world of all demonic and malevolent spirits. - Have a daughter of her own and raise her the way she was raised - To become a skilled and honorable Demon Slayer

Fears/Nightmares: - Anything bad happening to Van or her brother - Death - Demonic possession ((Ya know, being possessed and shit)) - Hurting the innocent. - Getting sent to Hell

Best Quality: - She is a skilled Demon Slayer who has seen more combat than the average person. She used a mix of a short bow, rapier and magical abilities when hunting and fighting demons and spirits Greatest Flaw: - She doesn’t put enough trust and faith into those around her. She struggles with taking on to much at once and burning herself out. She tries to hard to fix everything by herself and tends to push the people she cares most away from her. How does the character picture himself/herself? - She doesn’t see or view herself as the legend she is slowly becoming. She’s very humble and feels as though she is at the bottom of the ladder when it comes to anything she does. There is always room for improvement. How do others see him/her? - One of the best Demon Slayers there are out there, many people are fame struck when the come meet her because she is from a long demon slayer that dates back to some of the earliest centries of human culture and society. This causes her and Van to move a lot.

Most valued possession: - The rapier sword that she was gifted too by her father as he died from a fatal wound during a battle with a demon. It is the same rapier sword that she used to kill said demon that murdered her father.

Is he/she motivated by possibility or necessity? - Necessity. She knows that she is needed because there are so few people left on the planet with gifts like hers ((I.e Magical abilities)) How does he/she view the future and/or the past? - Sage thinks there is a grim future for humanity and has little faith in those around her. She tries not to think about the past either but uses it as motivation to keep moving forward. What is his/her philosophy on life and death? - She fears death more than anything, only because she doesn’t know what kind of afterlife she will have. Sage doesn’t think death is the end, and believe there is life beyond death. She wants to live as long as she can, possibly growing old with Van. What kind of energy level do they usually have? Sleepy and depressed. She’s not a bubbly person and is very serious and stoic and quiet.

Does he/she have a temper? Yes but only if you push her to the edge or if she’s been cornered in some way.

Polite or rude? Rude Stingy or generous? Generous Leader or a follower? Leader More happy by themselves or in a group? By herself What is his/her sexual preference/experience/values? - Sage is bisexual, monogamous, and demisexual. Before she married Vanderlinde she dated both men and women. She doesn’t sleep around and find causal sex repulsive ((for her, she doesn’t care what other people do with their sex lives)) -History/Background- - Sage was born from a Japanese mother and a German father. She was born in Japan but her family moved around every few years due to being members of a secret society dedicated to exterminating demons. Her mother is still alive however her father died when she was 17 years old in a fatal battle with a Demon. - She has spent almost her entire life working for a secret society of demon slayers, which she took on as a full-time job after her father died. - Sage has an older half brother named Kael, they share the same mother but a different father. - She received formal schooling through the secret soceity she worked for. She was able to still get her high school education while traveling around the world to slay demons. - She met Vanderlinde when she was 20 years old and after just moving to the United States. Vanderlinde was a priest at the time and Sage had just enrolled in university for a chemistry degree. They quickly fell in love and Sage welcomed Vanderlinde into her secret society with open arms and Vanderlinde happily joined.

((There is so much more to Sage’s backstory I’m just TIRED and SLEEPY so this is all ya’ll get.))

___________________________________________

Vanderlinde Helvig:

Age: 31 Gender: Male Race: Cucasion, Scandinavian descent. Status: Alive Build/Body Type/Physical Frame: Tol Height: 6′0″ Weight: 230 lbs Skin: White Hair: Short blonde fluffy hair Eyes: Green Other defining features/extra anatomy: He has several tattoos, all of them are based of Nordic Mythology, Nordic Ruins, and Scandinavian Vikings Voice: Deep but soothing. Imagine what butter would sound like if it could talk.SMOOTH Style: Business Causal, he’s a professor so he wears a lot of dress shirts and sweaters. This boy loves his cashmere sweaters.

Loves/Favorites: - His smol wife - Music ((He loves pop punk, rock, grunge, metal, etc etc)) - THE LORD ALL MIGHTY - Sunday Prayer - His Students - Teaching - Nordic Mythology - Cooking - PEACE AND LOVE - Coffee and tea. - Summer and Fall - Going to concerts/rock shows - Motorcycles

Hates: - Spring and Winter - Unnecessary arguments/debates - People who refuse to educate themselves - Lazy Students - Grading paper work - People who don’t know how to drive - Demonic/Evil Spirits - Pepsi ((He’s a Coke-a-cola person)) - Alcohol ((And Drunk people. If you are drunk he won’t even try and talk to you))

Hobbies: - Reading - Writing ((He’s written many books about religious study books)) - Exploring the unknown ((He breaks your modern Indiana Jones tbh lmao)) - Providing Exorcisms/religious healing/cleanings - Working out/staying fit - Researching religions and mythology

Hopes/Dreams: - WORLD PEACE - That everyone can be happy and treated equally - To destroy every demonic/evil spirit - To have a child one day, just one. Doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl he’ll love them the same. - To be recognized worldwide for his work and struggles.

Fears/Nightmares: - Losing Sage ((In any way. Like if she’s killed or if she leaves him etc etc.)) - Becoming possessed and harming people. - The Devil/Lucifer/Satan - Demonic spirits ((He’s always afraid of them even if he’d confronted by them)) - Heights/Being up high - The ocean

Best Quality: - Vanderlinde is a very mild-mannered person. It’s hard to piss him off, he’s very calm and collective and has incredible control over his emotions. People often describe him with a “healing” personality and an “open mind.” Greatest Flaw: - He lets his fears control him. Too often he runs away from things that quiet literally scare him. He is not a fighter and doesn’t enjoy fighting, he’d rather run away defend himself or those around him. This often leads people to say he is cowardly. How does the character picture himself/herself? - Vanderlinde sees himself as a weak softy who can’t win a single physically fight. He doesn’t have a lot of self-confidence so he doubts himself and his skills way too much. He thinks he a push-over that anyone could walk all over. How do others see him/her? - Many people view Vanderlinde as an incredibly intelligent and kind professor who cares about his student’s education more than anything in the world. ((Next to his love for Sage)) People describe him as a very kind and loving person with a big heart.

Most valued possession: - His rosary, he carries it with him always. It was a gift to him from a priest that change his views on Christianity and other religions.

Is he/she motivated by possibility or necessity? - Necessity. Vanderlinde knows there aren’t enough people in the world fighting the dark forces. He knows it is his duty to educate the masses about what is going on when no one is looking. How does he/she view the future and/or the past? - Vanderlinde hopes for a pretty and peaceful future, a safe world where his child can grow up without fear. What is his/her philosophy on life and death? - Vanderlinde does not fear death, he knows that he is going to Hell anyway, so he might as well enjoy his life to the fullest until that day comes. What kind of energy level do they usually have? He’s very relaxed, calm and cool. He’s known for wearing a comforting smile and using healing words to lift people up and make them feel better about themselves.

Does he/she have a temper? No. Vanderlinde has incredible control over his emotions. Even when he’s pissed off he’s still nice, happy, and trying his best to please others.

Polite or rude? Polite Stingy or generous? Generous Leader or a follower? Leader More happy by themselves or in a group? By himself What is his/her sexual preference/experience/values? - Vanderlinde is a straight monogamous male. He’s experimented before here and there but he prefers women for the most part. He is very private about his sex life and gets very uncomfortable when people talk/ask about it. -History/Background- - Vanderlinde grew up in an orphanage for wayward boys, he never knew his parents and refuses to look into them. He was born in the United States. He doesn’t want to know why or how he ended up at the orphanage. It was run by a Catholic church, where he grew up with a deep faith in the Lord. He began to question his faith when the Priest he looked up to had passed away. - Around 18 years old Vanderlinde left the orphanage and went on a soul searching journal across the United State. He was homeless during this time as he traveled cross country, drinking, doing drugs and learning about all different types of faith. When he turned 20 he turned back to the Church and became a priest for the next five years. - He met Sage when he was 25, she was 20 at the time. Because she was a pagan witch, Vanderlinde was punished for getting himself involved with her. At the same time, he also got in trouble for researching other religions other than Christianity. He chose to renounce his priesthood and left the church because he did not agree with their rules. After that, Vanderlinde worked towards becoming a professor at the local university where he could freely research and teach others - After he fell in love with Sage, Vanderlinde joined her secret society, more than happy to join a cause he believed in and was willing to fight for.

((Again, there is so much more to Vanderlinde’s back story but Im just so tired and I wanted to quickly summarize the 20 pages I have for these two dorks.))

#writes #writing #texts #25th #November #2019 #November 25th 2019 #lkjdflkghs;dflkjgdf #OC;; Sage #OC;; Vanderlinde #THANK U FOR ASKING ANON IM SORRY I ACCIDENTLY DELETED THE ASK #AAAAAA #lfkdjghslkdfjg #dfgkjsdfhgksdfg #sdfg #sdf #gs #dfg #as #d #asd #s

[catullus-the-author]

“At Some Point, Gold is as Good as Mold”

“Wally! What do ya’ see?”

Grimacing against the harsh light of the scouting drones overhead, Wally turned to yell back at his friend. “A cave! But it looks pretty small. Might not be useful.” Wally’s friend, Daniel, jogged up to his side. He squinted down at the hole in the side of the cliff.

“Oh shoot, that rock looks mighty softened from all this water beatin’ up on it. We’ll be able to dig it out bigger,” Daniel exclaimed. “I’ll call the Bulldozers in.” Daniel pressed a series of buttons on the bright blue band wrapped around his wrist. “Should be here in about five minutes.”

“Cool,” Wally replied.

The silent drones overhead began descending, shooting out projectiles that sprayed bright red ‘X’s’ on the cliff face. Wally followed Daniel back to the Operations Mobile Home. (OMH)

“I bet we’ll get at least 300 points for findin’ this. Wouldn’t that be somethin’? I could upgrade to an Air Home with those points,” Daniel sighed. Wally nodded in agreement. “What abouchyou? What are you gonna do with those points?”

Wally thoughtful rubbed his chin. “I might get myself a new Transportation Drone.”

“Ooh, nice thinkin.’ You should get the RX-tevel 104. I hear it’s got a wicked time-jump engine.”

Wally smiled, replying, “I just might.”

Suddenly, there was a rumble underfoot. “Ah, they came early,” Daniel exclaimed gleefully as two hulking, titan-like machines stepped across the treeless land, past the OMH, and straight down by the cliff face. Their monstrous heads stood well over the edge of the cliff. With lit up eyes, the Bulldozers went to work, scraping the cave away bit by bit with massive metal hands.

Daniel whistled with pride. “These two were worth those 175 points, I’ll tell ya’.”

“Absolutely,” Wally agreed, his eyes never straying from the methodical motions of the Bulldozers. What would have taken human hands years to even make a dent in was quickly washed away by the salty water below thanks to the gargantuan machines. The rock scraped off like it was a cake.

“Welp, imma get some shut-eye. They should be done in the mornin’. You comin’?”

Wally nodded, following Daniel into the OMH’s living space.

Sweet, lullaby music filtered through the speakers of Wally’s bedroom as he tucked himself into the warm, fuzzy covers. The grinding of the Bulldozer’s work never reached his ears as he slumbered.

 ***

 It was horrible. The monsters outside pulled away our shelter so quickly, we barely had time to hide. We delved deeper into the cave, my sister and I. The walls vibrated nonstop. We could feel our Mother’s agony in our bones every time more rock was destroyed. My sister shed golden tears, for she felt our Mother’s pain far greater than I did. I, however, heard the howl of my Father’s grief as those Man-made goliaths hurt her. I wanted to destroy them, but that would be fruitless. My fire could not melt the artificial metal the human’s made. Even as I thought this, my Father and Mother begged me to take my sister far away. So, I did.

 ***

 Wally awoke to the enticing smell of bacon, eggs, and waffles. A steaming plate sat on his bedside table. He dove in immediately. At his will, a faucet of sorts emerged from the wall, and gave him a thick syrup to drown his waffles in.

He heard Daniel’s voice through the speakers. “Rise and shine! We gotta cave to explore!”

Finishing up his meal, Wally jogged outside. The Bulldozers had left, but the fruits of their labor were amazing. A great bowl had been carved out of the cave, exposing its innards. Stalactites of all sizes hung from the cave’s ceiling.

“Wow,” Wally breathed with awe. Surprising him, Daniel clapped Wally on the back.

“Wow is right my friend. Now, let’s hop in those suits I was tellin’ ya about.”

Soon enough, Wally and Daniel were at the enlarged mouth of the cave, decked out in the latest adventurer's body suit. The suits tightly gripped soles allowed them to walk over the ever-rocky floor. An enhanced vision gadget on the suit’s visors let them see every edge of the cave in startling clarity. They could count every small bump on a single stalactite, if they wanted to.

“Hey Wally!”

“Gah! I can hear you in the suit just fine if you talk normally,” Wally replied, hoping his ears didn’t begin ringing.

“Sorry, but come over where I am. I think this cave goes a lot deeper.”

Wally joined his friend as he looked down a tunnel-like hole. “It looks like it was purposefully carved out this way,” Wally noted, seeing the ruts where it looked like unnatural cuts in the rock.

“Let’s go down!” Daniel hooted. He promptly began to bound down the tunnel. Wally followed him.

The tunnel went straight down in a smooth decline, yet at some point it began to twist and turn. Seemingly erratically. There were many high ledges, yet Wally and Daniel had no trouble grappling over them to further explore the long, rock-walled tunnel.

“My goodness. This is going on forever,” Daniel noted.

“Yeah, but it has to end sometime. We got all the time in the world to keep going,” Wally replied, excitement growing within him. “I wonder if we’ll find anything,” he asked himself aloud.

 ***

 Our blissful sleep was so quickly halted. Harsh Man-made light filled the haven we had barely had time in. My sister growled with fear and anger, and I joined her. The Men gave their own shouts as they inspected us. One of them looked so incredibly gleeful, however the other seemed to back up, inch by inch. I felt their aura’s. I saw the glow of blood-red cover the gleeful one. The other one began cowering as I stood up to my full height on my hind legs. I gave a ferocious roar. It did not scare them off, but the one backing up seemed to curl in on himself. His light-yellow aura flickered from dim to bright. This one’s spirit was cracking. My eyes blazed a brilliant gold. The golden flames revealed the intangible versions of both men. My sister was screaming behind me, trying to get rid of them. The yellow glowing one’s spiritual heart and mind beckoned me. I dove into this Man, without ever moving my tangible body. Now he really cowered. He surely felt my immense power. I heard my sister yelp with pain. My golden eyes sunk back into my skull. I turned, seeing my sister stumbling to the ground. A terrible prick stabbed at my arm. Drowsiness immediately overtook me. I heard the yellow-man's inner thoughts as slumber forced me to still. I had made a connection.

 ***

 “We are going to be sooooo rich!” Daniel squealed with joy. Wally clutched his head. A terrible headache had come over him when that creature seemed to stare right into his very eyes. He coughed. Icky bile, mingled with some blood, slipped out of his mouth. He heard Daniel’s excited speech through a wall of pain.

“Good thing there was enough stun-numb juice in this suit for both of them. Honestly, I’m surprised it even punctured their skin. Look at how thick these scales look!” Wally saw Daniel making his way over to the colossal beasts. “Hoowee! Come help me get pictures of these beauts to send to the OMH.”

“Sure . . . sure thing,” Wally rasped. “I just . . . need some rest.” Wally groaned as he took a step forward. Daniel turned back to his friend.

“Dude, ya’ okay?”

Wally groaned again as a hammer of fire pressed down on the crown of his head.

“Ya’ need some meds?”

“Ye . . . yes,” Wally stuttered.

Daniel rushed over to Wally’s side. “Hol’ on now. I gotcha,” he said as he helped prop Wally down. A small vial of clear liquid slid out of a compartment on Daniel’s suit sleeve. He twisted the cap off it and raised Wally’s head up. Soon, Wally felt the sweet sensation of the painkiller rush down his throat.

Wally’s head felt slightly less burdened.

“Okay, ya’ just rest now til’ you feel better.” Daniel gently placed Wally’s head back down on the ground. “I’ll deal with these big lizards myself, dontcha worry.”

Wally mumbled a feeble thank you as he watched his friend jog back to the great winged reptilian like creatures. Wally had seen a few pictures from the Old-Time depicting creatures like this. He forgot what they were called. All he knew was that he was very afraid of them. Any natural predators, or even remotely dangerous animals, were in the Earth’s fenced-off wildlife sector. There were big reptiles and amphibians in the sector, of course. Yet never had any animal grown to the magnitude that Wally observed now.

Daniel was now so close to the nearest creature. The smaller one of the two. It had deep, dark, and long scales running over the entirety of its elongated body. There were great bat-like wings that rested just behind its shoulder blades. Its mouth was opened in a frozen snarl, revealing wickedly pointy fangs. It starkly contrasted the much larger one next to it. The other creature had bright orange, red, and yellow scales that hugged its body tighter than its companion’s scales did, however its wings were similarly bat-like.

Even in pain, Wally marveled at the outstanding beauty of these mysterious creatures. Especially their eyes. The eyes of the bright beast were like pools of gold. It occurred to Wally too late that sleeping creatures have their eyes closed.

With a screech that reverberated in his very bones, the large animal reared up. The stun-numb didn’t last long on these gargantuan beasts at all. Daniel stumbled back in surprise. He was practically under the legs of the beast, and the smaller creature was beginning to stir.

“Dan . . . Daniel. Run.” Wally’s words were lost to the roars echoing around the cave. Grimacing, Wally pushed himself up. Daniel was between him and the creatures now. The obsidian-dressed beast was now very much awake. It settled on its haunches, getting ready to pounce on Daniel, no doubt. Fumbling, Wally searched for the stun-numb button on his suit. He poorly steadied his arm in the direction of the creature. His vision blurred. With a jerk of his arm, the stun-numb needle shot out of his arm.

He heard Daniel cry out, and then there was silence. Through tears, Wally saw Daniel lying face down on the ground.

“Oh, shit,” Wally exclaimed. Looking up, Wally saw the two great creatures staring at him. “Hehe,” he mumbled in fear before meeting darkness.

 ***

 I intervened in time. My connection to the yellow-glowing one allowed me to divert his shaking arm in the direction of his companion. Blessedly, he hit his friend with what had frozen my sister and I earlier. Speaking of my sister, she now crept close to the two Men who had so rudely interrupted our slumber. The one who had shot her was face down, while the one I connected to lay face up. “What shall we do with them?”  My sister’s tinkling voice asked. "Shall we leave?” I observed the small, pale Men. I thought. I decided. "I would like to take the one that I have claimed. His will was shaken. His spirit . . . uncertain.” Again, I bid my eyes to blaze gold as I looked straight down to the face of the yellow-auraed one. His skin began to glow, and shift. Though it was hard to see under the horrible cage enveloping his body. Nevertheless, this man’s tangibility and intangibility fused with mine. I felt the man’s sleeping conscious as the last of his being became one with mine. "You are treading dangerous waters, brother,” my sister warned. "I am fully aware of what I will do. Please do not worry sister. I have curiosities of my own.” With a new mind imbued into my own, I diverted my attention to the red-auraed one. "He can be left here. We can build a deep well. Mother can keep him quiet.” My sister grunted in agreement. With that, we began to carve out the soft Earth that our Mother detached from herself. This man would not make another sound.

 ***

 Wally felt as if he were floating. In a pool of warm water. It’s as if he were in his mother’s womb again, and he loved the feeling. He had an incredible urge to suck his thumb, just as he did when he was a child. Yet as he soon found out, Wally appeared to not have a thumb. Or a hand. Or anything. However, his vision was covered in a milky white sheen. Despite Wally’s predicament, he felt contentment.

Soon, he felt his nonexistent body shudder. A great voice had spoken.

“Hello, man. There is no need to be frightened.”

Wally, surprisingly, was not afraid. He felt as if nothing could touch him, wherever he was. He was confused though.

“You are not dreaming,” the voice told him. "Dreams are a slice of reality, but consciousness is ever clearer.”

Wally became as startled as he could as the voice appeared to read his mind.

“I have questions, and I would be ever so delighted if you answered them. Do not worry about your lack of tongue, for now we are one.”

This just furthered Wally’s confusion, but the booming voice asked away. Sometimes the voice was satisfied, other times, it seemed to huff with impatience. To be perfectly honest, Wally didn’t completely understand all the questions that were asked, and later, he would not even remember those questions.

There was a point amidst these questions where Wally felt the need to sleep. He never fell asleep. Not while the voice’s Earth-shaking timbre enveloped him.

“Thank you, man,” it said. “I will release you without harm for your cooperation.”

A sudden whoosh of air swirled in the womb-like room-of-sorts. Wally’s milky-white vision washed itself away, and suddenly he felt the painful nick of cold air against his skin. The hard bite of sharp rocks met his back.

His back!

Wally scrambled up. He had his body back. He could feel the physical world again.

And the physical world did not feel pleasant. Not after being wherever he had been. He soon came to the realization that he was naked as the day he was born, despite the darkness around him. He shivered. There didn’t seem to be any light source nearby.

Quite irrationally, Wally began to walk in a random direction.

“Ugh,” he huffed out when he seemed to hit a wall of rock. His hands searched the wall, and he gave a yelp when it began to move. Blindly, he scrambled backwards. A guttural growl came out of the rock wall. A much louder growl-yip sounded nearby. Suddenly, Wally’s surroundings were ablaze.

His eyes adjusted to the new light, and when he looked up, he couldn’t find the air to scream.

Shimmering like mirages, two dragons . . . the dragons! Wally and Daniel had found dragons! It all came back to Wally in a snap of a moment. They were in a cave . . . but not anymore as Wally observed. They were in a forest now. Wally looked around, expecting to find Daniel nearby. He did not find Daniel. Only the two great beasts and himself were visible.

Wary, Wally stared at the dragons in fear. The brightly scaled one was resting its head on its massive front-clawed hands, while the smaller one had its head straight up as it rested on its belly.

They were both watching him.

“Go, man.” Wally jumped. “You will speak nothing of this. Our souls are intertwined. Your words should be like sweet honey, not sour vinegar.”  

“What the hell,” Wally breathed to himself. Despite his roil of fear and confusion battling inside his stomach, Wally walked away. He never realized how, but somehow, he made it back to the OMH.

Its exterior was lit up in a soft blue light that extended deep into the sparsely populated forest. Feeling his chest cave in with some relief, he rushed into the OMH, relishing the soft carpet of its entrance floor. Immediately, he jumped into the cleaning-pool and soon dressed himself after his skin glared pink from the hot water.

Squeaky clean, Wally practically fell into his bedroom. The silk-soft fabric hugged his exhausted form. He didn’t recall when he fell asleep.

 ***

 I sensed the tangible body of the man walk farther and farther away, until he stopped. He was not far at all. Despite Man’s growing dependability on their man-made machines, they seemed to have a knack for returning to their homes quite easily. They also have a knack for destroying homes as well. My sister slept uneasily beside me, and I joined her as our Mother sang us a lullaby that predated our time.

 ***

 An aroma of French toast, sausage, and fruit permeated Wally’s nose the minute he woke up. The OMH hummed with its inner machines working to begin the day. The breakfast was gone before Wally could really taste the food, yet it silenced his impatient stomach. Yawning, Wally shuffled out to the living room. Tossing himself onto a sofa, the news of the day clicked on. Wally didn’t really watch it. The white noise it made helped Wally distract himself. Though that distraction didn’t last for long.

Wally shivered and shook non-stop. Recalling the events of yesterday. Dragons were real, and one had spoken to him. It seemed humanity’s efforts to close off all organisms into the wildlife sector had failed.

The wildlife sector!

Rushing over to a massive computer monitor, Wally hastily logged in and began to compose an email to the overseer of the wildlife sector. These dragons needed to be contained. He was halfway through the first sentence when his hands locked up. Then his fingers seemed to fuse together as if there were glue on them.

He felt the eerie sensation that he was being watched.

His eyes itched.

Backing away, rasping with fear, his fingers began to separate. Soon, he could move his hands again. He most certainly didn’t forget what that dragon had told him, he just didn’t want it to be real.

However, as he realized that he would never be able to communicate his findings at all, there was a kernel of relief mixed in with his disappointment.

The dragons would most likely make him one of the wealthiest humans on the planet, but to what end? He already had what he needed and wanted with his current home. It was Daniel who sought to enrich himself.

Daniel! Where was Daniel?

“Daniel?” Wally called out. “Are you here?”

No one answered.

He had not seen Daniel since they were both in the cave.

Growing in worry, Wally typed in Daniel’s bracelet ID code into the computer. Daniel’s location popped up, and so did his vitals.

Crying out with worry, Wally found a spare cave-diving suit, one much like the ones he and Daniel had used earlier, and he set out towards the cave that now had a gaping maw.

The rocky obstacles did not stop Wally from finding Daniel. Deep into the cave they had found the dragons in, Wally thought he found Daniel. His location was blinking right over his as he stood in the cave.

“Daniel!” He screamed. Only his echoes replied to him.

Suddenly, smacking his head, Wally connected his suit’s microphone to Daniel’s suit speakers. Miraculously since they still worked.

“Daniel?” He whispered now. “Can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Daniel, I see your location, but I don’t know where you are,” he explained. “I know you’re super malnourished, but please, say anything."

Silence again.

Feeling overwhelmed, Wally stumbled to the ground. Soft sand moved under his legs. There wasn’t sand in this cave before, was there?

Looking helplessly at his friends gradually lowering vitals, Wally began to dig into the sand. His suit recognized his intentions and extended a large shovel-like appendage from the suits back. It helped Wally dig, and dig, and dig. Until his arms felt like lead, and he felt the cool, rounded edge of Daniel’s suit helmet.

“Oh god!” He cried. Daniel weakly sat up, promptly falling over onto Wally. He looked so incredibly tired.

What happened next was a haze, but Wally distinctly remembers carrying Daniel over his own shoulder out of the cave and back to the OMH.

The OMH’s mechanical medical aid worked to heal Daniel and get him fed. Wally sat next to him while it worked. Daniel was asleep for the entire operation.

Yet when it was finished, Daniel groggily opened his eyes, looked at Wally, and smiled. His mouth moved to say something, but to both their surprise, no sound came out.

#fiction #shortstories #creative

[gatorademachinegun]

mermaids, men, and gators

working title: LMAOOOO WHAT IS A CONSTANT TENSE I DONT KNOW HER

notes: i wrote this back in september 2018 when my theme was the green gators blog but i was a chicken about posting it till right this second. so. have this i guess.

dedication: @xxsirensong both this and the entire green gator theme started with you Linda, ily

When you come to visit us down here in swampland, don’t go into the water. Don't go near it.

Stay with the people, on dry land, away from the Fishies.

That's what Old Uncle John will call them. Fishies. You'll know them by a different name, they're probably why you came down to visit if you're being perfectly honest with yourself. You came to see the Mermaids. Sirens. Fishies. They go by many names and if you follow the river down into the swamp you'll find them.

Gossamer and gorgeous, almost out of place in the dirty greens and grays of the swamp, but then again. You can only see half of them. Who knows what the delicate trail of teal green scales leads to other than the water.

Stay out of the water. You're too close already. A quick peak is all She'll allow. Better get out quick before one of your beauties signals for Her.

Old Uncle John has nothing good to say about Her.

"She's mean," he'll say, "She'd be prettier if she smiled but then you'd see the blood she's covered in!" the young ones don’t like stories about Her, but once Old John gets going.....

"Evil, she's pure evil. Nasty ass bitch never shoulda-" he'll stop here and rub at his bad eye, mangled under the too big sunglasses he wears. Someone bought him an eye patch for Christmas one year. He doesn’t use it.

If you probe for answers he’ll only get nastier, accent thickening like good white gravy until even Aunt Myra can’t understand anything other than the occasionally swear word. She’ll tell you to get him drunk and then ask. You make the mistake of taking her advice when you stumble back into town, muddy from the waist down and blabbering about mermaids.

A fifth of whiskey and a question about how to get the mud out of you jeans is all it takes to him talking. Asking you if you went down to that ‘damned swamp’ and following up with ‘you did dincha!’ complete with a swat to the head. Aunt Myra smiles in sympathy from the kitchen but doesn't step in. ‘You wanted this, remember?’ her eyes seem to say. You do.

A few hedged questions about his own jeans and then John’s eyes unfocus, lost in the past.

It starts with a pretty girl, as most of Old Uncle John’s stories do.

A pretty girl, a reckless boy and the swamp.

He sees her when he’s messing around with his friends in the creek, just a flicker of dark hair and a gentle laugh. Hushed whispers and some jostling gets his buddies to shut up long enough for them all to notice her, chest deep in the mud, smiling like it’s the last day of school.

They’ll ask if she’s stuck. She’ll move backwards in answers, the heavy mud parting like water for her. It’s in her hair. Johnny doesn't care.

He chases her, running, tripping in his haste, and falling with a wet splat while she laughs at him, low and loud. He’ll walk home muddy everyday if she laughs like that again. With a wink she stands and mud clings to a heavy, bare, chest.

Someone whistles behind him and moves closer. She does the same, something a little too sharp to be curious but a little to open to be menacing. Her eyes are as brown as the mud around them.

When she’s close enough Johnny goes cross eyed looking at her the world explodes with movement.

Someone's yelling, another’s got her by the arm, John’s got a handful of something he’s got no business touching according to his ma but his conscious quiets when they all collectively pull

She’s got a tail.

It’s twice as big around as Johnny is, even with the bulk football gave him, and covered in mud, moss, and shimmering green scales so dark they’re almost black.

Then she snarls, claws a good hunk of meat off of John’s face and rips whoever’s got her arm, shoulder right out of its socket.

They’ll find Johnny sobbing into the mud a while later, hands clapped to his face, blood running down his arms, no mermaid in sight.

When he comes back to himself, back to Old Uncle John and away from Young Little Johnny he’ll rip that second fifth outta you’re fingers and down half it in one go.

That’s all you get out of him that night.

Aunt Myra doesn't look sad when you glance up at her, she’s angry.

You wonder if this is the first time she’s heard about how her husband got his scar

When you ask Freddy, who’s across the street and weak in his shoulder, about it he’ll spit between your shoes and say some impressively unprintable things.

“You leave that gator and that witch alone boy you hear!” he’ll jam a finger into your chest until you have a bruise and are nodding frantically.

You lied to him

The gator piece is new. Aunt Myra shakes her head and tells you Fred went mad a long time ago but the little kids giggle and tell you that the gator shoots a gun.

When you point out that gator’s can't shoot guns Chrissy, the oldest of them all at the ripe old age of 6, will laugh and say “Neither can you!” before running off.

She’s got a point.

Also, mermaids are real. Why can’t gun shooting gators be too?

Your best friend laughs when you tell him. “Mermaids and gun slinging gators? The humidity is getting to you man! Better come home before your brain melts entirely!”

You’ll hang up on him, the asshole.

A picture you decide, milking a glass of orange juice Aunt Myra doesn't know you spiked, get a picture of the mermaids avoid whichever one fucked Uncle John’s face, and become famous for it.

You might have had a little too much of that orange juice.

Strapped into borrowed waders that are too big for you, phone in hand, you’ll be hip deep in mud with a half a mind to quit when you’ll see them.

They’re further in than last time, pushed up on a bank of semi dry sand, speaking in a language you don't realize. You’ve got an eye full of bare skin in long lean lines, that fades into delicate scales until their the size of your palm and colored the same as the marsh plants you fought through to get here.

You’ll barely unlock your phone when one of them sees you and flicks her tail up, sending mud flying. It’ll land dead in front of you, splattering up into your face, and slicking your phone.

By the time you get it out of your eyes, a scaled nose is peeking up from the water, dead in front of you.

Everyone knows, everyone is taught what those are. Gator.

It’s been too long since you’ve visited though, and the lessons are dull in your mind. Do you run? Stay put? Scream?

The decision will be taken from you when She arrives.

You know immediately it’s Her. the one who fucked Old Uncle John’s face.

Hand prints brand her bare chest, a shade of sickly green almost the exact size of your own hand on her breast, you’re only a little older than Uncle John was, you realize with a start.

Another is branded around her upper arm, the same shade of green that makes every buried instinct in you scream of sickness and pain and you have the overwhelming urge to vomit.

She’ll stop you, the murky water and mud parting easily for her, and she’ll grip your jaw in one hand, looming over you.

The gator moves to the side, but you’ll feel it’s breath on the side of your exposed neck, the only think you can focus on whole She yells at you in a language you have no hope of ever understanding.

When She’s done, brown eyes narrowed in rage, you’ll notice the gator skin on her shoulders. Stitched into her flesh, with heavy thread, an armor leading down her back. To where you can't see, head still pulled into an unnatural angle, her grip on your jaw ever tightening with your staring.

Finally She’ll let you go, but Her gator stays, breathing on you with it’s too big nostrils, looking almost gleeful when you spare a glance to check its location. Chrissy will be disappointed you didn't see its gun.

If you survive this that is.

When She drops you, and She will, for not even the merfolk can yell forever, you’ll flounder for balance, Her steady weight gone, no longer holding you up. You hadn't realized you’d slumped into her grip.

She’ll catch you, steady you, but it’s with the prong of a pitchfork. The metal is cold against your back and she’s sneering, lips pulled back to reveal pointed teeth and a algae green tongue that darts out to taste the air.

You are in no position to wonder about snake mermaids in the swamps, because she’s got her pitchfork in your face, one tip indenting the flesh of your cheek. The same spot Uncle John has his scar.

She’ll see the fear flash in your face because her next move is a jerk of the tines, making a shallow cut on your face. It burns the way cuts do when you get dirt in them and your eye will water from the sting of it.

“Never. Again.” She’ll say in careful English, then again in Spanish because you actually paid attention in that class and again in another language, changing each time but the same two words.

She punctuates each languages change with a jab to your chest, ripping your borrowed waders and your shirt until you're back into the river proper, gator still swimming idly beside you.

When she pulls back something ripples behind her, heavy and green.

“Gator,” you breath and glance down at your unwanted buddy. No scales are missing from his hide but that is unmistakable gatorskin that flows from her shoulders. The stitching……

She wields a pitchfork, stands tall on her tail, wears a cape of alligator hide and protects the way she was never protected. Hand prints mar her skin, sickly against smooth flesh and she doesn't cover them, her cape is her only kind of clothing and you’re still not sure if her gator companion wields a gun or not.

You know when you’re not wanted enough to leave before you find out

Aunt Myra scolds you for leaving like that and ripping a good pair of waders but won't hear anything about mermaids or alligators.

Your best friend thinks it’s the funniest shit when you call him, crowing about humidity and going crazy. You don't hang up, but you touch the cut on your cheek, and the scraps on your chest. You’re not crazy.

You leave shortly after that, mad that you’re phone is ruined no good pictures at all, a wasted trip. Your mad about Her roughing you up, mad about that damn gator who shoots better than you do.

Old Uncle John has a drink with you before your drive back home, and both of you are muttering about ‘damn Fishies’ before the bottle is even halfway gone.

.

.

.

Across the swamp, across the sea, She sighs and stitches another scale into her cape. Humans will never learn to leave well enough alone. They will never understand Her pain.

The butt of her pitchfork slams against the riverbed rhythmically, calling.

As the water around Her ripples she sets aside her needle and rises, watching Her Sisters rally to her cry

Since they do not learn, they will drown.

And the Waters will be all the better for it

#my writing #gatorade made #(yikes thats an old tag) #mermaids #i uhhh #it's like half a hair rapey but im a weenie so just vauged about it #i have no idea what to tag this but #ok #here yall go #ily linda

[oscar-isaacs-number-one-bitch]

“Green Book” Movie Review

Green Book is a new film from director Peter Farrelly, who is most well-known for directing comedies such as Dumb and Dumber and There’s Something About Mary, the latter of which he co-directed with his brother Bobby. This movie stars Viggo Mortensen as an Italian-American named Tony Vallelonga who works as a bouncer and pseudo-enforcer for the Copacabana in the 1960’s. After the Copa is shut down for renovations during the Christmas season, Tony needs to look for work, and gets wind of a job where he can make some real money, as a driver and security for African-American classical pianist Dr. Don Shirley. Dr. Shirley is about to embark on a concert tour in the deep American south, and given the time period, it’s safe to say he’s going to encounter some resistance wherever he goes to there. Tony is hired on, and thus begins the journey of two men from two very different walks of life, and the friendship that came to be.

Early reviews had this film pegged as a major awards contender, with Oscars in immediate conversation, and as soon as the trailer dropped, it was easy to see why. Two of the screen’s most acclaimed stars, including one fresh off an Academy Award win, in a movie about race relations and friendship set in the 1960’s around Christmas time, releasing at Thanksgiving? This was bound to be a hit. And, come festival time, it was. In fact, it was (and continues to be) a heavy favorite for a Best Picture nomination from the Academy. Unfortunately for it, though, the Academy’s membership has also been changing in major ways thanks to a massive diversity push after 2016’s #OscarsSoWhite fiasco, and many critics of color (perhaps some Academy members as well) see this as the Driving Miss Daisy of this year – a harmless enough, even moving film on the surface, but accompanied by a subtext that betrays some troubling philosophies which some may consider racist in themselves.

And this film is pretty much exactly what it’s purported to be: a pleasant and relatively easy-going film about race relations in the 1960’s that doesn’t put out much more effort than what is required to simply be a decent movie at surface level. If it weren’t for the sheer level of talent involved, this would probably by just a grade C attempt to make an “Oscar movie,” but alas, they mostly pulled it off. To start, Peter Farrelly handles this film surprisingly well given his previous efforts’ being so wildly different from anything like this. Directionally, the movie is a genuine pleasure, with Farrelly pulling one of the better Christmas-set movies in recent memory seemingly out of a back pocket of stories we didn’t know he was capable of telling. He navigates the surface of the film so expertly you might think he was skipping a rock on water, and the way the beats of the plot play out has a very natural progression, with a smoothness not often found in films like this. That may rub some people the wrong way in terms of what Farrelly omits from the landscape of the time period in order to maintain a PG-13 rating, but for the most part it keeps the film on an evenly stretched tonal playing ground, allowing the stars to get comfortable with the way this world works.

And the stars do seem comfortable, not just with the way this world operates, but with each other. Mortensen and Ali are both at the top of their game as actors with this film, displaying an easy-going chemistry so charming it practically belongs in a Linklater film, with the former in particular being so well-suited to New York mobster archetypes one would never have thought that this same man once played Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Mahershala Ali certainly isn’t outshone, and continues to stretch the range of roles he’s been asked to play just in the past two years alone to yet another corner of his continually impressive resume, but it’s really Viggo Mortensen who gets the big moments in the particular film. Both he and Mahershala Ali will be up for performance awards at the Dolby theater in 2019, but it’s more likely that Mortensen would take home the gold should but one of their names be called to the podium.

Where the film’s problems arise are in its writing, as alluded to earlier. The script isn’t, per se, bad (after all most of the good parts of this movie wouldn’t work with a bad script no matter how much talent you throw at it), but it is deeply flawed in some respects. I certainly would count myself no expert when it comes to race relations or the attainment and maintenance of civil rights in the United States in relation to people of color, but something about the way this film portrays the landscape of the deep south in the 60’s just didn’t sit right with me, and it took me until I was walking out of the theater to realize what – it feels sanitized. Yes, despite the fact that there are multiple racially-fueled altercations in the film surrounding Dr. Shirley’s character, including one that directly involves Tony’s reaction to the N word, the film still feels sanitized. It feels a little bit like (to use a term we all should be familiar with by now) whitewashed history, in order to either maintain a PG-13 rating, or keep white audiences in their seats, and sanitizing a film set in this time period in order to appeal to a particular racial sensibility not only doesn’t help anyone, it actively hurts the landscape we find ourselves in today.

There are also some problematic aspects to Dr. Shirley’s dialogue that I found a tad troubling once I began to dig into their subtext. Of course I don’t know what the real Dr. Shirley was like, and there have certainly been many people of color, some of whom I know and respect greatly, with this same philosophy, but one of the lines the character is given in the film is as follows: “you never win with violence – you only win when you maintain your dignity. Dignity, Tony…” I forget the rest of the line, but I do remember it was something to the effect of dignity being the only tool one can use to affect great change, another notion often used by white people (most notable in reference to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.) to pacify people of color and trick themselves into believing that the only real achievements in the civil rights movement were wrought by peaceful black people, which is simply not the case (MLK was, to my understanding, non-violent, but that is not the same as peaceful). The character of Dr. Shirley is a complex one to portray, and Mahershala Ali does the masterful job he always does with complex roles, but somehow those words felt unnatural coming out of his mouth, and it’s likely because they were scripted by three white men. This is not to say that white people are not allowed or unwelcome to tell stories about race, but it is a delicate line to walk given this country’s history, and this particular aspect of the writing, at least to me, seemed poorly handled.

Green Book is a fine film, even a good one, and a pleasant watch to boot. But that doesn’t mean it’s a beneficial one; even as the surface of the film pens a much-lauded message, the subtext betrays something which may do more harm than good. It’s a tricky thing to navigate race relation stories set in the 1960’s, and some can make it look as effortless as modern-day Disney live-action remake (which isn’t actually fair to say, making any movie takes a lot of work). But some others, such as the writer Peter Farrelly, still have a ways to go towards that achievement, despite sincere and valiant efforts in that direction. The performances are top-notch, and the direction is unexpectedly solid, but the script’s major issues cannot be overlooked or ignored. It’s a Best Picture nominee for sure, but don’t look for a win on Oscar Sunday.

I’m giving “Green Book” an 8.5/10

#Green Book #Movie Review #The Friendly Film Fan #Viggo Mortensen #Mahershala Ali #Peter Farrelly #2018 #New #Movie #Film #Review #Oscars #Oscar Race #Oscar Race 2018 #Oscar #Academy Awards

[nny11writes]

Passing- Chapter 4

<-Previous The Study Date

Barriss snickered as Ahsoka’s head jerked up, head swiveling in an almost unnaturally smooth way to follow whatever small animal had distracted her. “Lunch?”

“Nah, not big enough.” Ahsoka declared much louder than necessary, with a grin saying she was hoping someone would hear it.

Rolling her eyes Barriss highlighted her last set of notations.

For all the little distractions they’d had, Ahsoka’s suggestion to study in the Kelto Public Gardens had been a good one. They’d found a little spot tucked away from the noise of various crowds and out of hitting range from a rather rambunctious group of mandos playing some variation of bolo ball. The various birds calling to one another, soft laughter, and warm sun was transporting. Closing her eyes Barriss could picture them far away from Coruscant, perhaps somewhere like the Aldera Mountains. Not a bad choice, a little cold but that would be a great excuse to get comfortable in front of a fire. Not that they would be cuddling, because they weren’t dating and this wasn’t a date.

Her eyes snapped back open to glare at her pad. It just figured that her own mind would be the thing stopping her from enjoying a pleasant afternoon with her Actually Just a Friend.

They had been fake dating for all of three rotations and Barriss was pretty sure she was going to hate her entire existence after the holidays. Afterall, the charade had to end at some point and no matter when it happened her mother would be worried and it was very likely that their relationship would be strained as Barriss wouldn’t want to talk about it, and hopefully Ahsoka wouldn’t treat her differently because frankly Barriss relied on their quiet camaraderie to survive when campus was a seething swarm of sights and sounds. What if she had to find another roommate because she ruined her friendship by playing at romance when clearly Ahsoka had so many better options and furthermore-

Ahsoka’s orange hand plucked Barriss’s datapad right out of her lap.

“Listen pal,” Ahsoka said sternly while baring her teeth at the small electronic device, “don’t be mean to my friend. She’s a nice lady and if you wanna mess with her you’re messing with me!”

Barriss, to her eternal embarrassment, snorted.

Ahsoka laughed, but clearly was doing her best to stay in character no matter how terrible a job she was doing at it, “That’s right, you better fart in fear!”

“You’re disgusting.” Barriss covered her face even as she laughed. “We are adults, not toddlers!”

“Speak for yourself!” Ahsoka happily chripped, while tucking Barriss’s datapad into her oversized cargo pocket. As always, she did absolutely nothing when Barriss glared at her.

“I need that back.”

Ahsoka’s head tilted to the side before she declared, “Nah. You were glaring silently at it for, like, five minutes. Breaktime.”

Just like that, Ahsoka leaned backwards onto her hands with one arm going slightly behind Barriss. Like an almost half hug. A very much in her personal bubble half hug. Barriss quickly reciprocated with a slight frown. See how much she likes it!

Ahsoka flashed the most amazing little contented half smiled down at her, and Barriss was pretty sure she was sweating. Oops. She’d committed herself to this though and she couldn’t really just back out now right?

Right.

We’re basically cuddling. It was a nice thought. Even if it was short lived. While she was half staring at Ahsoka’s arm, because honestly where did all these muscles even come from, which is not staring by the way, Barriss would refuse the meer notion that perhaps she was ogling- a bolo ball bounced, spun, and in near slow motion flew within centimeters of her head. Of course it had flow close enough that Barriss had lurched aside to dodge it and found herself half sprawled over Ahsoka’s lap. A distinct benefit was the way Ahsoka reflexively wrapped an arm over her, and hunched over to ask, “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes. Thanks.” Barriss was pretty sure she squeaked. Wow Ahsoka had some very pretty eyes.

“Sorry! We were-ALL THE GODS I’M RICH!”

Barriss half jumped again, twisting to stare up at a group of laughing young men. All staring at them. It was like a bucket of ice water. It was like being punted directly into space.

“Kriff off Hardcase!” Ahsoka growled. Barriss crumpled in on herself and focused on the vibrations in Ahsoka’s chest. Her gaze narrowing down to the blue stripes on her lekku, they’d started splitting apart over the last half year. She was just going to focus on Ahsoka. It didn’t block out the sounds of the men slapping and shoving one another.

“Like hell I, wait, you alright?”

“We’re leaving now, sorry, enjoy your afternoon.”

“I’d like the details later?”

“Shut up Jesse!”

“I said we’re leaving.”

There was a round of affirmatives and the sound of feet running off. Barriss still got the sense that one of them was there. When he crouched down she hunched in further.

“Thanks Rex.” Ahsoka spoke in a near whisper before looking down at her.

Barriss flushed realizing that she’d just frozen up like a child and stiffly sat up. Rex was a shirtless man with close cropped blond hair and a dusting of facial hair that she hoped wasn’t meant to be a beard. Rex leaned back, squatting on his heels with a depth of worry in his face she hadn’t expected. Even if she was still shaken, Barriss appreciated the distance he left between them.

“Rex, this is Barriss, Barriss this is Rex. He’s one of my best friends from high school.”

“Ma’am.” Rex nodded seriously, a small smile finally twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It’s nice to finally meet you, just sorry it had to happen this way. Say the word and I’ll thump Hardcase if you’d like.”

It took more effort than she’d expected to pull the words out to respond. “No. Thank you.”

“Alright. Hopefully we can meet up some other, far more pleasant time in the future.” Rex stood up fluidly while his smile bloomed warm and sincere. “And seriously, congratulations you two.”

“Rex,” Ahsoka hissed with apparently no noticeable effect before whipping around to look at Barriss. “Ignore the lot of them. They are always trying to-anyways, older siblings you know? Assholes. Not Rex. Usually. Uhm, I mean- are you alright?”

Barriss gave a small shrug before realizing she’d been picking at a loose thread in her skirt. How long had that been going on? Her mother gave her this skirt for her eighteenth birthday. She was supposed to take care of it. Her heart, somehow, sunk further.

“Ok. Hey, let’s head home this has been a bit too much for me to keep studying; yeah? Easily...distracted!” Ahsoka quickly gathered up her scattered possession and slung her bag over one shoulder.

“Alright.” Barriss stood up, one hand trying to smooth out the thread. She’d need to cut that and check for damage. She liked this skirt. Glancing half up she saw Ahsoka’s arm held out in invitation and took it, before realizing Ahsoka had just been adjusting her bag.

Before she could pull her hand back, Ahsoka had smiled and moved a little closer so they could walk arm in arm. They walked slowly, taking a different path out than in and only stopping every single time Ahsoka saw someone’s pet. She cooed over every anooba, massif, tooka, and even one anura that was sitting very obediently on it’s owner’s head. At each little pause Ahsoka gave a happy little trill and would excitedly point out her favorite thing about them.

“Look at his spots. Great spots!”

“New antlers are the fuzziest best ones.”

“Barriss, it’s so tiny. I love tiny things? Look at it’s little nose!”

“A good smart girl.”

“He’s so big, I love him.”

“Can we steal her? Seriously, look at that tail. Fluffy tail Barriss!”

“Twelve out of ten would watch him biff it again.”

It was ridiculous, not only because Barriss was forced to shoot down ever single request to get a pet for the dorm (it said right in the housing contract they couldn’t have pets, honestly!) but because she was walking with a nearly six foot tall, muscle bound hunting god whose voice had gone up a clear octave in joy. Barriss chuckled as some sort of avian with a long tail swooped over head and Ahsoka gasped in delight.

“Barriss. Forget the rest of them. That’s the one. I need one. Barriss. She’s a perfect bird, a raptor with so much fluff. We should get one of those.” Ahsoka whispered as if someone else was going to try and steal the clearly wild bird away. “A good round girl.”

“We can’t have a pet!” Barriss huffed out a small laugh. “Besides I already have one large, squawking predator two is just excessive.”

“Hey!” Ahsoka squawked even through her giant grin.

It took hours before Barriss realized she’d never heard Ahsoka talk about pets or animals at all before. She spent the evening distracted by the heartening thought that it had been done for her benefit.

It took exactly seventeen minutes for Barriss to find out what kind of bird it had been and purchase a small toy version on the holonet. Ahsoka’s birthday was coming up after all.

#fanfiction #fanfic #star wars the clone wars #Ahsoka Tano #Barriss Offee #barrissoka #college au #fake relationship au #the WiP continues #Ahsoka maybe sort of casually kind of offered to have a study date-for class and stuff at that park Jinx suggested because #she's a good friend like that and there was definitely no other reason thank you very much! #Barriss is a nervous wreck but what else is new #Giant buff predator squees over tiny less buff predators #Rex thumped Hardcase regardless because Ahsoka had glared when they walked by #their friends are all idiots

[alleycat4eva]

Blood in the Water, Fire on the Land

I dedicate this to @tricneu who never let these guys die and @temahri who breathed life into the old cast once more.

It’s been two years since she settled with her choices and Ryuishi feels…old.

It’s a sensation in her bones; a weight, a hollow sort of density that sits in her ribs like lead. The number of years on her soul hangs across her shoulders like a shroud, constant and pressing. Sometimes it lingers in the line of her jaw, touching ever so faintly in the corner of her eyes. There are lines there now, faint ones she never grew old enough to see in her past life, and each one feels like it carries a metric ton.

It so much more than her body’s age, instead of something ephemeral and intangible that somehow takes shape in the heart of her. How many years has she been living now? How many in this world, and the one before?

She doesn’t know. Stopped counting things in years, only events.

She was born. She lived, she loved, she grew and played and learned. She died.

She was born. She lived, she loved, she grew and fought and fought and fought and learned.

Fights. Learns.

And still, somehow, with all that fighting and learning, she ends up here. Staring at the orange glow of a fire that will take days to burn itself out, eating its way across the plains of Grass Country, ravaging the countryside and laying waste to crops and homes alike. The heat of it prickles at her cheeks, and the ash falls from the sky like a gentle rain, sizzling where it lands on her damp skin.

There is no trail to find. There is nothing left but embers, she thinks passively, her heart weary but unmoved. Clever Hanako. Clever, clever Mumei.

She should have seen it coming, really. She taught them this trick decades ago when Kiri burned.

Her body shifts, unnatural chakra pooling at the base of the feet submerged far below her. It’s like finding grip midair, and the liquid solidifies into something that will hold her weight. Though the current still tugs at her clothes and hair, she rises steadily, smoothly ascending from the waters into the fiery night. Her movements are practiced and smooth, as old as she is in her soul, and there is no noise to give her way. No sound to speak of from her.

Nor is there any sound from the man already on the bank.

She turns to look at him anyway, his silhouette cast in dancing red and yellows. A strong build, sturdy and tall. He looks fierce, she thinks, the jutting lower half of an Oni’s jaw -all teeth and wicked snarls- covering the lower half of his face. Combined with his cutting eyes, it’s quite the picture. But not enough of one to stop her gaze from flickering just a further down to his chest. Even in the unsure light she can see it, that pasty paper white flesh keeping Zabuza alive, the remnants of a deal made with a trickster to pay for her mistake.

Something oozes inside her head, sloshing around a bit. The faded spark of a rage not just her own, accompanied by loss. The niggling sensation that there should be a smaller figure beside him, all ice and composure and a piece of her heart.

Ryuishi turns away, toward the fire once more.

There used to be a village here, several hundred yards from the edge of the river to allow for the flooding that naturally occurs every season. It was small, a stopover town built up over the past few years. It produced little other than agricultural goods, but there was a glass shop on one of the beaten dirt paths. The crafter in there used dye to turn sand up from Suna into works of art, twisting the molten material like taffy into creations and colors that could take your breath away.

Idly, she wonders if that’s where they started the blaze. It would be a tactically sound, the glass ovens kept hot near constantly so the glass inside did not destroy them, and wood placed out back to feed those ovens. The powders and minerals that brought out such rich color could be added to and tweaked to make something a bit more destructive. Something not what it was meant to be. Another errant thought ponders if that crafter is dead, while a third yet asks how the Mumei knew. How they figured out that she was close.

A heavy hand rests itself on her shoulder, warm despite the chill of the water. But, then again, almost everything feels warm to her these days, contrasting with her uncomfortably cold skin. A symptom of a deeper shift.

“I will put it out.”

The voice is deep and warbling, the presence at her back towering over her smaller frame. Kisame is, as ever. a behemoth of a man, his eyes reflecting light in the night the way no human’s could. His presence is a shroud against her back, solid and sturdy and so, so careful still.

“Suiton on that scale is a dead giveaway. The Mumei aren’t the only ones being hunted,” Zabuza grumbles from the bank. His voice is coarse, rough, even half muffled behind his new mask.

Ryuishi doesn’t make a face at the pronouncement, simply accepting the truth of the statement. The three of them have forever been targets in some shape or form, but these days the number of those who wish to see them stopped has grown exponentially. The semi-regular opportunistic bounty hunter and enemy nin has morphed and stretched into entire nations worth of ninja on the lookout, waiting for a word, a whisper of The Kaijuu. 

Of the Ryo.

It is not wholly undeserved, she thinks. In most ways, she has earned it.

Conniving and deceiving your way into power for around three decades will do that. Especially when one of your factions goes rogue and lights the fuse of a long-standing silent grudge by killing off a despot who was implied to rule by divine right. That single action, in turn, igniting a ruthless civil war and rampatting up tensions between civilian, noble, and shinobi across the elemental nations.

All that’s to say nothing of the undead menace with a too powerful eye and the literal eldritch horror mucking about.

“Only really have to worry about Konoha this close to the border. They’re the only ones with the skill and attention to spare right now,” Kisame returns.

“And Suiton of that level would get them to send who?”

Ryuishi’s stomach twists oddly, and she’s unsure if it’s her own reaction or a ghost of anothers. There’s a flash in her mind’s eye of silvery hair and the smell of ozone, a man leading a sunshine child -her heart, her child- away on a beach that is melting into a graveside.

She blinks and it’s gone, but her distaste for a mixed headspace lingers.

“Doesn’t matter. We have shook him before, we’ll do it again.”

“But they will know where we were. Useful information.”

“Not something they can do much with.”

Zabuza grunts. It is, she supposes, true in some ways and not in others. If someone does figure out where they were tonight, not much would change. Another sin might be added to their long and sordid list of them, but at this point, that scroll is so long it would take scribe weeks to right anyway. Not that scribes are a thing, here. They are unneeded, even among the rural towns these days. The population is growing past that, learning in new schools, rapidly outstripping previous generations with innovation and development. So quick, so clever. These days, people just know things.

Maybe things that make they shouldn’t, like tonight.

“The Mumei knew they had a tail. I can’t say if they knew it was us, but they knew something was up. They shouldn’t have. We need to know how.”

The men shift, her husky, ruined voice drawing their attention. The hand on her shoulder tightens its grip briefly, broad fingertips pressing in to the corded muscle of her shoulder. For a moment, the only sounds following her words are the steady crackling of flames, the soft drip of water from her clothes, and the running river beneath them.

“We’ll get them, Ryuishi,” Kisame says softly. His voice is closer now, and she can feel the rough material of his traveling cloak brush against own clothes. “People can’t run forever, not even nameless ones.”

Her eyes stray toward the flames, a part of her already thinking of cargo to be moved and calculating the loss of product in the harvest, crunching numbers as it recalls the direction of the wind and close by settlements.

“Monsters can,” Zabuza answers, and Ryuishi looks at him once more. She doesn’t know how to feel about that distinction, what to think of it.

These days, she doesn’t know much of what to think at all.

#otrats #idk #ryuishi #kaijuu #kaiju no kiri #fic #naruto

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Part of Your World

Chapter 8: you and me against the world

Rated: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 5037

Chapter: 8/11 (All chapters)

Summary: Both Simon and Baz are feeling hopeless, but things can turn around.

Read on AO3

———————————————-

Simon had been staring at the same page for almost ten minutes. He wasn’t even really looking at it, to be truthful. The multiple colours had swirled together in Simon’s anxious, racing mind. He kept going over yesterday’s events again and again. He’d had so much fun, so many wonderful memories, and so many moments. Moments where the air between him and Baz was electric, where they were so close together, only a breath away from finally kissing.

But they never closed that gap.

So of course Baz was stuck in a kingdom council meeting all day, leaving Simon alone to his own devices and further dampening what little chance he had to kiss him. He’d been holed up in the library with the picture books since he woke up. But even they, with all their pretty colours, couldn’t erase all his worry.

“Hey, Si.”

Simon jolted upright at the sound of Penny’s voice. She was next to him on the sofa armrest, as a seagull of course. Simon sighed and weakly waved.

“Sorry it didn’t happen yesterday,” she said. “I know you wanted it to.”

Simon shrugged slightly. Yes, he’d wanted it to happen, and it was disappointing that it hadn’t. But he still hoped for another chance.

“Si, maybe it’s time to...cut your losses.”

He raised an eyebrow at the seagull. Even in bird form, Simon could tell that Penelope was nervous. She ruffled her white wings, like she was adjusting her posture.

“I mean, Si, kissing Baz isn’t the only way to get away from Davy. I know you like him and your human stuff, but we could just...swim away. We can leave now and I’ll take you to some far off island, then let the spell time out tomorrow and we’ll just go as far as possible. Davy will never find us, I’ll make sure of it. Your prince isn’t the only method to escape.”

Simon inhaled sharply. Was that all Penelope really thought he wanted? Of course he wished to get away from David, but it was about so much more than that now. He loved land and the things on it. Like horseback riding, painted pictures, dancing, and sour cherry scones. All of these made him happier than the ocean ever had. He didn’t want to just meander underwater and fail at magic for the rest of his life. He wanted to stay here, so he could help Baz rule Watford someday and make baked treats like Ebb. And Baz wasn’t just a means of freedom. Simon truly cared for him. So much so that he didn’t want to live without him ever again.

He understood Penny’s concerns, but he couldn’t give up and go back to the sea. It wasn’t just about escaping David anymore. It was that he belonged in this world far more than the one underwater.

Simon shook his head vigorously, his curls flopping back and forth. It was the most effective non-verbal way to say, “absolutely not.”

“You have got to be kidding, Si,” she groaned. “You’re being unreasonable. If Baz doesn’t kiss you, which it’s looking like he won’t, then what? Just go back to David? I don’t want to see you so heartbroken that you’ll just slink back to him and let yourself be miserable forever. If we go now and just wait for the transformation to time out, you’ll still be free. You don’t need land or your prince.”

But I want both, Simon shouted in his mind, I want to stay here with Baz more than anything. He shook his head again. Penny groaned even louder.

“Fine! Be like that. Chase after your stupid prince for another two bloody days! But it’ll be without my help, I promise you that,” she shouted as she flew to the open window. “And if you end up right back under Davy’s thumb, it’ll be your own fucking fault!”

Simon huffed and crossed his arms, sticking his tongue out at the seagull. She rolled her eyes and flew away. He curled in on himself, snuggling into the purple cushions with the book balanced on his knees. He knew he was right. Penny was being too unreasonable.

Simon kept looking at his pictures. It took him a few moments to realise he was crying, tiny salt water drops hitting the page. Simon couldn’t tell why he was crying. Was it over fighting with Penny, his best friend who maybe never wanted to speak to him again? Was it over possibly leaving the land, where he felt truly content for the first time in his life? Or leaving Baz, who was a good part of the reason he was content? Worst of all, it could be over the thought of returning to his father. To living under David’s control forever. The thought of that was beyond chilling.

Maybe Penny’s right , he thought. Maybe he should just run now, before being heartbroken and possibly going back to David. But...that wasn’t a given. Part of him thought he still had a chance. And he refused to give up hope until then.

———————————————-

Baz was so unbelievably bored. And that wasn’t easy to do. As Mordealia constantly reminded him, he was a nerd, who played the violin and read philosophy books for fun. But even he had trouble staying awake during some of these policy meetings. Especially when they were over bloody farmland division disputes.

“I say we move the west border of the Geary land five meters west,” a lord said.

“Absolutely not,” another replied. “Two is the most we should move it. Do not short my subjects because you want more corn, sir.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Kill me now , Baz thought. The two men entered into the most mind numbingly polite argument in history. Malcolm didn’t interject. He preferred to let local lords try to settle things on their own before he said anything. Baz sat next to him, tracing a finger over the smooth wood of the war room table. He let his mind wander away to more happy times. Like yesterday.

Yesterday was a wistful word in his head now. Yesterday, when he’d spent all day with Simon. Baz remembered every time Simon smiled, or looked at something with awe, or laughed soundlessly. It was all still clear in his mind. Including every almost kiss. He’d been so close so many times, but things and people kept getting in the way. Almost like fate itself was working against him. That wasn’t surprising, actually. Life always seemed to fuck him over somehow.

He so desperately wanted to be back in the lagoon now, just before the stupid boat tipped over. When Simon’s gorgeous face, illuminated by fungus glow and starlight, was just an inch apart from his. If Baz could change history, he would’ve closed that gap sooner, before they tipped over and his own embarrassment over the disastrous failure became too overwhelming. No hesitation, just immediately press his lips against Simon’s and finally have his first kiss with the amazing boy. He wondered how it’d really feel. He tried to imagine the sensations. Soft, warm, electric-

“Basilton!”

Baz was wrenched out of his romantic daydream. Malcolm glared at him from across the long table, fingers tapping in an angry rhythm.

“Are you listening, Basil?” he asked gravely.

“Yes, father,” Baz replied.

“Then do you have an opinion on the Geary-Carraway land dispute?”

Baz sighed. He looked at the map spread out on the mahogany table.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “The disputed territory is a mere seven meters that both claim historic ownership of. But neither side would suffer greatly to lose it. In interest of fairness, we turn that area in a neutral territory. No one would own it, and it’d create a buffer between the feuding farmers. Both families would be compensated equally of course. Does that sound like a reasonable proposal?’

Baz leveled a cold look at both lords and his father. They all looked slightly shocked. That made the young man pleased. He may only be nineteen, but he was his mother’s son, and he’d been learning to rule since birth.

“That...seems fair,” the first lord said.

“Agreed,” the other added in.

“Good,” Malcolm said. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now let’s move on to-”

Suddenly, a servant walked in from a side door and up to the king. He whispered something in Malcolm’s ear. The king’s expression did not change, but Baz was unsurprised. His father had the unnatural ability to show nothing on his face. It was a skill Baz had worked on acquiring for years.

Malcolm nodded. “Understood. Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ll be cutting this meeting short today. We’ll resume this next week. Farewell, your lordships.”

“Farewell, your majesty,” all the lords said in unison. (Baz always found that creepy.)

They all got up to leave, and Baz was about to follow them. He was happy to be free of this torture to go find Simon. There was still the afternoon to enjoy with him.

“Basilton,” Malcolm said as he reached the door. “You are not excused. Come with me.”

Baz suppressed the childish groan begging to come out of his mouth. “Of course, father.”

He followed his father out of the war room and down the hall to his study. It used to be his mother’s, but Malcolm had occupied it since her death. Though it was still the same as Baz had always remembered it. Large, decorated with dark wood furniture, walls lined with bookshelves. When he was king, he would keep it the same too.

But today there was one difference. A strange man was waiting for them when Malcolm opened the door. He was tall and broad shouldered, pale blond hair secured back with pomade. He wore a very official looking military uniform.

“King Wellbelove,” Malcolm said fondly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. How was your journey?”

“Very good, very good,” Wellbelove replied. “Thank you for inviting us to your fair kingdom.”

“It is my pleasure. Now, may I present my eldest son and crown prince of Watford, Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” Malcolm motioned for Baz to step forward, which he complied.

“Your majesty,” Baz said, bowing politely

Wellbelove nodded in return. Kings never bowed. “Hello, Prince Basilton. I’ve heard much about you from your father.”

“I hope he has spoken well of me then.”

“Certainly. Now, may I present my only child, Princess Agatha Wellbelove.” He motioned for someone at his side, just like how Malcolm had motioned for Baz.

Baz noticed a young woman sitting on one of the couches against the bookshelf. She was objectively beautiful, with a fine boned symmetrical face and piercing brown eyes. Her hair was long and corn yellow, part of it tied up in a intricate braid to better hold up her small tiara. The gown she wore was a simple design but made of fine pink silk and inlaid with gold patterns. Just like Baz, she showed no feeling on her face. A true royal.

Malcolm nodded towards the princess. “Good morrow, your majesty, I trust your journey was pleasant as well.”

“It was,” Agatha replied simply. She leveled her calm expression on Baz, brown eyes scanning over him like he did to her.

“Basilton, where are your manners?” Malcolm said, a slight edge to his mostly neutral voice. “Greet Princess Agatha properly.”

Baz nodded stiffly. Agatha held out her hand. He bowed with due respect and kissed the back of it. He had no idea why the Wellbeloves were here, but he didn’t like it.

“Now, I believe you and I still have some matters to discuss in person, Wellbelove,” Malcolm said with the closest he could get to enthusiasm.

“We certainly do,” Wellbelove replied.

“Excellent. Basil, why don’t you show the princess around the castle? You can give her a similar tour as our lodger.”

Baz gritted his teeth. He heard an implication in his father’s words. He couldn’t be sure, unfortunately, as Malcolm always spoke in implications and subtle disapprovement. Baz nodded stiffly again.

“Of course, father.”

Ever the good prince, Baz offered his arm to the princess. She delicately took it. Her light touch certainly implied she liked this as much as Baz did.

———————————————-

“This is the white chapel,” Baz said cooly. “It’s the oldest part of the castle and oldest building in Watford. The first king was crowned here centuries ago.”

“Interesting,” Agatha said, for the fifth time. Baz was pretty sure she found none of this interesting.

“That’s all the important parts of the castle. Shall we take a rest here?”

“Very well.”

Agatha delicately sat on one of the long benches. Baz sat next to her at a respectful distance. He wished he didn’t have to do this. He wanted to find Simon and go somewhere hidden, where they could kiss the boy without any scrutinizing eyes. Instead, he was stuck here, with a princess who seemed even less keen on their situation than he was.

“Let us dispense with the facade, Prince Basilton,” Agatha said with no prompting. “Both of us know why I’m here, and why our fathers wish to meet.”

Baz shifted uncomfortably. Of course he knew why. He just despised acknowledging it. “Very well. Our families Probably wish us to wed, for many political and diplomatic reasons that we are not privy to.”

“Well, I assume it’s because my kingdom lies only just north of your’s and Watford has booming fishing industry. Our union would expand your territory and bring new capital for my kingdom’s somewhat struggling economy. My parents have been looking for viable marriage for me that would help us for years.”

Baz was impressed with her intricate knowledge of kingdom affairs. He scolded himself for assuming a beautiful blonde princess would be ignorant of her people’s issues. “I see. That logic is sound. My father has been trying to arrange a marriage for me as well, for the purposes of an heir.”

“My sympathies. It’s dreadful business, isn’t it?”

“Very dreadful.”

They both quietly chuckled, but quickly fell back into silence. Agatha slowly tapped the wooden bench, chewing on her lip. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm.

“Do not take insult to this, Prince Basilton,” she said, “but I do not wish to marry you. I don’t like being sold off as commodity to the highest better. I wish to marry whom I love, for it to be my own choice rather than my father’s. I despise being the prize at the end of a business transaction.”

Baz nodded slowly. “Don’t worry, your highness, I do not wish to marry you either, for the same reason. As well as my own personal preferences in a romantic partner.”

“Oh? Am I undesirable?” She didn’t sound hurt, just simply teasing. Baz let out a scoffing chuckle.

“Absolutely not. You’re quite beautiful. But, truth be told, I simply prefer suitors of a more...masculine nature.”

Baz had never announced his preferences to anyone but Fiona and Malcolm. One had accepted him, the other dismissed. He knew what to do for both reactions, so he wasn’t worried over what the princess’ would be.

But luckily, Agatha’s lip merely quirked up in amusement. “I see. Yet your father is still trying to find you a wife?”

“Unfortunately,” Baz grumbled. “He still believes my feelings are irrelevant in regards to kingdom matters. Including the continuation of the royal bloodline.”

“There are other ways to have an heir.”

“That’s what I told him!” Baz said more loudly than he intended. He quickly retreated back into his mask.

Agatha finally turned to look at him. She didn’t look emotionless anymore, but rather sympathetic. Those sharp brown eyes were round and open, her firm mouth now soft.

“I’m sorry he’s putting you through this,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t have to choose between your heart and your kingdom.”

Baz let his mask slip too, his crossed arms falling and face softening. “Neither should you.”

She nodded, and he nodded back. They turned forward to look at the beautiful stained glass. Both knew they still had time to waste before their fathers were done speaking. Baz wished he could just leave to find Simon, but that would be unfair to Agatha, and he didn’t want Simon to get the wrong idea.

“That lodger your father mentioned,” Agatha said slowly. “Are they of a...masculine nature?”

Baz flicked his eyes over to her. She was smiling slightly with one brow raise. He chuckled. “No need to play coy, your highness. I know what you’re implying.”

“Please, Prince Basilton, call me Agatha. No one would call me your highness if I could bloody well help it.”

Baz smiled back. “Very well, Agatha. But just so you know, only my family calls me Basilton. My friends call me Baz.”

“So may I call you Baz?”

Baz smiled a little larger. “You may.”

Agatha smiled back, angling her body towards him. “Alright, Baz. Now, who is this mysterious lodger? I’m dying to know any wonderful details. Nothing interesting ever happens in my castle.”

Baz turned towards her as well. He felt a bit better, a bit more optimistic that he could be with who he please. “Well, first of all, his name is Simon.”

———————————————-

Some time later, Baz and Agatha went back to their fathers. The Wellbeloves said their farewells and were escorted to their guest rooms. A grand dinner would be had later in honour of their presence, so they had to rest first. Which left Baz alone with Malcolm.

“So,” Malcolm said as he sat in his chair, “what do you think of the Princess, Basil?”

Baz stood politely at the other side of the desk, hands locked behind his back. “She’s nice, and intelligent.”

“And quite beautiful, no?”

“I suppose so.” He took a breath to calm himself. “But, father, you know I cannot feel that way about Agatha. Or about any woman period.”

Malcolm let out a deep sigh. His head fell forward, white hair slumping with him. “Basilton, we’ve been over this. I know you have your desires, but you are also the future king. And a king will need a blood heir. The Pitch royal family has been ruling Watford for centuries. I won’t allow the line to end with you because of your childish notions of love.”

Baz’s lips twitched down in contempt. He hated when his father was like this. So arrogant, so presumptuous. He wasn’t even a Pitch himself, yet he spoke like he was the saviour of the bloodline.

“If I may be frank,” Baz said between gritted teeth. “Your constant dismissal of who I am is quite aggravating. I am more than just a prince and heir to a kingdom. I’m a person, with my own thoughts and wishes. Just because I like other men-”

“Men like Simon.”

Baz’s heart stopped. His father leveled a cool look at him. He meticulously spun a quill between his fingers, like what he’d just said hadn’t make his son’s blood run cold.

“I’m not stupid, Basil,” he said flatly. “I’ve seen the way you look at Simon. And I’m almost insulted that you thought you were hiding it from me.”

“Father, I-”

“Simon’s not viable suitor, son. And not just because he’s a man. He’s a commoner of unknown origins with no voice. How could he be a king?” Malcolm stood up to better loom over Baz. “I want you to forget this silly infatuation, Basil. Royal duty takes precedence over all, and part of that royal duty will be marrying Princess Agatha. Your union will bring advantages to both our kingdoms and an heir to the Pitch name. That matters far more than your fleeting affections for some commoner.”

Baz planted his hands on the desk, scowling at the other man. “ Father- ”

“That’s all we have to discuss, Basilton. You may leave.”

Baz’s nails dug into the hardwood. He wanted to scream at his father. Yell that he was a stupid prick who cared little for Baz and maybe never had. But that wouldn’t do any good. Malcolm never broke out of his calm mask. Baz could shout until he was red in the face and his father still wouldn’t budge.

So he straightened himself out instead, hands once again firmly clasped behind his back. “Goodbye, father.”

“Goodbye, Basil.”

Baz turned on his heels and walked out. Once the door was closed, he stomped down the carpeted hallway. He needed to get out of this stupid castle, with its bloodlines and expectations and burdens, right now.

———————————————-

Something about the violin always calmed Baz. Maybe it was the meticulousness of it that requires concentration. He couldn’t be blinded by rage when he was playing. If he wanted to sound good, that is. But his anger was raging with so much ferocity right now that he didn’t care. The notes screeched out from the hard press of his bow. He ground the horse hair against the metal strings like they had stolen his money. It was a rapid, furious improvisation that expressed his rage perfectly.

Baz played on the cliff near the shore, sharp toned notes ringing out to the sea and small field behind him. The few servants, carrying laundry or escorting grazing horses, gave him wary looks but knew not to disturb the prince. His entire aura spelled “fuck off”. And everybody understood.

Well, everybody except one.

Baz jolted when someone tapped his shoulder. He turned with a scowl, but it quickly melted into a tired smile.

“Hello, Simon,” he sighed. “How did you find me?”

Simon plopped himself next to Baz, the grabbed his hand. He spelt “Mordy” in his scratchy palm.

“Ah, I see. She must’ve seen me stomp out. I’m sorry I didn’t come find you. I just...I needed some time to be alone and angry. My father tends to do that to me.”

The other boy grabbed his hand and squeezed. Baz felt the second’s urge to pull away, his father’s words ringing in his head. “ Not a viable suitor”, “royal duties take precedence”, “how could he be a king?” But when Simon looked at him like that, with a sympathetic smile and open blue eyes, he thought of nothing else but the warm sensation in his heart.

“Thank you,” Baz whispered. “He’s just so...impossible.”

Simon nodded slowly. He shifted even closer, tapping his bare foot against Baz’s boot. Then he pointed at his violin. Baz raised an eyebrow.

“What? It’s a violin, Simon. Have you never seen one before?”

Simon rolled his eye and shook his head. He let go of Baz’s hand and lifted both arms up. One pushed and pulled in the air over the other, his cheek pressed up against his broad shoulder. Both of Baz’s brows went up this time.

“Are you asking me to play for you?”

The boy nodded rapidly with a big grin. Baz gave him a lopsided smile.

“Alright then. I guess I’ll have to play properly.”

Simon shrugged, his smirk sarcastically saying “I guess so”. Baz playfully kicked his foot as he adjusted his instrument.

Baz had been playing the violin for as long as he could hold it up, and even just before. He had memories of poorly using the bow over the strings while his mother or father held the instrument. It was something that truly belonged to Baz, something he did for only himself nowadays. But he gladly shared it with Simon.

He chose a song that wasn’t too sad but not too cheerful either. (He didn’t know cheerful songs.) It started slow and ominous, solid low notes ringing out. This part reminded him of mermaid stories, like the one’s Gareth loved. Those sea creatures who supposedly sang forlorn songs to drag sailors under the ocean. But as he sped up, pulling his bow faster, it became more like the sea itself. Strong, crashing, destructive in its own beautiful way. Baz’s fingers flew up and down and across the neck, tune changing with his nimble movements. The tune built up, up, up until he reached the crescendo, a bursting of intense beautiful sound. Then it settled back into the original slow sound. Baz always thought of the song as a ship going through a storm. Calm, then chaos, then escaping the destruction by sheer chance. It was a nice sentiment. That even after the greatest struggle, you could survive.

Baz took a deep breath as he lowered his violin. Simon started clapping, and Baz turned to look at him. The man was grinning freckled ear to freckled ear. He seemed genuinely impressed by Baz’s playing. That was a first. Anyone who overheard found it too morose or annoying. But not Simon. As if he couldn’t get more perfect.

“Thank you,” Baz said with genuine kindness. “I’m glad you liked it. It’s good to play, especially after the day I’ve had.”

Simon scooted even closer so their knees touched. He laid his hand over Baz’s once again, and all Baz felt was relief. He turned his over to properly lace their fingers together.

“It’s ridiculous,” he muttered. “My father has apparently arranged my entire life for me without my input. Including...a future wife.”

The other man’s grip tightened. Baz brought his fingers to run a soothing pattern over the tense muscles of his hand.

“No no, I don’t want to marry her, Simon. And she doesn’t want to marry me. But our fathers are insisting upon it for political reasons. He thinks it’s my duty to marry a woman and have a child to inherit the kingdom. But...I’m more than my title. I want to honour my mother, but I don’t think she would’ve wanted me to be unhappy forever, right?” Simon nodded, running a thumb carefully over Baz’s skin. Baz nodded slowly as well. “But he’s going to make me marry her anyway, I know it.” He took a long shaky breath, his eyes squeezed shut for a second. “For once, I just...I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, voice broken.

Baz stared at their joined hands. Rough reddish-gold locked with freckled tawny. He so desperately wanted them to stay like this. Together. If only they didn’t have to be here.

Simon tugged on his hand, silently asking for Baz to look up. He was smiling wide as he pointed out towards the open sea. Baz’s brow furrowed, matching his frown.

“What are you trying to say?”

The man silently groaned. He motioned between the two of them, then pointed at the ocean again. Baz was still confused. Simon let go of Baz’s hand and traced his finger over his palm. He spelt out a simple three letter word.

“Run.”

Baz’s eyes widened. His pulse was pounding in his throat. He couldn’t believe what Simon was suggesting. And he couldn’t believe that he was considering it. Watford was his home, the only home he’d ever known. He had responsibilities to the land and its people. His entire life was Watford.

Except...staying here meant not truly living the life he wanted.

Images flashed through Baz’s head. He and Simon together on a sunny beach far away, lounging on the sand, swimming in the ocean, where they could hold hands and kiss as much as they wanted with no one scrutinizing them. No bloodlines or arranged marriages or demanding fathers. Baz desperately need to escape all that. At least, for a little while.

“Yes,” Baz said firmly. “We can go. We should go. For at least a short time, until my father finally lets go of this stupid arranged marriage idea. Then we can come back and he’ll have to accept me. Until then, we can just...be together.”

Simon nodded vigorously, grinning so hard his cheeks must hurt. Baz grinned in return. Much to his happy shock, Simon leaned forward, obviously meaning to kiss him. Baz almost leaned in too, but he quickly came to his senses. He put a hand to Simon’s chest to stop him. The other boy pouted in such an adorable way that Baz almost threw caution to the wind and kissed him right there.

“Not here. Someone could see and tell my father. But tomorrow, meet me in the stables before sunrise. We’ll ride Ivory to the docks and take a boat. The dockworkers will be too hungover to recognise me. Once we’re off sailing we can do...that, all we want, I promise. Okay?”

Simon nodded once again. He squeezed Baz’s hand once. Such a kind, reassuring motion that made Baz’s heart melt. He was so scared and excited all at once. He’d never done anything so reckless in his entire life. But he knew he wanted to. At least as long as Simon was by his side.

Baz stood up, taking his violin, and Simon followed. Their hands stayed linked, both reluctant to let go. “I have to go to a stupid dinner soon. Father most likely won’t want you to attend. Go pack some clothes. There’s a travel sack under your bed. Alright?”

Simon gave a thumbs up. He gave Baz’s hand a last grip, then dashed off with characteristic enthusiasm. Baz watched that glint of bronze until it could no longer be seen. He let out a long, happy sigh. Soon, he’d have to be at that blasted dinner. But at least he’d have something to get through it. Every fantasy of what him and Simon would do once they were away. Away, and together.

He started strolling back towards the castle. He took one step...then he stopped.

Why couldn’t he move?

Baz was frozen in place. His feet were firmly planted on the grassy ground. No matter how much he pulled, he wouldn’t budge. What the fuck was going on?!

“Well, well,” a deep voice said from behind him. “So you’re the human that’s enticed Simon. Unfortunately, your little getaway will have to be cancelled. You’re going to be making other arrangements.”

And with that, Baz’s brain suddenly became foggy. His coherent thought and true desires faded away. Soon, all of Baz’s free will was gone.

Along with every thought of Simon.

———————————————-

AN: Uh-oh. That's bad. And yes, I'm ending this chapter right there. What will happen next?! You'll have to read the next chapter on Monday to find out haha. Or, y'know, watch The Little Mermaid, I guess... However, The Little Mermaid isn't gay so mine is better! Ha! Take that Disney! Anywho, see y'all next week :D

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #penelope bunce #agatha wellbelove #malcolm grimm #fluff #angst #little mermaid #little mermaid au #part of your world

[trcubledycuth]

burning family legacies.

WHO → Daenerys Targaryen & Harry Osborn. @blacxlotus

WHAT → Modern madness tearing up their horrendous father’s legacies.

NOTES → legit from 5000 billion years ago, but the prequel to this thread.

DAENERYS:

“They say your father was just as sane as mine.” Daenerys quips calmly, tea cup held a ways down from her chin, eyes peering over at Harry. It’s been YEARS since she’s seen him, but the familiar face has her lips curling into a content smile that has some true happiness to it. The TARNISHING of the Targaryen name was not one that escaped the scrutiny of headlines around the world. Targaryen Industries suffered a definite hit when the public psychotic break happened, thus Oscorp SOARED and now years later, she was shuffled into Daddy’s footsteps, trying DESPERATELY to bring the family’s name and now HER legacy back to golden standards she was proud to uphold.

So lunch with Harry Osborn, their fathers no longer looming over them. Business, time with old friends. Things that never mixed, but Dany thought it best to get the GIANT ELEPHANT out of the room, especially when her time in New York was meant to be BRIEF. That meant getting what was necessary out of the way first. Hair curled to perfection, her smile breaks into something GENUINE as she sits back against the chair, eyes still having not left the DASHING man in front of her. “How horrified do you think they’d be to know they’re once again being mentioned within the same breath, all these years later for this?” After all the good they’d accomplished, after all the BAD they’d done? “I think the universe is having a laugh on them.” Dany admits, her emotional ties scarred and severed, it’s more a coffee table picture book than a tell all memoir.

“I’m happy to see we’ve eluded it this far.” A moment passed, her cup raising to her lips before a small laugh. “For now anyways.” Genetics could be a bitch after all.”

HARRY:

A genuine grin and a laugh coming from Harry Osborn? That was certainly new. “A polite way to put Norman Osborn lost his fucking mind, huh?” he responded, never one to play games or skirt around the truth. It didn’t suit him. At any rate, if anyone was allowed to make quips about his father, it was Dany. For all the shit she’d been through, however, here she was, looking more perfect and speaking with more confidence than he could ever remember her having before. If he were to guess, they both likely changed quite a bit from the last time they saw one another. He supposed the difference was while he was off in boarding schools taking full advantage of the perks that came with having the Osborn name, she was in a family that was trying and failing to pick up the pieces of their bat-shit leader. What were the odds that he’d be dealing with the same thing only a few years later? Now that he was back in New York, and the company was- for all rights and purposes- his, what was supposed to be competition felt more and more like camaraderie in their unusually similar paths.

Having lunch with Daenerys was a little bit like being transported back to his childhood, despite the fact that this was supposed to be a business meeting, and he was certain the rest of the corporate world was waiting with bated breath to see how this went. An amusing thought. “Knowing that they’d shit themselves is half the reason I came.” Not true. “Maybe less than half,” he added as an afterthought, sipping unashamedly at a glass of scotch. If it was inappropriate, he clearly didn’t care.

At her comment, Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully. It was a disconcerting look for most of the members of his board, as it was usually followed by a subtly snide comment, but his response took a notably different and more amiable tone when he responded to her. “Have you eluded it, though? Most people probably think you’re insane for even suggesting we meet like this.”

DAENERYS:

“I’m nothing if not polite.” Dany teases, mocking her own REPUTATION and how her name has been dragged through the mud, despite everything. Even if not following in her father’s footsteps, being a woman in a man’s world like this industry, being demeaned and scrutinized, and held to an entirely different standard… That was something in it’s own she never allowed herself to fall to. “Though I feel they both lost their minds long ago.” Dany adds on, a sad amusement pushing her opinion deeper. She’d been quite VOCAL on what she did and did not agree on and that have given her a REPUTATION she didn’t necessarily deserve. When men stated what they thought and wanted, they were being assertive, yet when she did it, she was being an immature little brat.

The world had much growing to do. But she was trying to make that change HOW she could; which lead her here. With Harry… But it didn’t FEEL like business which only added her shoulders in relaxing, her smile growing ever so slightly into a grin. A LONG and tedious eye roll silenced as she sipped quietly from her cup, trying to HIDE her amusement. “Less than half?” Dany questions, amusement now fully quirking her brow high as she lowers her cup, settling it to the table. “Most people aren’t worth my time.” Daenerys offers, a satisfied and relaxed expression that sits with POISE.

“You on the other hand. Well, I’ve always had a soft spot.” Oh if only their fathers could see what they’d ACCIDENTALLY created. All the galas and functions, dinners and meetings, two opposing companies coming together, even if only to attempt to ONE UP the other. Properly behaved children shoved together, bored out of their minds while the adults talked, and talked. Children that grew into teens that became more cynical, the veil of innocence slipping beyond the point of return. “Then again, you DID accept my invitation.” Her words are coy, the insinuation tossed back at Harry, perhaps HE was the insane one. “So perhaps that just says we’re MUCH better off than our fathers.”

HARRY:

Harry shouldn’t have been smiling so much, it felt unnatural on his face for how little he’d been doing it lately, but god had she grown fierce over the years. That paired with her always perfectly smooth words and deceivingly coy mannerisms?  She was a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t know how the rest of the world didn’t love her yet. He’d been following her career closely ever since her father stepped down, and it’d been nothing short of a brilliant rise to power. Perhaps he was foolish for admiring her so much, but it’s not as if he could forget the hours they’d spent as children during countless meetings (more like petty territorial fights between their fathers) as their glorified servants watched over them, him convincing her to rebel against them so they could be free for a few hours. He didn’t have a lot of fond memories from his childhood, but those were certainly some of them.

“Less than half.” Harry asserted, more definitely this time. He didn’t bother to elaborate. She knew what he meant. He snorted into his scotch glass, narrowed eyes rolling to the side as he drank more. He wasn’t even buzzed for the tolerance he’d built up for the stuff. “Well, it’s good to know I’m at least somewhat worth your time. If only for old time’s sake.” His smile shrank into something more secretive, eyes trained on the window in the private room they reserved in some fancy ass restaurant downtown. “Every single waste of space on my board advised against me accepting, you know?” he turned back to her, expression hardening.

“They clearly don’t know shit. I think you’re right. And if I can’t be better than my father, then put a bullet through my brain now and be done with it.” Harry normally didn’t make a habit of speaking about Norman Osborn so openly, but he knew Dany more than understood. She was probably the only person who did. “He was brilliant. Once. A terrible father, but Oscorp wouldn’t be where it is without him. I can’t ignore that fact. But how the fuck are we supposed to grow when all anyone can worry about is this damn rivalry between us?” For all the faults of his father, he was one of the few who recognized Harry’s intelligence, if not only when he was insulting him for wasting it. He watched her for a moment, believing she might be one of the few who saw it too, as he saw her’s. “I get the feeling I’m not the only one who sees the potential in what we could do together.”

DAENERYS:

The smile was impossible to wipe from her perfectly painted lips. Perhaps this was the best thing she could have done. “I think we both know somewhat isn’t generous enough a term.” Daenerys corrected. Harry had always been in the back of her mind, but he’d slip in and out from time to time… This however, this fueled the looming sensation of NOSTALGIA, an old friend with a special little bond not many others could relate to. In some senses, Harry Osborn represented what could have been associated with THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY. Not because there had ever been any talk of such things, but because there was ALWAYS something about ‘what if’ lingering in silence between them.

Both far too mature, too jaded to act.

Or was that it at all? “Are any of them under the age of fifty?” Daenerys questioned, amusement evident in the fact she assumed not. All sculpted by Harry’s father, to act in his absence should he ever no longer be there to lead Oscorp. Harry however, well Harry had the ability to override everything and crush whatever had once been.

“Well, I’d drink to that.” She offered, a small huff forming into a laugh at the thought. Being like her father. She knew the man, the stories, the tales. The monster. “What rivalry?” Dany questioned, already summarizing her viewpoint on THAT. There were many things that could be done to progress, but chomping at the bit to up one another when it could all be focused? Driving faster to their GOALS, offering substantial growth?

The appearance of the waiter had Dany ordering a glass of wine deciding that while BUSINESS and liquor never mixed with her as a rule, this was going far better than she could have ever hoped, completely blinded what it felt like to be in the presence of an old, unlikely friend. When they were alone once again, amethyst eyes found Harry’s a relaxed and CONFIDENT expression resting on her features. “I propose Targaryen Industries and Oscorp Industries merge.”

                     ONE WEEK LATER.

HARRY:

Harry knew better than to try and predict what Dany might've been thinking when she requested they meet, but nothing could've prepared him for what she proposed. Years of tense competition and unstable meetings where their father's drew capricious territory lines had been leading to what many thought would eventually be a takeover of one company over the other. First Dany's father lost his mind, leaving Norman Osborn to reap in their misfortune. Before he could begin to think about buying them out, however, he got sick, and his mental state deteriorated as well. Some kind of sick fucking joke, as much as he might've deserved it.

The fact that each respective company now rest in the hands of their children, both of whom had gotten along despite the odds in their youth, might've been a gift more than a joke though. Targaryen and Oscorp Industries merge... what an idea. He'd been stricken silent when she said the words, but the mere memory still made him smile for her boldness. It left a lot up in the air, and it amused him to think that even considering her proposal would likely make his father put out a pricey contract on his life (if he didn't simply kill him himself), but he needed to think about it. He was often reckless, even careless, but he couldn’t be about this.

Realistically, Harry knew this might be the solution he’d been looking for, albeit not the one he’d been hoping for. Having just stepped out of the shower, he stared at himself in the mirror, eyes landing on the ugly mark along the side of his neck sporting a sickly green hue. He poked at it, and felt a tremor of pain throughout his body.  Retro viral hyperplasia. I never told you that it's genetic. The words his father spoke before he died with unsettling amusement. He hadn’t told anyone, never even stepped foot into a doctor’s office when he already knew the truth. He was going to die, it was only a matter of time. He’d never have kids. Someone was going to have to take this over. Who better than the person who actually earned it?

Harry didn’t trust anyone with the information, for the most part too afraid to even admit it to himself, but tonight would be the last night Dany was in town and he had finally made up his mind. He couldn’t go out to some swanky New York restaurant this time, though. He needed something without pretenses, something that felt like it could be them. The way it used to be, or at least some semblance of what they used to have. He spent a lot of time building up his persona as Harry Osborn, the heir who could do as he pleased, but he needed to let go of that at least a little if he was going to do this.

When he changed, it wasn’t in his usual designer wear. A black t-shirt and matching jeans paired with a leather jacket- worn. He hadn’t put any sort of dress code on the occasion, but he assumed she would be the complete opposite, stunning as usual. He had asked Dany to meet him at his place for drinks that night, something easy before her flight home. He rarely got nervous, but his skin was crawling with it now, and by the time her arrival was announced via a speaker by his front door, he was instinctively building that barrier back up. Maybe he needed some of it. Vulnerability never came naturally to him.

Already on his third glass of scotch, Harry prepared a glass of what he knew to be Dany’s favorite wine so that the moment she was settled politely in his overly extravagant condo overlooking the city lights, he was properly astute. Handing her the glass silently after exchanging pleasantries, he sat across from her and spoke. “I know you want to know what I’m thinking about your proposal. But I think I should get something important out of the way first. Something I haven’t told anyone yet- but if we’re going to move forward with this, you should know,” he smirked, and continued, “that I’m dying.”

cont here. x

#c: daenereys targaryen #f: game of thrones #blacxlotus #ᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴀʟᴇʀᴛ! { burning family legacies }