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Just a note

//I miss you all so much. Still working on that work-life balance thing. Not doing well on making time for play.. but I miss writing so much

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Eternal Beauty

The woman had no idea he was behind her. Young. Sloppy. Blood that smelled like late nights and bad decisions. James didn’t blame her. He’d picked her precisely because she wouldn’t be missed for a few hours. a Punk rocker type. Her heartbeat was a steady rhythm in his ears, each beat a polite invitation to indulge. So close now. A few more steps and he could touch her shoulder. Guide her somewhere quieter. Somewhere final.

And then— A scream.

Not the startled shriek of someone who's seen a rat or slipped on wet pavement. This was raw. Ragged. Real. A sound torn out of a throat too afraid to form words. The sound of an innocent.

James froze. A beat passed. Then another.

Dinner slipped out of view, rounding a corner, swallowed up by Tokyo’s electric heartbeat. He didn’t follow.

Instead, his head tilted, listening—not with ears, but with that deeper, colder sense that came with his condition. Something wasn’t right. This city had its predators, yes, but this scream hadn’t come from a place of random misfortune. It had meaning. It pulled.

With a soft sigh, he turned. Hunger clawed at his insides, offended. It had been two days. Longer than he preferred, and he’d chosen Tokyo for its anonymity, its density, its quiet permission to disappear among the crowds. He had no interest in playing vigilante. That sort of heroism had been beaten out of him a century ago.

But still... the scream echoed inside him like a ghost.

He adjusted the collar of his coat, a dark silhouette among vending machine lights and wet reflections, and began walking toward it.

Something had disturbed the balance of this night.

And James Norrington would find out what.

Off he went in search of the screamer.

@story-magic

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Back again this time to break hearts

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//Ok, so.. I wanted to work on replies today, I owe so many.. but I have a con this coming friday-saturday- and sunday. ( the 26th ) soooo I have been working my ass off at making my costume cool today, and ran out of time. I will be around much more in August, promise!

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How to be a ho?

The devil are you asking me for?

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I was into you, but I'm over that now

And I was try'na be nice

But nothing's getting through, so let me spell it out:

A-B-C-D-E-Fuck you

I think it's best if we both part ways.

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did youU know . that you have bones.s and sometimes. .iif you arelucky , the gods will let you see them . v

"Someone get this gent to a hospital.. he's rather delirious. "

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James let out a breath—half relief, half resignation—his gaze flicking to Roman’s foot as it slid down his chest, then back up to meet those gleaming gold eyes. That note had struck hard, and properly so. Roman was right. It was his job. But that smirk that followed… that was an invitation. And James had never been one to ignore an open door…

With quiet grace, he lowered himself to his knees before Roman on the bar. No dramatics. Just a slow, practiced descent, hands resting neatly on his thighs at first—dignified, despite the posture. His shadow curled lazily beneath him, spreading across the floor like spilled ink.

“Satisfaction,” James echoed, voice hushed, that elegant British tone now coated in silk and smoke. “A tall order for a man of your appetite.”

His hand moved, not to grab—no. Just a whisper of touch between Roman’s parted legs, the backs of gloved fingers brushing along the inner thigh as his eyes lifted to meet the demon’s with steady, glowing heat.

“But I am nothing if not… eager to please.” A smirk curled on his lips, subtle, controlled—inviting. His tail swayed behind him in slow, lazy arcs, betraying just how much pleasure he took in the moment.

“So tell me, Mr. Sionis…” His hand finally cupped firm but not rushing.“What does satisfaction look like to you?” He begans to unzip his current boss, and free the felinesque demon from his slacks.

˚　.˚　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　ঌ Features are kept stern, with a slight irritation still flickering in eyes as the other spoke up for himself. And Roman can't help but be amused by the stuttering mess he seems to become. He always reveled in that response from others when he got this way with him. It spoke to his power after all.

It's why he keeps it up with a slight narrow to eyes when asked if him stopping a few fights was worth half a finger of brandy. And without missing a beat he follows question with a sharp, "No." A slight glare. "That's your fucking job after all."

Features only relax with that subtle little suggestion. And a smirk's quick to follow as his foot moves down the other's chest before falling. His head tips up to feign thinking it over, despite that being what was on his mind. He's had his eyes on James ever since he walked in through those doors after all.

And leg's spread before resting arms back behind him. "I'll entertain it if you can satisfy me."

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“What do ya consider modern music? Would it be too annoyin’ to dance to Sam Cook or Brenda Lee?”

"Those dissonant synthetic heart attacks blaring from nightclubs—I consider that modern. And dreadful.”

“But Cooke… Brenda Lee…” His voice softens just slightly, with a trace of fondness he doesn’t care to explain. “No. Not annoying. Sam Cooke could outsing half the opera houses I’ve endured. And Lee—well, she had a way of breaking a man’s heart in two minutes flat.”

He glances away like the memory came uninvited.

“You may dance to them, if you like," But there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite.

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The moment Butcher bolted, James let him.

The vampire stood for a beat longer in the haze of smoke and blood and spent adrenaline, head slightly tilted, the barrel of his pistol still warm.

Then—he inhaled.

The scent. Fresh. Hot. Human. Defiant.

It hit him like wine poured over coals, curling through his senses, igniting something older than anger. The scent of Butcher’s blood—sharp, angry, stubborn blood—raked across his palate and something deep inside him growled.

His lip curled, fangs still visible. The bullet wound hadn’t bought Butcher freedom.

It had bought him sport.

And James—CEOmmodore, pureblood predator of the old world—intended to enjoy it.

With a speed that shredded the air behind him, James moved.

One blink he was standing still, the next he was gone—a flicker of motion barely visible down the corridor as he ghosted after the mortal. No footsteps. No breath. Just that rising, unbearable presence catching up like a storm cloud racing over the horizon.

He didn’t close the distance completely.

Not yet.

Instead, he let his voice echo—smooth, cruel, amused.

“Run, then. Bleed faster. Let me find you by the trail…”

Another step, soundless but thunderous in intent.

“You always run when things get too sharp for you, don't you William?”

His words slithered along the walls—impossibly close, impossibly far. Butcher couldn’t see him. But he could feel him. Just behind. Just there. Not catching him, not yet. Just letting him think there was still a chance.

“You like hurting monsters, don’t you?” he hissed from the shadows. “Makes you feel big. Like a little god with a grudge.”

Another flicker—James appearing just at the end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wall as if he’d always been there, before vanishing again the moment Butcher blinked.

“But now you’re in my house. And I don’t need a spotlight to find you.”

There was laughter next. Not loud. Not insane. Low. Like a dinner bell rung for the dead.

“Keep running, guttersnipe…” “I’ll make your last sprint memorable.”

While it wasn’t much of a surprise to see a pistol being aimed in his direction—Butcher had had guns and all sorts of other weapons aimed at him before—it 𝒘𝒂𝒔 a bit surprising when the vampire had actually fired off a shot. After all, vampires never used guns—at least not in the shows or movies from what he’d seen. Of course, this wasn’t a show or a movie. This was real life, and it had just gotten even more real—even more dangerous.

It had all happened within the blink of an eye. First, the almost deafening crack of the weapon as it went off. Then, a 𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒌 feeling which was followed almost instantly by a pretty intense amount of severe pain—even when the raven haired Brit had instinctively reacted and attempted to dodge out of the way. Thankfully, the other male hadn’t been aiming for a more serious area of his body—otherwise, it likely wouldn’t have ended very well for him.

Even as the pain shot through his entire arm, fresh blood already dripping to the floor beneath his feet, Butcher did his best to keep holding onto the silver plated lever—currently the only weapon he had to defend himself against James with. Of course, that was next to impossible, and he tried to quickly catch it before it could hit the ground.

𝑫𝒂𝒎𝒏 𝒊𝒕.

Maybe there could still be a way for Butcher to gain the upper hand again and manage to get out of there before anything else could happen. At the moment, it was next to impossible for him to tell just how much damage the bullet had actually done to his hand—whether it was a graze or an actual hit, shattering a few bones in the process.

His dark hazel gaze narrowed into even more of a glare—if that was even remotely possible, his jaw already clenching as a growl escaped from deep within his throat. “Fuckin’ ‘ell..”

While the raven haired Brit didn’t like the idea of running from a fight, right now, he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. It was either that or possibly get captured or even shot again. No way in hell he was going to be letting that happen.

So, after finally managing to tear his gaze away from James’, the raven haired Brit quickly turned and took off running as fast as he possibly could down the corridor in the opposite direction from the vampire. With any luck, he’d be able to escape and make it out to the van so they could all take off and get out of there as quickly as possible.

Plus, his hand would 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 need some medical attention to stop the bleeding.

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"You won’t have to worry about being tricked by me, Mr. Hightopp. That particular offense has already been claimed — more than once — by the man I intend to find."

He looks up, finally, voice sharpening with something harder than pain — obsession.

"Jack Sparrow."

He says the name like a curse. Like a knot that’s never come undone.

"He’s gone beyond even the worst of maps. Slipped through death like it were a fog bank. They say he fell into the sea… I say he climbed out somewhere he had no business being."

Then, with steady resolve: "I aim to bring him back. I don’t care if I have to drag him by the hair or the boots. But he owes more than gold, and I intend to collect."

At Jefferson’s raised brow, James meets it with a bitter smirk. "You need someone found? I chased pirates across ten years and two empires. If they breathe, I can find them. If they don’t—"

A breath. "Well. Then we’ve both got unfinished business with the dead, don’t we?"

He extends a hand again — this time to seal the deal.

"Tell me who you seek at World's End because that is a treacherous journey even by hat," he admitted, knowing full well how much trouble it was to get by boat and Hat was even more tricky than that.

"If you're looking to bring someone back from World's end, the same amount of people that arrive in the hat need to come back in the hat and I'm not being tricked a second time by someone so we'll need a body to drop off."

He looked at the commodore and raised a brow. "I do want money but I'm also...well, I'm looking for someone. Do you have the skill of hunting someone down? I have heard that you have chased pirates...do you think you could find anyone?"

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James doesn’t speak at first.

He just gives Roman’s hand a firm squeeze in return. His thumb brushes once across the back of Roman’s knuckles, slow and steady—meant to anchor and soothe.

He glances over once. The way Roman stared at his own lap, the way his voice cracked when it shouldn’t have—James saw it all. Filed it away for retribution.

And when the request comes, simple and quiet—Can we go?—James nods once.

“We can.”

The engine hums to life beneath them like something alive, low and powerful. And they pull out of that dirty corner of Gotham without a word, the blue and red behind them already forgotten. James lets the silence settle in the car, all the while his hand stays where Roman left it, unless moved.

He lets Roman guide, speaking soft, low affirmations like “I see it” or “Left here?”, though he’s already traced every turn from the shape of Roman’s thoughts. Already plucked their destination from his mind.

Once the safehouse is in sight James finally glances his way again. Green eyes gleaming. “ I'm sure you’ll feel better soon. Just a shower. A change of clothes... " He parks, kills the engine, and is already at Roman’s door before the headlights even fade. Preternatural speed.

˚　.˚　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　☠︎ The weight of hand is felt against his thigh, and for a second it makes him flinch before he actually relaxes and finds some comfort in the touch. And he just stares down at it for a long moment. Hoping James didn't notice how jumpy he still was, but his body still feels like it has to be on the defensive despite mind knowing better. And he can feel his body shaking, it's mostly out of anger though.

He is listening though as James shares what he's going to do to those fucking pigs. And they deserve every torturous bit of it for putting their hands on him. Saying the things they did because they thought nothing would come of it.

Now they'd have to reap what they'd sowed.

Hand comes down over James', and he gives it a squeeze. "Good, they deserve every fucking second of it." And he'll leave it at that. Still shaking and his voice wavers with a crack in between emphasis. Free hand then comes up to wipe at eyes to keep them from welling from the anger he felt inside. And he looks out window toward building before looking back down.

"Can we go? I'd like to clean myself up."

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James blinked slowly as he felt the phantom image of chicken flicker through his mind, followed immediately with beef. The cat's mental broadcasting was primitive at best, but clear enough. Picky, demanding, and vaguely entitled.

Then came the nibble. Not hard enough to hurt—just a warning tug on his shirt. James looked down at the little demon in his arms, and for a brief moment, every inch of the dignified vampire, the once-feared naval commander and undead terror, was reduced to nothing more than a very tired man holding a demanding housecat.

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. “Chicken or beef, is it?" James repeated dryly, arching a brow. “How dreadfully bourgeois of you.”

Still, he turned, squinting up at the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant the cat had all but demanded. Chicken. Beef. Rice. Fine.

He strode across the street, coat billowing faintly behind him. The warmth inside the restaurant hit him like a wave, mingled with the scent of ginger, garlic, and meat sizzling in hot oil. Cozy, loud, and just a little bit chaotic. Probably not pet friendly.

As expected, the host spotted him immediately, eyes narrowing at the cat in his arms. “Sir, we can’t allow—”

James didn’t even break stride. His gaze lifted, cool and deliberate, meeting the man’s eyes head-on.

“–pets inside—”

That was when James smiled. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just... purposefully.

A flicker of subtle compulsion passed between them like a ripple on still water.

“You don’t see a cat,” James cooed smoothly. “You only see a well-dressed gentleman with exquisite taste.”

The host blinked. Once. Twice.

“I… see a gentleman,” he repeated slowly, gaze glassy. “Table for one?”

James smirked a wry smirk. “Indeed.”

That is probably what every single cat owner has said at some point in their lives. They aren't food dispensers, and yet the cats still end up with food, most of the time anyway. This guy was no different. A few cutesy movements on the animal's part and he'd probably be putty in his paws. Lucifer had already been picked up and if James had really disliked his presence then the cat would have been walking. Guess this was going somewhere after all.

"Tuna?!" He had that all the time at home and now that he was out in the city he'd be getting it again? That wouldn't do. Lucifer's teeth sunk into the other's shirt giving it a tug twice as if indicating he didn't want it. But how to indicate what he wanted? Some humans had low intelligence and needed signals to help them pick up on things. Looks like James was needed on the signal part.

Taking a look around, Lucifer's ears perked up when he spotted a Chinese restaurant across the way watching as the light went from one sign to the next. If he timed it just right, the cat could land on Chicken or Beef. Maybe even pork. "Meow!"

The sound was made as he continued to gaze at the sign landing on whichever meat it was. His timing with lights wasn't exactly the greatest due to being an animal. Paws began softly scraping against the fabric of James' shirt. The man could order whatever meat he wanted from whatever place. It didn matter. He just needed, or rather wanted, to eat and find his way back home.

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James was still trembling.

His body buzzed from the aftermath, nerves lit up and dancing beneath his skin as he rests back against Homelander's chest—soft, dazed sounds leaving him. The pounding of the club, the heat radiating off Homelander, the slick mess on his chest. He barely noticed being lifted and turned, pliant and languid as hands moved to dress him again.

He should’ve felt embarrassed. Should’ve squirmed under the gaze of anyone bold enough to watch.

But he didn’t.

All he could focus on was him. The voice, the touch, the deep rumble of praise that made all a-twitter. Homelander had made him feel precious even while wrecking him. No shame. No fear. Just care. Just heat.

And when that low whisper came, that offer—the one only he ever got—James obeyed...eagerly.

With a murmur of submission, the vampire shifted. Slid his arms around Homelander’s waist as he leaned in close, breath already hitching at the scent of that potent blood. His lips brushed against warm skin for just a moment, before he parted them and sank his fangs into the supe’s neck, sending a rush of Euphoria through the hybrid that he had possibly not felt in a few nights.

The taste was instant—sweet, powerful, heady. Divine.

A low moan escaped him, muffled against the throat he suckled from. It flooded his system like fire and silk, intoxicating in a way nothing else ever was. It wasn’t just feeding. It was communion. Connection. He could feel the hum of strength under skin, the deep pulse of something greater than himself, and it made him feel so small and safe and whole.

James drank slowly, gently, like a starved thing still afraid to take too much. His hand curled into the fabric of Homelander’s shirt, as the world spun in a delicious haze. And between murmurs and gulps, he whispered softly into his mind:

/…thank you…/

It was the only thing he could say. /Mmm I love you/

Around them, the throb of music and clinking glasses continued, but a few sets of eyes had inevitably turned their way—drawn by the intimacy, the power of what had just unfolded. Some were wide with envy, but most simply watched in silence, unsure whether to be scandalized or awed. A small cluster of younger vampires at the bar stifled amused giggles behind hands, nudging each other as if watching something too bold to be real, too shy to try it themselves. None dared interrupt. Not after what they’d seen earlier. Not when that same predator now held his mate with such gentle ferocity, feeding him like royalty being nourished after battle.

It was absolutely sinful. Pure filth the way James squirmed and rolled around in his lap. The way the vampire begged to cum. And the moment he did? Oh, it was utterly delicious. Homelander licked his lips as he watched his pet make a mess on that bare chest, as hips bucked into stroking hand.

Back when they first met James wouldn’t dare do such a thing in private never mind public. Yet Homelander had been quick to change that. His large form shielded his beloved as best he could, away from prying eyes. Though there was no doubt some would still see, hear and know what was going on. But he wasn’t concerned. Not in the least. For if anyone dared utter a word, they would receive the same treatment as the elder did. They knew better to not mess with the hybrid and his mate.

“Mm, there we go sweetheart. Look at you. You always look so gorgeous when you break. It makes me want to take good care of you and utterly fuck you at the same time. The effects you have on me…” Homelander growled lowly by James’ ear as hand gently stroked every drop from softening cock. As he felt the vampire slump against him, Homelander let go and brought his stained hand to his lips, licking it clean. “Mm, utterly delicious. You are without a doubt my favourite meal, pet.” Other hand remained clamped over mouth while Homelander focused on cleaning himself, allowing James the time to rest and catch breath he didn’t even need.

Only when Homelander finished did he removed his hand, though James wouldn’t be able to say much before he was lifted, flipped round and back placed down on the booth table. Homelander was there instantly towering over him as he helped fix James back into his pants. “I feel since I made you make this mess, it’s only fair I…clean up the mess and get my reward.” There was a devilish smirk as the blonde eased down and slowly dragged his tongue across skin, lapping up the remnants of his husband’s release. He took his time and made a show of it, daring others to watch. It would only further cement the claim he had over his mate below.

Tongue glided and flicked up stomach to chest, effectively cleaning up any and all evidence as the hybrid purred. “Mmh…fuck. I can’t get enough of you…” He whispered as fangs grazed against skin, though never bit down. Once James was clean, Homelander eased back and buttoned up his shirt, putting his lover back together again. “C’mere, sweetheart.” He whispered softly, easing James back into his arms as he sat back down on the booth seat with the vampire on his lap. Strong arms wrapped around, securing and protecting as he allowed James to rest against him.

Homelander gently nuzzled as he whispered. “Drink from me. Take as much as you can. You’ll need your strength for later. I’m not done with you yet, pet.” He eased back just enough to tilt his head slightly, giving James enough access to his neck while at the same time keeping him safe as he fed. “You know no matter what, I’ll always take care of you. You will always be the only one to have my blood. It’s yours, just as yours is mine. Drink. Feed. Regain your strength with the added boost of me.”

The words were spoken barely above a whisper, for James’ ears only. Words of encouragement. It was an intimate moment, a far more intimate gesture as Homelander offered himself to his beloved so easily and without second thought. It was second nature for him now to want to support James, however way he could.

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Reblog if you are willing to do toxic ships

Not every love is sweet and kind Sometimes, love is dangerous Poisonous, addictive, obsessive Leaving emotional, mental and physical scars Don’t want to walk away, refuse to let go To need, no matter how much it hurts To know the same pain is returned Because some don’t want just the sweet They crave the bitter too

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The last hell dollar left his white fingers. Final, like a guillotine’s drop.

James let it go—tucked into silk like it meant nothing, like he hadn’t just sacrificed the last of his coin to the glittering spider onstage, limbs long and limber, soaked in strobe light and sin. Angel Dust had been—unfortunately—magnificent. Again.

James exhaled. Dramatically. Sufferingly. Elegantly.

Straightening his coat with a flick of his cuffs, he turned from the stage and sauntered toward the bar. The neon haze clung to his fur like cigarette smoke, and the low thump of bass rattled in his ribs like an ill-tuned war drum.

He reached the counter and leaned, graceful as ever, but with that faint slump of a man who knew exactly what he was about to do.

"Rum, please." he said coolly, having grown fond of it nearly as much as Brandy. Not sparing the bartender even a flick of his sharp gaze. He cut a striking figure—tall, lean, and poodle-like in silhouette, with pristine white fur groomed to aristocratic perfection and a coat that hung off his frame like a proud funeral curtain.

He drummed two fingers lightly on the counter, the rhythm lazy, almost dismissive.

“And put it on my tab, if you would.”

A pause.

Then, with a dry, humorless tilt of his mouth "I’ve been coming here long enough—you know the drill." He was sassy tonight.

@angelichooves

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-collapse- I worked 2 jobs this week, all week, old job gave me new work and new job worked me overtime for deadlines. BUT...

GOOD NEWS EVERYONE!

I'm off this weekend, so I should have time to do some replies at some point!